Robert Bennett

…Thank you for fetching these, Din. They should keep me occupied for a day or so.”

“A day, ma’am?” I said.

“Oh. Do you think it less, Din?” she said, worried.

“Can’t say, ma’am.”

“Or should I have gotten more books, Din?”

“Can’t really say, ma’am.”

A taut pause.

“Is it possible for you to say a sentence,” she said, “that is more than ten words in length, Din?”

I hazarded a glance into her pale yellow gaze and suppressed a smirk. “Could, ma’am,” I said.

“I do so admire,” she said, “how you can be a flippant shit with a mere handful of syllables. Quite a talent.”

“Now that I think about it, Din,” she said, “I just might be going a little fucking mad in here.”

“Very sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

She picked up a small situr harp and absently plucked at it. “Mostly,” she said, “because nothing ever happens in this dull little canton. And the books take so long to arrive.”

It pains me to say that it’s all far more tolerable when you’re around,” she said. “You’re so grim and so serious and so dull, Din, that you keep me very grounded.”

“I will attempt to take that as a compliment, ma’am,” I said.