“Oh, do you know a drying spell?” Viola asked, almost in delight. “That would be lovely. If you wouldn’t mind.” All that was coming to her mind was a flame-making spell, and she did not especially think it worth setting herself on fire for. She straightened up where she stood as if her posture would make it easier to reach the patches of wet all down her front, abruptly conscious of how she always slouched.

But the stranger had already stooped to begin picking up her kitten boots, and she hastened to make sure he did not feel obliged. “Never mind about them,” she said, flushing slightly and holding the basket to her hip. “I’ll just leave them by the stove and see if they dry out overnight. Everyone’s rather too busy to stop today, anyway, I think.” Even this gentleman had been dashing through - Viola eyed him discreetly, surprised that he was bothering to help her at all. (Pleasantly surprised, to be sure.)

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