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Nicholas straightened, holding his prize up to the light, only to find that there no longer was any. The sun had unexpectedly vanished behind a dark formation of clouds that he could have sworn hadn't been anywhere in sight the last time he'd checked; and that had been no more than fifteen minutes ago, twenty at the most. He glanced down at his basket full of specimens. Perhaps thirty, he conceded, and placed the pupal Nymphalis polychloros and its twig in with the rest. He was in the process of plucking some leaves from the bush it had been gathered from (no harm in being thorough) when the first fat, cold raindrop landed inauspiciously on the back of his exposed neck. He sighed and ignored it. Another landed on his shoe. It was only then that Nicholas looked up and realized that a veritable wall of rain was sweeping toward him -- the trees in the distance already looked misty behind a slanting veil of precipitation. He tucked his violin case under his arm, threw a canvas over his basket, and resigned himself to the inescapability of his fate.

Nicholas rarely traveled through central Mishkan. The last time he had, in fact, had been more than a decade ago on his way back from Trisica, so he was determined to make the most of it, even though every stop he took increased the look of affliction on the faces of the Guardsmen escorting his carriage home to Clearbarrow. At least the weather had held until now; Nicholas generally appreciated Mishkan's mild winters, with the exception of occasions like these, when snow would have been much preferable to rain. While he was glad that he'd left the carriage behind at a town where the long-suffering guards could seek shelter, he now had the misfortune of being in the opposite position -- the town and the carriage were over a mile away, and he'd be soaked to the bone by the time he reached them.

The doctor cut a rather strange figure as he emerged from the trees and onto the property of a neighboring estate: his right sleeve, tied off above where the elbow would have been, hung empty and completely saturated with rain while he struggled to maintain a hold with his left arm on both his wet violin case and basket of specimens, which, with the canvas slung over it, curiously resembled an infant's bassinet. Although Nicholas didn't make a habit of trespassing on people's land, he hoped its owner wouldn't begrudge him taking the quickest route to the road under these circumstances.

Nicholas was walking hurriedly with his head down, coming as near to a jog as he could manage without dropping his things, and didn't notice the woman in his path until she called out to him. He winced. "Sorry!" he shouted back, but the driving wind bore his voice in the wrong direction. "Sorry," he tried again, doubting she could hear him—or even see him properly, considering; the rain was nearly solid—and waited until he got closer to add, "I'm very sorry. This was the fastest way to get back to the road—I have a bit of a walk ahead of me, unfortunately. It came out of nowhere, didn't it? Er, the rain, that is."

He hesitated when he was still a distance away, unsure of what to do next. It seemed somewhat brusque just to go on past her, and a more thorough apology might be in order, depending on whether or not she was upset by the intrusion. On the other hand, trying to make casual conversation under these conditions would be decidedly awkward. With little else to do he finally just came to a reluctant halt at the outer margin of a comfortable speaking distance, looking rather miserable; a steady stream of water was dripping off the end of his nose.

Then he dropped his basket.

"s**t! Oh, sorry. I don't usually—" Nicholas cut himself off, mortified, and bent to pick up the basket while still keeping the violin case wedged securely under his armpit. He almost never cursed, especially around women, but life at sea had had an indelible effect on his subconscious vocabulary. At least, he supposed, if cursing was ever warranted, now was certainly the time.

Nicholas straightened, basket in hand, in time to see the tail end of the woman's grin. He gave a faint, puzzled smile in return. What on earth had she found amusing? Perhaps his predicament in general; it did, admittedly, have an air of comedy about it, though he was currently too cold to fully appreciate the humor. He didn't notice her glance at his missing arm, inured to more blatant staring from his lodging outside Clearbarrow, where people's idea of courtesy didn't extend much farther than dumping their offal in the street instead of on a neighbor's doorstep.

"Aha, thank you," he replied, squinting in the direction she'd indicated. More water, just his luck. However, he rather suspected that it would have done little harm to his appearance at this point if he'd blundered on and fallen in.

Nicholas noted her expression with interest. Maybe, he thought, giving a passing smile, he should advise her to take a vacation in his village. She might find the lack of social graces refreshing—the pervasive odor of fish less so. "Not at all. I've been at sea for the better part of the last decade, I'm quite accustomed to worse. Nicholas Glass."

Rosalie's offer made him hesitate. He certainly wasn't averse to help, but the weather was awful, frankly, and he couldn't tell whether she really wouldn't mind doing it or was just offering out of token politeness. Well, maybe not the latter, he conceded. She hadn't made another face. "I don't want to impose, but—yes. Yes, that would be wonderful, if it wouldn't be too much trouble." Something else suddenly occurred to him, and he glanced at the bundle under her arm. "Unless you need to return that indoors—"