In his ideal world, this was swept under the rug. Nisa’s temper cooled, the fellow’s wounds were superficial, and they all had the embarrassing realization that this whole thing was more trouble than it was worth.

“Who are they?”
“They look familiar...”

In an ideal world, his father was still alive. They still kept shop in York. He introduced a nice girl to his sister and father both. Maybe even a nice boy; his father wouldn’t have been thrilled, but he had griped about not enough men to do the heavy lifting. Most importantly: they didn’t disappear. They never disappeared.

That was not this world.

That was not this world, and that was why he brought his hand to his sore cheek with eyes and ears all around. Why he pressed it, let himself cringe, and then drew both hands to his stomach to carelessly prod. That drew an involuntary wretch. He cleared his throat before answering.

“Some tea should clear it up,” he said simply.

And if Nisa laced it? So be it.