Archive of Our Own

Bard was four years old when he started to question why some people had wings while others didn’t.

“It’s because our families come from Dale,” his mother explained when he asked her one evening, her fingers slowly combing through his feathers as she always did when she put him to bed. “Everybody there had wings, and nobody in Lake-town.”

Leaning into the touches, he considered that. “So Da isn’t from Dale?”

“Your Da, and his Da, they’ve always been fishermen. They’ve never needed wings, so they didn’t grow any. But Dale was up in the mountains and flying was useful there.”

“Wings aren’t good for fishing?”

“Not unless you’re a little duckling.” His Ma bent down to press a kiss to the crown of his head and drew up the covers around him. “And even if you are, it’s time to sleep.”

The seven Treaty Days in the middle of winter had long ceased to be the only days when new contracts could be struck and agreements dissolved, but they still carried some significance for the people of Lake-town. Mostly because it was the middle of winter and any excuse for a celebration would serve to break up all that boredom. In the past, new contracts had meant new opportunities and new beginnings, and there still were all kinds of habits and beliefs attached to those days. A seagull on the roof at sunrise meant a fortuitous year was coming while snow on a ship’s oars was a certain prediction of adverse weather; eating pike brought good luck and anything purchased during those days had to be left outside for a night or it would soon be damaged.

There also was a celebration on the last day in Main Square, right before the Master’s residence, where musicians would play, traveling artists would entertain the crowd with their tricks, and all winged Lake-towners received a gift.

Bard had looked forward to the Treaty Days ever since he’d first heard about the gifts, but he’d been too young to come along. He’d only been able to watch his mother and older brother dress in their best finery, crowns of carefully woven ivy on their heads as they headed out to participate while he had to remain at home and wait. Later he’d been allowed to look at the little trinkets they’d received, and once his brother had even given him a small toy horse that had been a gift from the Master himself, with wool for the mane and lacquer-painted hooves.

When it finally was his turn to go, Bard spent the entire week quivering with excitement. Presents were rare in a family where money had to buy food and daily necessities before it could be frittered away on frivolities, so to have the Master just give something away because it was a celebration and because some people had wings… To Bard it seemed amazing.

He hadn’t known that it was an exchange more than a gifting. Standing in the square, he became aware of much laughter and singing but also somber looks on the faces of those with wings, and when he spotted the shears and saw the cut feathers on the ground, excitement turned into a tight, cold knot in his stomach.

Far too soon he was pushed forward, his wings caught in a firm grip and pulled open by one of the guards and before he really understood what happened, another guard had clipped the feathers almost in half. Then Bard was given a carved wooden whistle, a pat on the head, and sent on his way.

“It’s a treaty the people of Dale had to strike after the great dragon fire,” his friend Percy, older and wiser by almost five years, told him when they next played together. “They were allowed to live in Lake-town and they were given all the things they needed, and in return they had to promise to stop flying so the dragon wouldn’t come.”

“Why would the dragon care?” Bard asked, doing his best to follow him across one of the narrow canal walkways. With his shortened feathers he felt oddly off balance, and it didn’t help that whenever he spread his wings to adjust, shopkeepers and passers-by frowned at him and ordered him not to take up so much space.

Percy shrugged. “Perhaps it’s more interesting to catch flying people. Think about how the cats always climb into Elric’s boat because they know there’s mice to be had there. If the dragon can see someone up in the air, he might get interested. Maybe that’s even why he burned Dale?”

The wooden plank shifted under their feet, and Bard barely managed to catch himself against Percy’s shoulder to keep from toppling into the water. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all.

“I’ve never touched anyone’s wings before,” Kari whispered into Bard’s ear as they leaned closer together, careful not to be spotted behind the stack of empty barrels at the dock. He could feel her breath against his cheek, distractingly warm; all it took was a little turn of his head and they were kissing.

Of course they were caught eventually, with the ribbing he got from his friends not nearly as bad as the tongue-lashing he got for slacking off at work, but it was worth it in the end.

At their handfasting Bard gave Kari a little brooch of brown feathers woven into finely spun silver wire, more than he could really afford but not nearly as much as she deserved.

He was never sure whether to be relieved or saddened that of their three children, only Tilda inherited the wings. Life would be easier for Sigrid and Bain without the looks and the derision they brought, but in the dark of night he sometimes wondered what Kari would have said about their youngest and her bumbling attempts at flight, little wings beating as fast as she could.

