Staying at the stables was like living in a constant state of terrified bliss for Garatt. Bliss because.. well, it was the stables. Terrified because this paradise surely came with a time limit, at some point someone was going to mark him as well enough not to need to be there any more and send him home. Or to the Barracks. Neither felt like a good option, not compared with this.
He'd started helping nervously at first but no-one had told him not to. So he had gone from petting the runners' noses and feeding them orangeroot to quietly slipping in to groom them, and to walking over to the kennels to help with the pets there. Always quietly, always shyly, always with an air that suggested he thought that if someone noticed him there might be trouble. He'd been careful too about his hand, trying never to use it when anyone was watching. But it was hard to groom a runner with one hand and he was in a happy little world of his own today, chatting away to the beast as he tended it, not hearing anyone approaching.
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.