Love's Labour's Won

"I reckon Mythra's about done measuring out the grid for the carrot patch."

(They'd gotten her to agree to it on the basis that it was what she was best suited for, and if she never wanted to think about the carrot patch again after that, she was welcome to or not to just as she liked, but they did need it plotted, and wouldn't she agree that it would only be fair if she pitched in somehow, someway, just a bit?)

"I reckon you're right about that."

(Here she came, now.)

"Do you reckon she's got any different of any answer as what you or me would have gotten, if we'd been doing it?"

(They'd have walked the rows with careful heel-to-toe steps and counted them up, crosswalking in opposite directions to confirm their work.)

"I reckon not. But she did it, and it's good for her. Builds character, tilling furrows in the hot sun and all."

(Remember, she'd agreed to not having to ever do any of that, and only work out the maths and the logistics of it from inside the cool stone house, with plenty of snacks at the ready.)

"I reckon you've never done an honest day's work in your life."

(Calling mercenaries dishonest? Foul play, Prince, but I'm too busy chewing on a sprig of Belloat Grass, next to try a Beautiful Shoot, to be wasting my restful energy getting riled up about a petty little thing like that. Insulting me, when I know you so well. Oh, I know you better - and you know you, too.)

"I reckon we're about even, then. You've done, and plenty, but you've never needed to, and that's just as bad."

(Don't hate the player, hate the game. Isn't that right?)

"I reckon it's about time we head inside, too."

(Let's take this indoors, shall we?)

"I reckon I could go for a spell of sittin' time, with a glass of lemonade."

(Lead, my prince, my huckleberry, and I shall follow.)