Merlyn harrumphs loudly, looking thoroughly put out, but doesn't take the needles from her. It's clearly true that she needs them more than him. He can always finger-knit, if conjuring new needles fails him. Or perhaps he can find some suitable sticks and work them into shape. "Keep them," he says, sulkily, and tucks the yarn into the front pocket of his apron.

Then, clearing his throat, he shifts his position and scratches at his bald head, shaking off a little of his sulkiness. "Thank you for returning the yarn, in any case, Rose. It's something, at least. And something, as they say, is better than nothing. You may call me Merlyn, by the way."