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50 Amit Bobrov
flowers. I loved that season and the relief it brought from the
terrible winter that had just passed. Winter always steered sad

thoughts into my mind.
As I worked with Ivar in the smithy upon a cozy noon, a
messenger came and informed Ivar that the Lords wish to see
him at once.
“Adam, I have to go, I shall return within a week or so. In the
meanwhile, you are in charge of the smithy and my home,”
Ivar said, and fondly slapped my back. I nearly toppled over,
unbalanced by the casual strength the old smith had in him.
“I shall not disappoint you, Master,” I said as he swallowed his

laughter at seeing me nearly topple over. Then his tones turned
serious and he gazed into my eyes.
“Adam, you’re the man of the house now, and I expect you to
care for Ingrid as I would. You know, she has lost her mother to
the plague and grows quite fearful when she is alone.” My eyes
widened with disbelief; no, I did not know her mother had died.
Neither of them had ever spoken of it, at least not to me. My

shock was not for the fact her mother had died — I had assumed
something was amiss when the young maiden suddenly came
to live with us, but from the realization that Ingrid has feelings
beyond that of superiority over me.
“I shall not disappoint you, Master,” I replied sternly.
“Good, and you shall make no attempts to woo my daughter,”
Ivar added.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied. He snorted, and then gave
me a crooked smile

“Of course not. You’d never dishonor me after all I’ve given
you,” he said. “I have complete faith in you,” he added and left.
I took his tools and continued his work, proud to be given this
opportunity to be self-sufficient, both as a smith and as a man.