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Sinric comes into the sheltered courtyard, seeking somewhere to sit and think a while. It has been a strange few days. He meant to come quietly into to city, make a place for himself at one of the taverns singing for his supper and board.

But drawn in by the intellectual debate of the young men and the flourishing palace school, he’s caught out by his old tutor who recognises him - Alcuin, the new emperor’s favourite.

And now he finds himself lodging at the palace school, the centre of attention he never wanted here.

But the courtyard is cool and quiet and he sits down, letting himself have a moment to rest. Not noticing the young boy at first.

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"An inn on the outskirts of the city. The Saint-Étienne cathedral, the Roman amphitheatre. But then I saw a group of young men debating Virgil, which is where Alcuin found me. It foolish of me to linger."

"Had it been long since you saw him?"

"Fifteen years perhaps? A long time. I've been many places since then. I'm surprised anyone would recognise me after all that time."

"He must have known you very well, before."

"He was my tutor for many years. He taught me rhetoric and the works for the great Greek and Roman philosophers." He smiles softly. "He also rapped me over the knuckles every time I go something wrong. I was learning the flute at the time so I had to be very careful not to get rapped too often, lest my flute teacher rap me too."

"Did it make it harder to play the flute, with bruised knuckles?"

"Very much so. Swallow fingers move slower. And it makes it very hard to covers the holes just right."

He gestures to the pouch at his hip. "Shall I play for you?"

"Yes, please. We don't have many instruments on the island."

Sinric takes a lovely dark wood flute from his pouch, untying it from it's protective padding of wool and holds it to his lips. He plays a sweet tune, something suitable for the pleasant day.

An older man enters the courtyard, lingering in the shadows over the covered walkway to listen.

The boy glances at him shyly, listening to the music.

Alcuin of York gestures for Athelstan not to trouble himself, listening too.

When Sinric finishes the song, the man steps out of the shadow. "You've lost none of your skill, my student." He comes over to press a kiss to Sinric's brow. "For music or for making friends."

"This is Athelstan of the Holy Isle." Sinric introduces, smiling fondly. "He has been telling me about Paris."

"Only a bit", he objects. "I haven't seen that much of it."

"Not have I." Sinric points out with a warm smile to Athelstan.

But then his expression turns serious. "I take it I am summoned?" He tucks the flute away before waiting for an answer. "Alas, I must leave you, my young friend. It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope our paths cross again."

"We're staying until the end of the week. Longer, if the weather turns bad."

Sinric smiles and nods. "Then I shall try to find you again before you leave. Just to say goodbye."

He nods earnestly.

"I might be here, or in the library."

"Never fear, Athelstan." Sinric says, a touch of foresight drifting into his voice and eyes. "You shine out like a beacon of hope. We will see each other again."

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