“Fuck you, Thierry,” she had just said, surprising herself.

Silvy rarely swore in the tavern. She’d never punched anyone here. Or in her life, really. Maybe in childhood, she didn’t remember. People seemed highly amused by what she’d done. Thierry didn’t. He looked aggrieved. Bastard.

“Why?” he had the effrontery to ask her.

“Why? Are you serious? You are allegedly a man with writing skills. Access to paper? To couriers, maybe? You sent us nothing! Nothing! No word you were coming back! That it was safe to do so.”

She was glad she’d said us, not me, actually.

“Oh,” Thierry said.

“Oh,” Silvy repeated, mockingly.

He was still rubbing his shoulder. Such a heroic man! She hoped it had really hurt. Her hand did. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing that. She made the mistake of glancing over at the bar and saw Eudes. He raised one eyebrow, a trick he had. Jad curse you, too, Silvy thought. She really was angry.

Probably everyone in The Lamb knew that by now, she thought ruefully.

She looked at Thierry. He hadn’t changed. Skin darkened a little. His brown hair lighter, longer, and his beard. But…but why was she so angry seeing him now? What was that? Was it just the unexpectedness?

“I went to my mother and father’s,” Thierry said, as if that excused something.

“Very dutiful of you,” Silvy said.

“Then I came here.”

“Very dutiful.”

He was still rubbing his shoulder. “Silvy, I should have written. I wanted to surprise everyone. I didn’t even write my mother. Childish, I concede it. I’m sorry. Are you well? Is everyone here well?”

She glared at him. “My hand hurts,” she said.

“Good,” said Thierry. “I’m glad. Will you hug me?”

“Not a chance,” she said. “Go get some wine and say hello to Eudes. He isn’t furious with you.”

“I’ll do that. And then we can…” He trailed off because his eyes had gone past her to the door, which had just opened. She could hear when the front door opened, even if the room was crowded.

“Jad’s blood,” said Thierry.

Silvy turned to look.

“Jad’s blood,” she said.

Jolis de Charette came in. Again. Entering with a tall man, almost as well dressed as she was, and she was very well dressed.

“I am not talking to her,” Thierry said.

“I’d stab you if you did.”

She would remember having said that, after.

“She was here before,” she said. “Asked for you. Said she wanted to tell you she’s getting married.”

“What? Why? Why in the god’s name would she think I—”

“I have no idea,” Silvy said. “Quick, go get your drink.”

It was too late, though. She thought about that, too, after. If they hadn’t kept on talking, if he’d just gone to Eudes when she’d said to…