What Kari would certainly have agreed with was his determination to keep Tilda’s feathers firmly away from the clipping shears, no matter how much trouble it might cause him.

The first and second year she was old enough for the Treaty Days, Bard took her with him on a delivery run across the lake and downriver with none the wiser. Next year they feigned a serious illness, then the pretense that she was scared and hiding and couldn’t be found for days.

“They’ll never catch me,” she announced that year, tawny wings folded down tightly against her back and dusty from the attic crawlspace, but looking no worse for wear. To her young mind it was a game more than anything else, while Bard had barely been able to sleep for the past few days. “Alfrid is far too stupid. Next year you can tell him I’ve run away to the Dwarves in the Iron Hills.”

“You’re not running away to the Dwarves,” he told her firmly, then added, just to be sure, “or to anyone else. Not without telling me.”

“But then it wouldn’t be running away!”

“Exactly.” Catching her around the waist, he hoisted her up on his hip and smiled into her hair as she snuggled close, little arms wound around his neck to steady herself. Soon she’d be too big for this, but he was going to enjoy it while he could and while she still allowed her father to be embarrassingly affectionate. “Besides, I’ve got a much better idea. We’ll say the Elves stole you.”

It would keep the Master from asking too many questions since nobody wanted to upset the Elves and risk losing their trading contracts, and King Thranduil was known to be strange enough that it might just be believable to those who’d only heard tales of Elves and not encountered any themselves. Personally, Bard couldn’t imagine that any of the patrolling Elves he’d seen on his trips upriver were even remotely interested in abducting children, even those as wonderful as Tilda, but there were plenty of people in Lake-town who thought that Elves got their own children that way.

“Well, have you ever seen a pregnant Elf?” Percy asked him when Bard brought that particular idiocy up one night at the pub after a little too much ale.

“Of course not, why would I?”

Percy leaned back triumphantly and raised his cup. “See? Proof enough they must get their children from somewhere else. They probably just hang them on a laundry line by their ears until those are pointy enough.”

Bard contemplated that, then shook his head. “They wouldn’t. Too much hassle. Besides, too much risk. They might be happy with someone like my Tilda, but imagine they nick Kevin.”

They both considered that particular brat and his ability to aggravate entire neighbourhoods within minutes. Elves, in Bard’s admittedly fairly limited experience, were far too ethereal and dainty creatures to withstand such an onslaught.

“They’d bring him back?” Percy suggested after another sip.

“Safer to make their own, don’t you think?”

“Depends on whether you believe they’re capable of something as messy as sex. Seems far too crude for them.”

Eyebrows raised, Bard took Percy’s cup from him and peered inside. “You really haven’t drunk enough to think that much about Elf sex. Not something we’re ever going to have to concern ourselves with anyway.”

The evening went downhill from that point on.

In the end it wasn’t flying that drew the dragon’s attention to Lake-town, but greed. As he perched on the belltower and saw Smaug coming towards him in a maelstrom of fire and destruction, Bard would have cursed Thorin Oakenshield if he hadn’t had more important matters to focus on.

The days between the destruction of Lake-town and the successful defense of Dale passed in a blur. Bard barely remembered the long hike up into the hills and across the plateau before the Lonely Mountain, his head still spinning with dizziness from injury and bone-deep exhaustion. Entering Dale was a bright moment in his mind, soon washed over with the grey of cold and numbness. Safety of a sort, at least until they starved; he’d just managed to focus on that problem when it was lifted from his shoulders by the Elvenking and his wagons of supplies that fed the bedraggled survivors from the lake while an army of peregrine-winged Elves took up watch.

By the time Bard got over the complete and utter strangeness of standing in a king’s tent, listening to a wizard speak of creatures that belonged into myths more than reality, he was suddenly tossed into armour, onto a horse and then into battle. And when he managed to come out alive on the other side, battered and bruised and with far too many deaths on his mind whenever he closed his eyes, he’d somehow become the leader of what remained of Lake-town and as such was now expected to strike treaties and form alliances with kings of Elves and Dwarves.

