She was a fresh hire to the particular pub that the redheaded Irishman entered at some point. Virginia gave the man a look as she overheard his words, and she almost rolled her eyes, but she caught her employer looking her way for a moment and he nodded toward the almost full tray ready to go to a rambunctious lot in the north-west corner. She took hold of the tray and passed behind the man in question, the subtle scent of lilac drifting into the nostrils of the imbiber if he was so inclined to even notice.

The girl moved to the table she had to serve, the tray heavy in her hand and on her shoulder. Smoke curled upward toward the raftors from several forms of smoking: cigars, pipes, etc. The acrid scent mingled with that of sweat and the underlying smell of vomit. Ugh, why did she have to work as a bar maid? She should thank her lucky stars she even had a job, but she could have had the same smells slap at her if she was a laundress.

She served the men their beers or ales, and once the tray was empty, she had to laugh and dance away from reaching hands, "Oh no no, I have work to do," she cooed.

When she turned her back on the men to go collect dirty glasses from the bar top, she slipped behind it and started to do what she was being paid to do. Every once in a while, her dark eyes would lift to Pony. He wasn't a bad looking man, but he looked like trouble. And curiosity was her downfall.

"What's yer story?" she asked as she reached over to take his dirty dish and set it on the tray. The bartender placed the replacement in front of him and said, "Oi, clean the bar while ye're back here, and then get all the tankards and tumblers from around the room. Oi'll be right back. Get the man another drink if he asks."