The advantage of having a nanny goat, it seems, is that you get goat milk. And when you have a small child, goat milk is a thing to be desired. Cow's milk would be preferred but goats take up less room than cows, which is important when you live in the middle of the village.
Except that to get goat milk your nanny goat needs to have a baby goat. And for your nanny goat to have a baby goat, it goes without saying, you need a billy goat. All of this is quite ordinary and not worth mentioning, or at least it would be back home in the sorts of places where you might keep goats. But in Wussex or Walshire they would be Cambrian goats. Here we are talking about having three Armorican goats, and three Armorican goats is too many goats for any sane person to be having. Especially in the middle of the village.
Which is why I spent yesterday walking Patches the Goat out to Marc's farm for a stay, and why today I lingered in the hot springs. Goat armor and handles make it easier to manage an Armorican goat, but they don't make it pleasant. It might be better if Patches wasn't (to all appearances) fond of me, but—
No. No, it wouldn't. If Patches weren't fond of me I'd have hired a cart, tied her to the back of it, and ridden up front with the drover. I would most likely have had to pay for damage to the cart, but at least I wouldn't be found crumpled in the ditch by the side of the road.
I spent most of the walk pondering how I might transport Patches by sky-chair. I was contemplating a kind of a sling by which she might dangle, with a release so that I could fly her straight to the goat shed, lower her down, and let her go without actually entering the goat shed myself. It was a foolish notion, for I do not dare use a sky-chair until I understand the motions of what I call effort ; and doubly foolish, for of course Marc's goatherd took care of Patches once we arrived. But it served to pass the time.
Having disposed of Patches I went to check on Luc's trial in its little shed at the outer edge of Marc's fields. It looked much the same as it had the week before, when Luc set it up in its new location: the hardened block resting on its post, and the other block floating above its post at the end of a taut string. I examined the hardened block as gently as I could, looking for the sort of degradation I'd seen in Amelie's dishware, taking care not to poke at it too strongly; for treating it harshly would, ironically, only increase its life. It was the hardened plates and bowls that deteriorated, not the hardened pots and pans.
Thus far the block looked as it had the week before; but we hadn't expected anything else, yet.
After that I shared the midday meal with Marc and Elise, and got to see their infant boy, whom they have predictably named Herbert. I believe that Elise and Amelie are already planning a wedding for Herbert and Anne-Marie. I should be pleased if that were to happen, but I know a little too much about forcing a boy into his father's image to press it myself.
I walked home, blessedly goat free, and thought about Luc's trial. So many questions! So many trials we would like to do! Hardened objects store effort and flying or warming objects consume it. Does it matter whether the consuming object is floating or producing warmth? Can the consuming object continue producing its effect indefinitely, or must there be a hardened object nearby? Are there other kinds of objects that similarly store effort like hardened ones do? Suppose I hardened a stick, and suspended a heavy weight from it, a weight that would break an unhardened stick: would that produce effort? And how much effort could I draw from the stick without causing it to deteriorate?
"How much?" What an odd thought! "How much?" is a question for shopkeepers and merchants and contracts. A thing is hardened or it isn't; a former doesn't worry about "how much" a thing is hardened. And yet it seems like le mot juste as my friend the bookseller would say. How much effort can a hardened object store and provide? How much effort does it take to produce enough heat to warm a plate of food? If those two things were evenly matched, if they were in balance—
Les chèvres! Master Grenadine speaks of harmonie, of charité and envie. Charity: giving forth. Envy: wanting what another has. Harmony between charity and envy—is that the key to understanding him? Thank the Lord that we received a new stock of whirtleberry oil yesterday, for I believe I shall be up late tonight.