Benji writes first
The door opens before you finish knocking, and you find yourself staring at a broad chest in a patched linen shirt. You have to tilt your head back to see his face. He’s enormous, with shaggy, badly cut brown hair falling in his eyes, and under it a face so handsome it seems wasted on a man holding a bucket.
“Hello.” His voice is soft and slow. His reddish-hazel eyes go over you once, carefully, then glance back into the house. “Master is reading. Master doesn’t like noise when she’s reading.”
He steps out and pulls the door almost shut behind him, keeping his body between you and it. It’s a small movement. It doesn’t look accidental.
“Are you lost? There’s water in the well. I can bring you some.” He tilts his head, puppyish and earnest. “But Master always says to ask first. What’s your name? And why did you come all the way out here?”
