"It's nice to meet you," she said, accepting his slightly grubby hand. She shifted the book under her arm. "I borrowed all of these, so we must take extreme care. Would you like to stay here and a read with me?" It was all she could think of: share the space or be driven out of it. She'd more than once been driven out of a good reading spot just because her elder brothers had had the muscle and meanness to do so.
"Oh! Uhm!" Garatt scrambled to his feet hastily and stuck his hand out to take hers - apparently *this* was what it took to remind him of his manners. "Garatt! Of Berford Hold!" That rarest expression -- a smile -- emerged, along with an even rarer sound. Yiyu laughed quietly as she accepted the book.
"I'm Yiyu," she proffered a free hand. "You look familiar. Are you a Candidate too?" "This one's a good one," Garatt offered as though they hadn't belonged to her to start with. He considered and then magnanimously offered her one of her own books back. "You could try this one." "I was lent them," she explained. "I was going to read them here. I don't mind sharing," she concluded, what little backbone she'd drummed up draining away as she slipped inside and sat down beside him.
"I'm Yiyu." Garatt blinked at her, resisting the urge to just stick his nose back in the book and ignore her.
"They were just here," he pointed out reasonably. "And I didn't think we were allowed to own bits of space. Except our cots." "I...."
She searched for the words she wanted.
"This is my spot and those," she tilted her head at the books, "are mine. I mean...." Garatt didn't even notice he was being watched for a few minutes. He'd had things he was meant to be doing, but then he'd seen the books and bent to see what they were. And they looked interesting, so the assignment he had been meant to complete had been forgotten as he settled down for five minutes which quickly become thirty. He was happily intent on his reading and when he did look up it was with a faint air of confusion, clearly wondering what she wanted. "Yes?" Yiyu had discovered a small, uninteresting little niche she liked to with draw to when the bussel of the Weyr became a little to much. She'd hidden a few books there, fully expect them to be their the next day when she returned. And they were, a long with a vaguely familiar face. She stood in the opening to the niche and gazed at the slightly messy boy, wondering what she should do or say.
--
Blackadder: I mean, what about the people that do all the work?
Baldrick: The servants.
Blackadder: No, me; *I'm* the people who do all the work.
--
Blackadder: I mean, what about the people that do all the work?
Baldrick: The servants.
Blackadder: No, me; *I'm* the people who do all the work.
--
Blackadder: I mean, what about the people that do all the work?
Baldrick: The servants.
Blackadder: No, me; *I'm* the people who do all the work.
--
Blackadder: I mean, what about the people that do all the work?
Baldrick: The servants.
Blackadder: No, me; *I'm* the people who do all the work.
|
