"It's not ours yet." Olivier holds out his own cup, touching Ermina's hand lightly as she pours. "Next seasons will be ours, when the apples used are the ones my beloved wife scaled a tree to pick."

"While my husband was in the field getting under the farmers' feet." She points out, pouring herself a cup also. "You should see him, Athelstan. If anyone came looking for the lord of this holding, they would never suspect the clumsy farm hand."