Simon had gotten lost in his own thoughts for a moment (partly about how to slaughter the bloody bird). When Zech spoke, he turned back to the wealthy foreigner. Simon frowned, trying to understand. How could he go over to a rich man's house for dinner? He supposed that was not what Zech intended. Christopher 'invited him over'. "Aye ser, whenever you like. Send one of the local kids to fetch me."

Would that sound strange to Zech? Possibly.

Zechariah scrunched his nose, tilted his head, and made no effort to hide his utter bewilderment. Here he thought it was a polite enough offer to part ways in silent declination if Simon (not Samuel) had preferred.

“I have dinner once a night,” he pointed out, flabbergasted. “How many times do you eat dinner?”

Immediately, he felt bad. Perhaps Simon was just used to Christopher. It was difficult for him to remember when and why Zechariah had said ‘no’, and often it was just simpler to go along.

Simon looked at him confused. Had he offended Mr. Meijer? And for the first time since he had noticed those eyes lock on his body, Simon seriously considered the possibility that the young man was after something else than his friend. But Simon could not imagine why he would be invited for dinner without Mr. Meijer wanting something of him at least. He turned his eyes down. “I just meant, I don’t want to show up unexpected and give ye trouble, ser,” he muttered. It was all very puzzling.

Was he still going to get money if he showed up?

[CW: sexual content.]

There was a flitting look of relief when Simon did not get cross back at him.

“You can write,” Zechariah said with a smile.

Poetry, preferably! Most certainly his idealized fantasy of Simon based on too many nights masturbating to his classmates was, though awkward with words in person, actually a quiet poet who woke up in the morning just bursting with stanzas of Whitman running through his mind!

[CW: ableism.]

Simon could barely write at all. Sure, he had been to school for a few years, but it had very soon become clear that he was a "dunce" and he had spent the remaining years being too terrified to learn anything at all. He would struggle on writing a letter that didn't make him look stupid, but he also didn't want to state the problem upfront. "No offence, ser, but we don't have any paper in the house. It's costly, ser." That was not a lie. Best ye send someone when it suits you. No offence ser." He repeated.

His face lit up. Was that all?

“I have plenty of paper! Plenty of pens, too.”

"Oh..." he couldn't come up with another excuse. 'Well, if it's no trouble ser..." Trouble for Simon? Yes. He smiled sheepishly.

The crow let out an absolutely haughty “CAW-haaaaw!”. Zechariah, his seedling fantasy springing into a vast field of uncontrollable mint, paid no mind to it.

“Of course not! Here, this way!”

He clasped his hands behind his back, as though that would hide the spring to his step as he led them back to his cottage.

“I have too much of it as is!”

The mail carriers would say the same.

Simon followed, waving his arm at the bird one last time. At the moment, he hoped it was just dinner Mr. Meijer wanted, because if he wanted the same as Hurley and was explicit in a letter... he couldn't bear the thought of one of his siblings finding it... or worse... reporting it to father. And so he followed a whole lot less springy.

He wondered if he could sell paper...

A few paces from the porch, his smile dropped.

Stronger than Simon came the whiff of cooked cod. Cooked cod he had promised to the servants. Think, Zechariah, think! He held the door for Simon and wracked his brain for an appropriate excuse.

“Is your father expecting you home for dinner?”

Please say ‘yes,’ for God’s sake please say ‘yes’!