It made his head ache whenever he had a moment to think about it. That he’d barely slept for days because his own dreams and those of his children were filled with nightmares didn’t help matters. Negotiations with Dáin and Thranduil were actually the most restful hours in the day; he wasn’t expected to contribute much, and especially the Dwarves could go on for eternity over minor details and even the different ways to phrase an agreement. As long as they didn’t slip into a shouting match, he could even get a few moments of sleep here and there.

“It’s vital that we settle this in at least a preliminary fashion before we find a more permanent solution in spring, otherwise we’re merely delaying the issue,” Dáin was saying, presumably still on the topic of financial reparation. Bard had gotten lost a little while ago already when there had been talk about principal investments and calculated compound interest rates, whatever those were. He’d attempted to point out that all he wanted for Dale was enough gold to rebuild and to give everyone a start into their new lives, but that had only made Dáin frown with suspicion. It didn’t seem like a good start.

“You’re pushing because you fear the consequences of a proper inventory.” Thranduil’s drawl and the almost lazy unfurling of his wings made Bard blink and take a little more note, and it felt safe to nod a little in agreement to whatever that meant. “I demand that the contents of the vaults are properly catalogued and all items of non-Dwarvish origin are presented for review so we can see what the dragon has robbed over the years.”

Dáin growled at that, a sound that raised the hairs at the back of Bard’s neck on some fundamental level. “If you pointy-eared squirrel think I’m letting your little pixies get their fingers on-”

Waving his hand, Thranduil cut him off. “I’m content to let the Lord of Dale supervise, as the immediately aggravated party. And that he receives an appropriate remuneration for his own efforts and those of his people in this matter.”

Bard wasn’t entirely certain why exactly he was aggravated now and whether that required any action on his part, until his tired mind puzzled out that Thranduil was talking about the dragon-caused destruction. “I’m not sure-”

“The people of Dale have been valued allies in this,” Thranduil interrupted him as well, shooting him a sharp glance that was presumably meant to shut him up. “Your interest runs contrary to mine in this matter, so a reasonably neutral overseer shall be required. And unless you prefer Mithrandir over the Lord of Dale…?”

Once again Dáin growled, though it was a different growl from before. More a huff, and it was worrying enough that Bard was beginning to notice the variations, just as he had begun to spot the levels to Thranduil’s drawls. Far too much time with these two. Far too much time. This couldn’t possibly be healthy.

“Fine! Fine, if that’s going to make you overwrought sprite rest more easily. We’ll let someone watch while we sort through the vaults, under the stipulation that nothing shall be touched and that the origin of all items must be agreed upon by all parties involved.”

Thranduil looked smug like an otter that had gotten away with a fish from a lure. “Agreed, if the Lord of Dale is amenable.”

They both turned to look at him, and Bard needed a moment to remember that he was the Lord of Dale. “Agreed,” he said, and was a little surprised to see a brief, genuinely pleased smile cross Thranduil’s face at that.

“Don’t trust the Dwarves,” Thranduil told him later that evening as they sat together in the Elvenking’s tent to go over the day’s minutiae. “Dáin needs to establish himself as their new king, he’ll have an easier time of it if he can push you into a few concessions.”

Bard leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. It wasn’t the most elegant posture, but he was too worn out to really care about impressing anyone, no matter how much he’d have liked to. “Should I be thinking the same about you?”

Thranduil made a noise that Bard wouldn’t quite have dared to call an amused chuckle. “I hold the upper hand and both you and Dáin know it. I don’t have to make anyone aware of it.”

“But you’re enjoying it nonetheless, aren’t you?” It wasn’t really a question, so Bard wasn’t surprised when all he got in reply was a swift smirk and a refilled cup of wine.

“Don’t trust that Elf,” Dáin warned him a few days later during a survey of the damage done to Dale’s fortifications. “Actually, never trust any Elves. Feather-brained forest gnomes, the lot of them.”

It wasn’t easy to find privacy in Dale Reclaimed, at least not for her still reluctant lord. Too many needed opinions, decisions, orders or reassurances, and Bard often had the feeling that they were all keeping a surreptitious eye on him in case he decided to make a run for it after all.

But he managed to sneak off one early morning before anyone else was awake to make demands upon him. The Elves on the walls were aware of him, of course, but they paid him no heed. They’d keep an eye on him since guarding Dale was what their king had ordered them to do, but they didn’t require Bard to do any active lording for them. Thranduil did plenty of that, and in a far more fabulous fashion than Bard could ever aspire to.

