For the next three days, Miranne would appear at his door, like clockwork. In fact, she was so prompt and exact that it was almost unnerving.
He couldn't help but think, "Where is Wynne?" but he didn't ask her. She'd probably dart out the door screaming if he said anything to her that she didn't expect. But, on the up side, she was stuttering a bit less each day.
He happened across Wynne in the corridor on the fifth day, stopping to speak with her.
"So why are you sending the apprentice to my door?" he asked. It wasn't protocol—at all.
"Her name, Ser Drass, is Miranne. And you know it." Was she chastising him like a recalcitrant boy? Indeed.
"Yes, Lady Wynne, of course," he told her. He'd always called her that. Somehow it seemed right to him. She had always seemed familiar and almost even like family to him.
In fact, there were times when he wondered if she'd ever had a child. Despite the differences in their coloring, they shared so many qualities—but no. It was, at best, wishful thinking. He was silly to even ponder it.
Yet here he was, more than thirty years old, and he couldn't help but sometimes imagine she was his mother.
He shook his head, dismissing the idea, persistent though it was.
"If you would prefer that I do it myself, per protocol, I will of course do so," Wynne told him, lifting an eyebrow at him.
Then he wouldn't see Miranne every evening—his favorite part of the day now. "If you're busy with other duties, I'm sure it won't hurt to allow someone else to perform such a simple task," he told her, working to word it without displaying his eager hope that she would continue to send Miranne.
"Hmm," Wynne said. "As you say."
A month. He had a month before he and Wynne rotated away to other parts of the tower.
He'd see Miranne every evening for a month. His heart sang like a schoolboy's with his first crush.