Gwendolyn stood in the doorway of their cottage, the wooden spoon from the stew pot still in her hand. The sun was dipping below the treeline, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Supper was ready, the table was set. But Merlin's chair was empty.
"Where is that boy?" she muttered, her eyes scanning the path leading from the village. "He's never this late. Not without telling us."
She heard the scrape of a chair inside. Her husband, Kelvin, appeared beside her, his broad frame filling the doorway. He placed a calloused hand on her shoulder. "He's seventeen, Gwen. Probably got caught up watching the blacksmith work, or lost track of time by the river. You know how he is."