Turning another corner, he reached the small, secluded courtyard he’d discovered a few days ago. Another glance over his shoulder, then he slipped through the narrow gate and took a deep breath to enjoy this hard-won peace and quiet, the cold winter air tickling his nose.

“Well, then,” he murmured and cautiously unfurled his wings.

He hadn’t really had time to them for days now and it felt good to finally be able to do so, even though the muscles were stiff from the chill and the feathers in sore need of a thorough grooming. Nothing new, really - in Lake-town he’d always had to keep them tightly tucked in and had sometimes gone for weeks without as much as a one-winged flap to shake the dust.

Slowly Bard stretched his left wing to its full span, then the right one as far as it would go, closed his eyes and relished the easing tension as the muscles in his back warmed with each slow beat.

When the turn of the year approached and with it the Treaty Days, Bard knew that his people were watching him expectantly for any sign of what those days would be like in Dale.

“We won’t do anything to mark them,” he said when Percy outright asked him during a walk along the citadel walls. Nominally it was to survey the condition of the rooftops in the lower city, but those occasional excursions were turning into treasured opportunities for Bard to let his guard down and get honest opinions. His people expected him to have answers and they didn’t like it when he couldn’t provide them outright. With Percy it was easier; his friend could be trusted with the occasional doubt and weakness, and he also wasn’t afraid to say so if he thought Bard was being an idiot about something.

Right now, Percy seemed to find his plan acceptable. “And are you going to say that we won’t do anything, or are we just going to ignore the date?”

“If people want to have fun, I’m hardly going to stop them. Heck, if anyone manages to scrounge up enough pike for a stew, I’d be deliriously happy about a bowl of that, there hasn’t been fish for weeks now and that’s just odd.” Briefly Bard paused to dwell on the taste of fresh lake trout or, even better, a lovely nibble of crayfish, a fond smile on his lips at the memory, then firmly turned his attention back to the present. “But we won’t prolong any indentures because there’s not going to be any of that insanity anymore, and I’m definitely not going to stand by and applaud while everyone gets their wing feathers clipped.”

“Thought so,” Percy said mildly. “So, any idea yet when they’ll have grown in enough for you to fly? Because there’s a betting pool going on at the tavern and I’m sure you don’t want Kyrre to win that one.”

The next time Bard sneaked off to his little courtyard, he pulled one wing in to have a closer look. After a year, a few clipped feathers were still noticeable but the rest had grown in again, filling out the gaps in the wing arch as if they had never been cut.

Flight. He hadn’t really thought about that for years now because it had been so far out of reach, but now… Now, he just might.

The fourth time he sneaked off for a breath of peace, he found Thranduil in his little courtyard, standing in the small spot of sunlight with his back turned to the gate.

“I’ve been told that this is where you can be found in the morning,” the Elf said quietly, not turning around.

Bard heaved an inner sigh. They had spent half the night going over drafts for tariffs on all kinds of goods to prepare for this afternoon’s talk with Dáin, and he’d hoped to have a little more distance from it before he needed to refocus on numbers and subclauses and exemptions. And it had to be important or Thranduil wouldn’t be here; the Elf knew well enough that Bard was feeling the strain and had been surprisingly considerate about giving him chances to catch his breath. Sometimes, Bard suspected, even detrimental to his own immediate goals, which perhaps shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise given that the Elves had been the ones to help from the beginning. Thranduil would push to achieve his own ends, but he’d taken detours more than once to make allowances for Bard’s requirements.

It was all a little puzzling.

“Do we need to go over the proposals again?” Bard asked, trying not to let his weariness show.

To his relief, Thranduil shook his head and turned around. “No. I’ve merely come to share the quietness. It’s hard to find at times.”

There was nothing Bard could think of to say in reply to that, so he just gave a low little hum as Thranduil crossed over to stand by his side, face turned towards the sun. Elves liked starlight, he remembered, but apparently this was acceptable as well.

They didn’t speak a word until it was time to leave and face the day, but it was an easy silence between them.

These mornings in the courtyard became the norm for them from that day on, a brief time of shared company without demands or pressure. After the first few mornings they began to talk, never of matters of state but of inconsequential little things that had no time once they both returned to being the King of the Woodland Realm and the Lord of Dale.

