“This one’s on the house, Emmitt Schulze. Don’t forget who never lets you go thirsty!”
“I’ll not forget you anytime soon, Gert,” Emmitt replies, winking back. He downs the entire mug in a single gulp while the rest of us admire his skill. “I’m off! Dawn comes far too soon and I’ve got more work awaiting me at home.”
Emmitt stands and slips the gear he was playing with earlier into his vest pocket. He generously slaps enough francs on the table to pay for his drink as well as everyone else’s. “Makers, I regret I must leave you so soon. Piro, send word the moment Gep is home. Until our next gathering.” He tips his hat and struts through the crowd, where he is stopped no less than seven times by folks wanting to shake his hand or buy him another mug.
Nan screws up her lips and raises her eyebrows, watching his slow drift to the door.
“Out with it, Nan,” Fonso bosses.
“Look at him! The people love him!”
“We’re aware,” Tiffin says drily.
“I’ve also heard the Margrave’s physician has been spending a lot of time up at Wolfspire Hall. Seems he’s been ailing of late.” She pauses dramatically.
“So?” I say. “The physician probably has his own quarters at Wolfspire Hall, what with the duke’s recurring illness and now the Margrave living past his prime, as entitled men are wont to do.”
Fonso shakes his head. “When you know something real worth broodin’ about, I’ll join in. Until then, don’t be putting more on Emmitt’s shoulders, he’s got a heavy enough load to carry as it is. Don’t go making it worse with your speculatin’ about the Margrave dying and him deserving the territory seat. It’s a bunch of bosh. And you’d all best watch your tongues about it.
“I heard Peter Baden, the saddler, got hauled off to the Keep for runnin’ his big mouth at a game of stones the other night. Rambling on about the rising price of ale and how it’s all the Margrave’s fault. Which,” he says, leaning in with a whisper, “you and I may know is true, but lately it isn’t safe to be going on about. The Margrave has ears in every corner, maybe even in The Louse and Flea.” He casts a wary glance about. A few uniformed guards sit at a table far on the other side of the room, deep in their cups.
“Well I hope his repulsive ears are burning right this very minute,” Nan says imperiously, “knowing that we’re talking ‘bout him. Fine, if you’re not going to let me meddle with Emmitt and what could be, I’ll just have to meddle elsewhere. So, what’s going on between you two?” Nan says pointedly to Bran and I.
Bran avoids my panicked gaze and looks innocently at Nan. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes narrow. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Golden Boy. The fog between you two is thick enough to cut with a knife.”
I choke on my water, my face turning crimson. Bran looks at me quizzically, now assuming I’ve told her about our argument. I haven’t, truly, Nan is just frustratingly observant.
Fonso slaps me helpfully on the back to clear my cough. “Nan,” his booming voice warns.
“Well, she’s clearly not herself, and I think it has something to do with Bran, just as much as it does with the fact that our ogre of a Margrave has her father penned up in the Keep. Did you say or do something to upset Piro?” She glares at Bran accusingly.
“Well,” Bran stutters, looking from Nan to me. “I—”
“No!” I croak, having found my voice again. “He didn’t say anything. I’m not upset! Everything’s fine with Bran and me. I’m just really tired, Nan, that’s all. Not feeling quite myself tonight, just as you said.”
A painful hiccup erupts from my throat. Nan watches us both suspiciously. With a groan, I realize I’ll pay for my hasty words. Inwardly, I curse my carelessness as a splinter the size of a carpenter’s nail protrudes suddenly and painfully from my ear. I try to cover it up with another sharp hiccup and a casual sweep of my hair, but Nan’s raven-sharp eyes don’t miss it. My stomach plummets as she reaches out a hand toward me.
“Piro! You’ve got a bit of wood, caught in your hair. And you’re bleeding, besides! Great blazes! How on earth did that happen?”
All eyes at our table and the tables next to us are now on me, on my burning face and the ugly splinter that’s mysteriously found itself tangled in my hair. Nan’s fingers gently pry the splinter free and lay it carefully on the table in front of me. Using a corner of her apron, she dabs at the blood on my ear, studying me, too close for comfort. Tiffin looks confused and Fonso awkwardly clears his throat, unsure of what just happened.
“Here, let me get rid of that,” Bran says, reaching to brush the bit of wood away and toss it into the fireplace behind us.
“No!” I bark in a strangled voice, snatching it first. “No, it’s just a splinter. A hazard of the job, you know!” I try to laugh it off and distract them as I secretly shove it deep into my pocket. I’m compelled to keep it, to save it along with the other tokens of my wretchedness. Cheeks still aflame, I take another big gulp of water in an effort to wash down the dry lump of fear in my throat.
Feeling too exposed, I stand up so fast I feel dizzy. “Well, I should really be heading back to Curio now. So much to do.”
Nan doesn’t say anything for once, just continues looking from me to Bran, watching us both cautiously.
“I suppose we should go as well.” Fonso leaps to his feet in an effort to help me. “I have an unfinished pair of lanterns I’m trussing up for my cousin, Marco. Remember, the one who works in the kitchens at Wolfspire Hall?
