19th December, 1894 — The Glynn Farmhouse
You couldn’t have grown up in a village like theirs without knowing the local folk. He and Aneurin Glynn hadn’t been close – there were years between them, and their interests had always differed – but once Gwyn Conway had taken up keeping, there really was no avoiding her adoptive father and (what Howell considered) his unnecessary advances of friendliness.
Nothing like festive times of year to make people sick with the notion of socialising, was there? If the pressure had come from farmer Glynn alone, he might’ve avoided it: but Gwyn had insisted upon his coming to some family dinner at the farmhouse, and her nagging could be incessant. Sometimes there was less suffering in agreeing early, and not having to weather her remarks.
Not to mention farmer Glynn liked to hear how his adoptive daughter was getting on under Howell’s mentorship – and Howell did like to give Gwyn a healthy dose of reality once in a while, in case she went home telling tall tales about her work on the reserve.
So Howell had trudged on in; had managed a half-decent conversation with farmer Glynn and offered Mrs. Glynn a wheel of his dragon milk cheese; had bantered with Gwyn a while. All that achieved, he had been sitting quietly, in his best attempt to be not here, brow furrowed darkly towards the glass in his hand. It never helped that he couldn’t tell all Glynn’s children from one another, and the place was teeming with them. One of the girls was currently too near to be avoided – and she was at least one with whom Gwyn seemed to be of an age, so he did feel vaguely obligated to recognise her – so, in a show of good faith, Howell sent her a short nod which was intended to telegraph something like: hello, one of the Glynn siblings.
Nothing like festive times of year to make people sick with the notion of socialising, was there? If the pressure had come from farmer Glynn alone, he might’ve avoided it: but Gwyn had insisted upon his coming to some family dinner at the farmhouse, and her nagging could be incessant. Sometimes there was less suffering in agreeing early, and not having to weather her remarks.
Not to mention farmer Glynn liked to hear how his adoptive daughter was getting on under Howell’s mentorship – and Howell did like to give Gwyn a healthy dose of reality once in a while, in case she went home telling tall tales about her work on the reserve.
So Howell had trudged on in; had managed a half-decent conversation with farmer Glynn and offered Mrs. Glynn a wheel of his dragon milk cheese; had bantered with Gwyn a while. All that achieved, he had been sitting quietly, in his best attempt to be not here, brow furrowed darkly towards the glass in his hand. It never helped that he couldn’t tell all Glynn’s children from one another, and the place was teeming with them. One of the girls was currently too near to be avoided – and she was at least one with whom Gwyn seemed to be of an age, so he did feel vaguely obligated to recognise her – so, in a show of good faith, Howell sent her a short nod which was intended to telegraph something like: hello, one of the Glynn siblings.
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