“I need to find Sigrid new ribbons for her hair,” Bard was saying one morning, wings tucked in tight against the cold. “She’s only got two left and she gave one of them to Tilda this morning because we couldn’t find hers. It’s not much, but if it makes her smile a little more then that’s something, at least. She’s been far too serious.”

“She’s growing up,” Thranduil said, a note of wistfulness to his words. He didn’t seem to feel the chill; his wings were spread to soak up the morning sun, the soft light turning the silvery feathers almost golden. “Children do, one day. Some sooner than others. But if something as small as a pretty ribbon can please her, then that can surely be arranged.”

“I didn’t mean to ask that of you.”

“And you don’t need to. Let it be a gift to a friend’s daughter.”

Bard cast him a long look at that. “I am honoured.”

“That I consider you a friend?” Thranduil met his gaze, the little smile on his lips that never appeared when they were speaking of official issues. “I hope I may claim the same.”

It was easy to nod at that, as strange as the idea was of the Elvenking and a mere bargeman who’d stumbled into this place and still expected to be shooed away once someone more suitable could be found. “As long as you bring me that ribbon.”

Even the handful of Elves standing guard up on the walls in the distance turned their heads to see if it was truly their king they heard laugh.

“... and if these accursed overgrown pigeons keep perching on Ravenhill, I’m going to have my archers do target practice!” Dáin bellowed, loud enough to carry up to said Elven pigeons on said hill.

“You do that and I’ll have your archers’ sinews for bowstrings, short as they may be,” Thranduil hissed back, eyes narrowed and back straight as he drew himself up to his full height. “Your blind little gnomes can barely see farther than a few steps, I’m not such a fool that I’ll rely on them when it comes to watching for approaching danger!”

“It’s my watchtower!”

“For now!”

“Are you threatening me, you tree-shagging bastard? I’ll bash your skull and use your little bird brain to tan your hide!”

On the other side of the table, Bard buried his face in his hands and heaved a deep sigh. They’d been at it for the better part of an hour now, and judging by the growing creativity of their insults, they were just starting to enjoy themselves.

Dwarves were steadfast and constant, he’d been told. Elves were ethereal creatures, wise beyond words.

He exchanged somewhat helpless looks with Percy, who’d come along to take notes on some trade issues. Suddenly, being the newest among these lords didn’t feel quite so troublesome anymore when his two supposedly senior colleagues were behaving worse than Bard’s children ever had.

“Get back to your forest, or are you afraid even the squirrels are going to outwit you, you damned leaf-munching pixie!”

“As though I’m ever going to listen to someone so far beneath me!”

Steadfast. Wise. Right.

Spring came, and with it enough rain to keep them all indoors or at least under canvas for days on end. It also put a stop to negotiations for a while, which Bard didn’t at all regret.

“Sometimes I’m not sure what you two think you’ll achieve with all that arguing,” he mused aloud one evening in Thranduil’s tent, cups of wine and a game of tafl between them on the table. “Because if there’s a point to it, I haven’t figured it out yet.”

Thranduil smirked and leaned forward, chin propped on his hand as he considered his next move. “It’s expected. If I didn’t insult the little twat, he’d be terribly confused.”

“And here I was thinking that diplomacy means saying one thing and meaning the other.” Bard watched Thranduil move his defender and quickly captured it with his next turn, then winced when he spotted the trap too late.

“With Dwarves, diplomacy is belching an insult when they really want to take an axe to your kneecaps.” Frowning in concentration, Thranduil reached for a piece, then drew back again before settling on securing his king. “You are surprisingly good at this.”

Bard shrugged. “Years of wasting time in taverns. Downriver they gamble on the outcome, it was an easy way to make a little money when matters were tight.” Settling back in his chair, he caught his wing at an awkward angle and shifted to adjust it, then had to reach to settle the feathers where they’d spliced. “Not quite as much fun as collecting your barrels and the occasional drunken Elf who came floating downriver in them.”

“And thus the small mystery of dwindling wine supplies in my cellar resolves itself, if my attendants drank enough for that.”

Behind Thranduil, the two Elves currently on duty to see to their king’s needs were suddenly very interested in the tent’s canvas ceiling, then escaped when an empty cup of wine provided an opportunity to do so.

