Eight knots. Anna Efimenko
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Having smoked at least three cigarettes, the boatman finally made his way to the druid’s estate. Having given his heavy coat to the butler and wheedled a cup of hot chocolate, he went without any delay to the study room of the lord of the local lands.
The boatman entered the room without knocking and greeted the druid,
“Sir! Fitzy!”
To do such a thing seemed unthinkable to the villagers. They were afraid of the druid, their lord and mentor, and they were careful not to approach the estate if not necessary, and they would never dream of getting into the druid’s study without an invitation and some rules of decency.
The druid, however, seemed to be glad of this simplicity,
“Good evening, my friend! You look really cold beside the water. I’ll order Milly now to serve tea.” The druid reached for the bell-rope to call for servants.
“No need, I already asked for the chocolate!” the boatman smiled.
The corners of his lips were dark red, weather-beaten in the cold. He started pacing along the wall, which nautical charts of various sizes and data were hanging on.
“Miss the sea?” the druid asked. “River is not enough for you?”
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