Summoned to Carry His Bags, She Found Thank-Yous Beat His Sword novel · Chapter 18 of 24

Chapter 18: The Knee Is Wrong

Gerta's knee was wrong at breakfast, and the Weir took it personally.

For eleven seasons it had called every rain from Highwell to the northern wars, and nobody had ever asked her to explain it.

Now she stood on the cart shed step with a mug in her hand and said the day would be dry.

"Dry till dusk," said Gerta. "Cut the barley. I'd stake the harvest on it."

The Weir took her at her word, because a harvest is what a word like that is for.

By the time the sun, whatever shade it was, had cleared the mill roof, forty people stood in the last gold field in Hollin Weir.

It lay east of the lane, a strip of barley the grey had not yet taken.

Everyone who could hold a sickle was in it.

The soldiers had been lent sickles.

Alric had been lent one by a woman who looked him up and down and said, "You'll want the short one."

He cut a line beside Naho with great seriousness, three stalks at a time, and every few strokes he stopped to look at his hands.

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