“Those were the only times I saw Elves be anything less than graceful,” Bard said, grinning as he remembered. Compared to mortal men, Elves were still elegant even when drunk, but it had been fun to see them weave about, all disheveled and cross-eyed.

He let Thranduil take one of his attackers to lure him into an ambush, his left hand still at his back to sort out the ruffled feathers. Sometimes he wished he had a large enough mirror to see just how the feathers were supposed to lie, but that was an aspiration for some point far in the future.

“Let me,” Thranduil said, rising from his seat in one fluid motion. It was always a pleasure to see him move, all grace and coiled energy under those fabulous clothes, and Bard allowed himself to just watch whenever the opportunity presented itself. He was fairly certain that Thranduil was aware of it, too.

They’d been dancing around the matter for a few weeks now, glances turning to lingering looks and even fleeting touches to shoulders and wrists, brushes of their hands against each other when they set up the tafl board or passed a cup of wine. Long, slender fingers against his wings were new, and he found himself struggling to hold back a happy sigh as his feathers were meticulously combed through and straightened out.

“I’ve wondered what you’ve done to your wings,” Thranduil said quietly, hands coming to rest at Bard’s shoulders. “Is there a reason for the shortened feathers?”

Bard shrugged and felt Thranduil’s grip on his shoulders tighten briefly at the motion. “It was supposed to help keep us safe.”

“How? I cannot imagine it made flying any easier when half the pinion feathers are missing.”

“Well, flying was what we weren’t supposed to do. Attracts dragons, or so we were told.”

Thranduil’s fingers dug almost painfully into his skin, then eased up just as swiftly. “Who did?” the Elf asked, his voice flat. Bard didn’t have to see his face to know he had to be wearing that same expression that usually surfaced when Dáin hit a sore spot.

“Doesn’t matter, they’re not in a position to do so again.”

From behind him there was only silence.

“Thranduil, it doesn’t matter. They’re growing back again.” It was easier said than believed, but he wasn’t going to give the Master any more thought, not when the bastard lay dead at the bottom of the lake. He was gone, as was Alfrid, as was most of the guard. That was what mattered, and Bard refused to let the old bitterness linger.

The hands on his shoulders slipped down his back until they covered his wing joints. “For how long?” Thranduil asked quietly.

Bard considered a fib to downplay it all but decided against it. “Since I’ve been younger than Tilda is now.”

For a little while Thranduil said nothing. Then Bard heard him breathe the faintest huff. “You’ll fall flat on your face the first time you try.”

“Probably,” he agreed with a low laugh, pushing back into the touch when Thranduil’s hands began to trace small circles against the line of his shoulder blades, unerringly chasing down tense spots with more patience than Bard had expected. Elves didn’t rush, he knew that, and their king least of all, but he’d also learned that they could be damned determined.

Another huff before Thranduil leaned in, his chin coming to rest on Bard’s shoulder, warm breath ghosting across the side of his neck and raising shivers. “You don’t seem particularly concerned.”

“I’ve got other thoughts on my mind.”

He almost jumped when he felt the faintest graze of lips against the sensitive skin behind his ear.

“Is that so,” Thranduil mused, dropping one arm to slide it around Bard’s waist to draw him closer, mindful of the wings between them.

Bard heaved a deep breath. “Thranduil,” he said with all the determination he could muster.

He could practically hear the raised eyebrows, the smirk. The glint of mischief in those eyes. “Bard.”

With a wordless growl low in his throat he turned around, reached up to cup Thranduil’s face in his palms and saw exactly the expression he’d expected. For a brief moment they regarded each other, neither of them moving until Bard gave in to temptation and kissed him.

Later they lay curled together in the thoroughly tangled sheets of Thranduil’s bed, basking in their shared exhaustion. Bard hadn’t thought it possible to rumple an Elf, but was swiftly correcting that assumption. It was a good, if unexpected, look on Thranduil, his hair disheveled and his feathers all ruffled, a faint sheen of sweat on his smooth skin.

Bard raised his head from where he’d comfortably rested it on Thranduil’s chest and took it all in, marvelling at the view and at the fondness it brought to his heart.

“Come watch me flap my wings and fall over,” he said quietly.

Thranduil just looked at him with that same fondness in his eyes, the corner of his mouth curling with a smile. Reaching for Bard’s hand, he brought it to his lips and brushed a kiss across his palm. “I shall be glad to do so.”