“Holy hopping hens, Robin! You don't have to shout at me, you know. What could-?”
“Shins,” Robin said again; this time it came out in a hiss. “Look, you-you don't need to do this. I've got this.” She lashed out, yanking the mop away almost hard enough to send Widdershins stumbling.
“What's gotten into-”
“Why don't,” Robin continued, this time trampling over Widdershins's words rather than the other way around, “you go out. We've got this handled, and the crowd's not all that big, and I know you've had a lot on your mind, so you go and have yourself a nice, relaxing evening somewhere, all right?”
“Are you trying to get rid of me, Robin? What-?” And finally, finally Widdershins-who could have kicked herself up and down the entire length of the common room, and retained enough embarrassed frustration left to give herself a good pinch-came up for air through the thick, swirling depths of her own preoccupation and picked up on what should have been obvious from the start. “I,” she grumbled, “am such a moron.”
At any other time, Olgun's surge of agreement might have been offensive.
Widdershins's hand dropped to the hilt of her sword, and she instantly began trying to examine all four corners of the room at once. “Robin? What's going on?”
“He came looking for you again, Shins.” Robin studiously examined her feet, or perhaps the soaking strands of the mop. “I didn't want to worry you any more than you already are; I just wanted you to get-”
“Who? Who came looking for me?” For an instant, the hassles of the past few days and the meeting with the Shrouded Lord clouded her memory of earlier events, and then…“That Evrard guy? Him?”
“Indeed, ‘that Evrard guy,’ at your service, mademoiselle.”
Robin eeped-that was the only way to describe it, really, as an “eep”-and even Widdershins practically jumped out of her boots. He was simply there, offering them a sardonic but graceful bow. But that would have meant he'd been in the tavern this whole time, and she'd missed him! She couldn't have just missed him, could she?
She didn't need Olgun's gentle reminder of just how distracted she'd been to point out that, well, yes, she could have.
“Sure, now you tell me!” she groused at him. Then, standing tall, keeping one hand on her rapier, and ostentatiously not returning Evrard's bow, she methodically examined the stranger who'd apparently been seeking her for some days.
He was pretty enough to look at, she decided. His eyes were deep and twinkling above sharply chiseled features; and he wore his long coat (and, presumably, his tricorne hat, though at the moment it was in his hand) with what could only be described as a graceful panache. But his smile, though friendly, felt false, and even through the coat, Widdershins could see the tension in his shoulders.
Then, of course, there was his rapier. The leather on the hilt was worn far too thin for a weapon of such fine quality. Either he didn't bother to maintain the blade-which she didn't believe for an instant-or it saw a lot of use.
For a moment or two he simply stood, as though basking in her obvious examination. And then, “I assume, based on your conversation, that I have the honor to address the woman known as Widdershins?”
“Uh…You do. And you are?”
“Evrard. I thought we just covered that. A bit dim, are we?”
Widdershins scowled. (So did Robin, but Shins was too distracted to notice.) “I meant who else are you? What's your family name? Or title?”
“And why would you assume I have a title?”
“Because you're either an aristocrat, or someone who wants people to think he's an aristocrat. If you were putting on any more airs, the rest of us wouldn't be able to breathe.”
“Ah. I see. And of course, if I share with you my full and proper name, you'll do the same in return? I'm fairly certain, after all, that ‘Widdershins’ is not what your parents chose to call you.”
By this point, the entire common room of the Flippant Witch had gone silent, save for the occasional clank, clatter, or gulp of a mug. No one present understood the intricacies of this confrontation-heck, Widdershins herself only halfway grasped what was going on-but nobody wanted to miss a word of it.
“No,” Widdershins said through a clenched cage of teeth. “I won't be doing that.”
“Shame. Then I fear I shall simply have to remain ‘that Evrard guy’ for the time being. And you,” he continued before she could speak, all traces of his smile sliding from his face, “can remain the same common, slovenly little criminal you've always been.”
“Hey! Who are you calling ‘common’?!”
“What else would I call you, Widdershins? You can pretend at being a tavern owner, a ‘businesswoman,’ all you want, but you're fooling precisely nobody. All you've ever been good for is slinking around in the dark, taking coin from those among your betters too foolish to hang onto it.”
“Hey!” Robin shouted at him.
Widdershins merely raised an eyebrow. “Now you're just trying to make me sound like a whore.”
“You hardly need my help with that, mademoiselle.”
More than a few gasps sounded throughout the common room, and several of the Witch's regulars rose (however unsteadily) to their feet, ready to defend the proprietor of their home away from home. But it was Robin who began a forward lunge, only to be brought up painfully short by Widdershins's sudden grab at her collar.
“Robin, no!”
“But-but he-!”
“I know. It's all right.”
“No,” Robin muttered, as angry as Widdershins had ever heard her, though at least the girl was no longer struggling to charge headfirst into gods-knew-what sort of trouble. “No, it's not.”
“Are you quite done hiding behind your little friend?” Evrard sneered.
Widdershins very deliberately stepped around the now-sputtering Robin. Evrard just about gleamed with some inner light as her hand once more clenched the rapier at her side, and he grinned as she marched over to stand perhaps an arm's length from him.
“Are you planning to challenge me, then, Widdershins?”
“No, not really.”
At which point, as Evrard was carefully dividing his attention between Widdershins's face and the arm she would use to draw the rapier, she kicked him square in the groin.
Duelist that he was, Evrard might have dodged or deflected even so unexpected an attack, had there not been a brief surge of power from Olgun that caused the nobleman to “accidentally” slip on the sawdust-covered floor as he spun away. He choked once, all arrogance finally draining from his expression, and crumpled to a heap, clutching at himself.
Robin let out a whoop to match her prior eep, and a round of snickers circled through the observing patrons.
“You…” Evrard seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty speaking all of a sudden. “You…”
“I'm sorry, what was that?” Widdershins put a hand to her ear. “I'm afraid I can't actually hear your voice when it's that high.”
Maybe it was Widdershins's taunts, or perhaps it was being laughed at by the crowd for the second time in half a minute, but Evrard pulled himself together. His face was pale, and he winced with every inch, but he rose slowly until he stood flagpole-straight.
“If you were of noble blood…,” he growled, fingers seeming to twitch toward his rapier of their own accord.
“Then I'd probably have died of hypocrisy poisoning by now. Evrard, what do you want?”
“I want,” he said, his breath coming more easily now, “to inform of you my intentions.”
“Your…?”
“As I understand it, Gurrerre Marguilles briefly challenged his daughter's will? Specifically the provision granting you ownership of her tavern?”