I must write about this past night, for it was such a night of fun! More travellers have come to the inn for shelter, and some knew songs, and one brought a drum and played such a lively beat that we couldn't help but dance and tap our feet! I've gotten to know the fiddle player, his name is Aodan Lochhead, and I dare say he knows as many songs as I! His beard is long and grey, and nary a hair grows on his head, but he plays the fiddle with such a vigor that one would guess him a lad. I sang some of me dad's Irish songs for him, and he taught me some new songs I'd never heard.
The innkeeper's wife and I have become great friends in the past week, as the storm has kept us all inside. I help her in the kitchen, for though she has a year on me, I dare say she never learned a thing about cooking. Her poor husband and tavern folk have been eating stew most nights, as the dear thing is afraid of the stone oven! She showed me the needlework she had spent years sewing, and still works on when the inn doesn't need tending to. I find her such a comfort to have around, and I mourn for the day I leave and will be lone once again.
-Aisling
