In front of the house were two more gardens and short, picturesque stone wall complete with squeaky gate. Parry was sure he'd guessed right when the dogs sleeping on the front stoop looked up, but rather than barking, they dashed over with a wag and a happy expression and began licking.
Dog. One dog, two heads: a hi-lo. Parry dipped to a knee and ruffled dark floppy ears, the happy, treat-expecting reaction showing recognition.
"Who's a good dog? Who is! You are--" he checked the tag on the collar "--Scratch and Sniff." Whoever named the hi-lo hadn't much imagination or too much. What if it was me? The horror.
They were superb trackers, great nose and keen eyesight, loyal, but require twice as much to feed. He'd had hi-los in some of his more affluent lives. Remember Schizzo? And that awful one, Tralfas, who liked to double-bite everyone but the maid.
"Okay, shh, it's hot, go lay down. Okay! I'm going in." It wouldn't do to knock, it seemed clear this was home.
The house was neat, airy, well-lit and ordered, with this great room serving as a living space, a parlor, and for quiet reading or discussion. A touch dusty, mostly from books that made a half-wall library near the hearth. One could receive a guest or two by the table, or enjoy a meal. Stone was reserved for the chimney, the rest of the place was gray-worn wood, simple, hardy.
Parry could see the little compound had a detached kitchen off the back by the gardens, along with separate stable, very small, and the larger structure behind must be the workshop. That had to be where the master was, and possibly everyone else--no one was here except a songbird flitting about a cage.
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Rather than exploring the living quarters, Parry made his way out back, past the outhouse and to the workshop. The sounds hit him before he reached it, someone sawing. He pulled the oversized door and stuck in his head.
"Parry, my boy!"
A man of about forty or fifty put down a serrated blade, pat dust off his denims and made his way over, smiling. There were wood chips in his hair, a spring in his step and a preternatural way of moving through the cluttered space without knocking anything over.
Again, I keep my name.
"You look good, if a little thin. I didn't expect you until at least tomorrow, Healer Sara said it was a very bad case. How are you feeling?"
No one could hold back a smile at such a friendly welcome. His father? Possibly, but there was a sparkle to the man that implied he treated everyone like family. The 'my boy' was probably just affectionate surprise, like the light pounding on his shoulders.
Parry pointed to his throat and tried to gurgle out a hello, then gave up and shrugged. Another chance to listen and learn.
"Bah, that'll be right as rain by tomorrow, I'll slip tupelo into your tea before bed." He adopted a tone of mock seriousness. "What terrible design our bodies are, getting sick and being so fragile around machinery. If I could shape people, I'd start with iron and get to the hardier stuff from there." He winked, then turned it into an examination. "You haven't stopped in your room. Go to the house, bring back some water when you've changed and I'll have you hold the vise--but nothing more strenuous than that today. Go on. I can finish this cut myself."
The smile lingered on Parry's face as made his way past the rear gardens, where a servant--the cook, perhaps?--was pulling radishes with one hand and waving a welcome with the other. He waved back, stepped out of the sun and into the cool of the parlor, empty as he left it.
What a kindly, thoughtful man, Parry thought as he adjusted to the dim light. I truly hope I don't have to kill him.