than I did.
The one she supposed to be a fisherman because of his dark hair streaked with the sun and scratched hands had a more calculating air about him than the fishermen I had seen in town. He had an unusual boldness too, in how he held himself, as if he was confident of every step he took. As for his hands, nicks can be gotten in any number of ways, not just from hooks and gills. I’d suffered several on the trip here by reaching hastily into brambles. True, his hair was long and unkempt, falling to his shoulders, but he may have had a difficult journey and had nothing to tie it back.
The blond fellow was of nearly identical build, perhaps an inch shorter and a bit wider in the shoulders, his hair only brushing his collar. He was as sober-faced as his friend in my estimation, with a brooding quality that clouded the air about him. There was far more on his mind than just a cool cider. Maybe it was only fatigue after a long journey or maybe something more significant. Perhaps he was out of work and hoping this was the town that might provide some? Maybe that was why they were both slow to sit down? Maybe they hadn’t a single coin between them. My imagination was getting as vivid as Gwyneth’s.
I watched the dark-haired one say something to the other, pointing to the empty table, and they sat, but little more passed between them. They seemed more interested in their surroundings than each other.
Gwyneth elbowed me. “Stare too long at those two, and your eyes will fall out.” She sighed. “A few years too young for me, but you, on the other hand—”
I rolled my eyes. “Please—”
“Look at you. You’re lathered like a horse at the end of a race. It’s not a crime, you know, to notice. They’ll have two dark ciders each. Trust me.” She reached out and grabbed the replacement brews I had poured. “I’ll deliver these, and you take care of them.”
“Gwyneth! Wait!” But I knew she wouldn’t. In truth, I was glad for the push. Not that they had me lathered in the least. They were both a bit on the rumpled and dusty side. They intrigued me, that was all. Why shouldn’t I indulge in Gwyneth’s little game and see if I served a fisherman and a pelt trader? I took two more mugs from the shelf, the last clean ones, and hoped Enzo was making progress on the dishes. I pulled on the tap and let the dark golden cider race its way to the rim, noting the small flutter in my stomach.
I grabbed the handles of both mugs in one hand and made my way around the bar, but then caught sight of Pauline. The wet-lapped oaf who had grabbed me had a firm grasp on her wrist. I watched her, a painful smile on her face, trying to be polite while attempting to twist away. The soldier chuckled, enjoying watching her squirm. My face flashed with heat, and almost instantly I was by her side, staring into the eyes of the salacious snake.
“You’ve already been gently warned once, sir. The next time, instead of a wet lap, I’ll be planting these mugs in your thick skull. Now, stop your asinine conduct, behave like an honorable member of the King’s Royal Guard, and remove your hand at once.”
This time there was no slapping of knees, no round of laughter. The whole room had fallen silent. The soldier glared at me, furious for being shamed so publicly. He slowly released his grip on Pauline, and she hurried away to the kitchen, but my eyes remained locked on him. His nostrils flared, and I imagined he was wondering if he could throttle me in a room full of people. My heart hammered wildly, but I forced a slow, dismissive smile to my lips.
“Carry on,” I said to the room at large and turned swiftly to avoid having any more words with him. In only a handful of paces, I found myself stumbling into the newcomers’ table. Their stares took me further unaware, and my breath caught in my chest. The intensity I had seen from afar was more apparent up close. For a moment, I was frozen. The fisherman’s icy blue eyes cut through me, and the trader’s stormy brown ones were more than unsettling. I wasn’t sure if they were angry or startled. I tried to