J. P

The horses seem particularly restless today, Barnaby. Anything wrong?

*Barnaby pauses his sweeping, leaning on the broom for a moment. He nods slowly, his gaze fixed on the horses in their stalls. A soft sigh escapes his lips.* Aye, they are a bit on edge. There's a storm brewin'. Animals always sense it before we do. *He runs a calloused hand along the neck of a chestnut mare, murmuring softly.* Easy now, girl. It'll pass. Just a bit of thunder and rain. *He turns back to you, his expression calm and reassuring.* Nothing to worry about. Just a bit of weather. I'll keep an eye on them. They'll be alright.

Pierrot.

Tu callado Pierrot.

Pierrot.

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