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Well, this ought to be interesting.
Biffy has been in the back of her mind since her arrival. More specifically, the acute awareness of just how patient, helpful, and kind he'd been with her when she'd first arrived, even in the face of her decidedly unpleasant disposition, has been a frequent companion. Not that she's been wallowing in self-recrimination or anything so dramatic as that. She thinks she handled herself about as well as could be expected, given the circumstances.
But then, she'd had to handle herself. Biffy was under no such obligation. He'd put up with her, anyway.
So, she's been thinking of making some sort of gesture, part thanks and part apology. The upcoming holiday seems as good an excuse as any to actually move forward with it. Her oven is less a mystery these days, and she's managed to churn out a respectable selection of biscuits and pastries. There's no such thing as 'out of season' here, and it feels wildly incongruous to have apple turnovers and cherry tarts side by side, but so much the better, she thinks. It is a treat to be able to put all of her most notable seasonal creations in one basket.
No chocolate, though. She's done some reading on the subject and discovered it's highly poisonous to dogs, and, well. Best not to risk it.
They'd arranged for her to come round his farmhouse by way of a somewhat awkward phone call (he'd been nothing but courteous; she was the one intensely flustered by the whole process of talking to a disembodied voice coming out of a little might-as-well-be-magical box). She'd made no mention of the sweets, wanting them to be a surprise.
It's a rather long walk, but since it's all through the countryside, she hardly minds. Besides, she's used to traveling on foot. She's worked up a bit of a flush by the time she reaches Biffy's farmhouse, but it's probably just as well. Better to pin it on exertion than a sort of pervasive, underlying sheepishness. 'Sheepish' is probably the last thing she ought to be, considering who she's visiting.
And with a basket of sweets on her arm, no less. At least she's not wearing any red.
She double-checks the contents of her basket to make sure nothing's been squashed or crumbled in transit, but she packed it well, and everything looks as beautiful as it did coming out of the oven. A little steam even rises into the chill winter air. Satisfied, she covers them back up, straightens her back, and knocks.
Biffy has been in the back of her mind since her arrival. More specifically, the acute awareness of just how patient, helpful, and kind he'd been with her when she'd first arrived, even in the face of her decidedly unpleasant disposition, has been a frequent companion. Not that she's been wallowing in self-recrimination or anything so dramatic as that. She thinks she handled herself about as well as could be expected, given the circumstances.
But then, she'd had to handle herself. Biffy was under no such obligation. He'd put up with her, anyway.
So, she's been thinking of making some sort of gesture, part thanks and part apology. The upcoming holiday seems as good an excuse as any to actually move forward with it. Her oven is less a mystery these days, and she's managed to churn out a respectable selection of biscuits and pastries. There's no such thing as 'out of season' here, and it feels wildly incongruous to have apple turnovers and cherry tarts side by side, but so much the better, she thinks. It is a treat to be able to put all of her most notable seasonal creations in one basket.
No chocolate, though. She's done some reading on the subject and discovered it's highly poisonous to dogs, and, well. Best not to risk it.
They'd arranged for her to come round his farmhouse by way of a somewhat awkward phone call (he'd been nothing but courteous; she was the one intensely flustered by the whole process of talking to a disembodied voice coming out of a little might-as-well-be-magical box). She'd made no mention of the sweets, wanting them to be a surprise.
It's a rather long walk, but since it's all through the countryside, she hardly minds. Besides, she's used to traveling on foot. She's worked up a bit of a flush by the time she reaches Biffy's farmhouse, but it's probably just as well. Better to pin it on exertion than a sort of pervasive, underlying sheepishness. 'Sheepish' is probably the last thing she ought to be, considering who she's visiting.
And with a basket of sweets on her arm, no less. At least she's not wearing any red.
She double-checks the contents of her basket to make sure nothing's been squashed or crumbled in transit, but she packed it well, and everything looks as beautiful as it did coming out of the oven. A little steam even rises into the chill winter air. Satisfied, she covers them back up, straightens her back, and knocks.
