I only go into the Purple Toad after midnight. Any time before then, and the customers are still sober enough to be dangerous if they see you as an outsider, or a threat. After midnight, though, it's usually pretty safe, as long as you're tall, male, and dressed like them. The Purple Toad isn't a place for weaklings, women, or people who wear colourful clothing. I've been coming here a month now, and there aren't even the sort of women whom I usually see in other taverns. Even those kinds of women have standards, I suppose, and the patrons of the Purple Toe are all below them.

Just because almost everyone is too drunk to think clearly doesn't mean you should be careless. I'm always quiet. I sit in a corner, usually, where I can stay warm.

I never sit by the fire. Yes, the Purple Toad does have a fireplace. It's a pit, but it knows that even pits need things to bring in the scum. The fire makes it too easy for people to see you. There's usually some old granny sitting there anyway, all wrinkled and arthritic. I don't know if she's just too blind to realize what the Toad's like and the Toad's scummy patrons have a sudden burst of good feeling toward their fellow human where she's concerned or what. I think maybe she's some kind of con. If she is, she's a good one to have lasted so long, and dangerous, too, if no one's about to bother her.

The corner's good enough for me. You can see if anyone's about to go at you and most people overlook it, it's so hidden in shadows. The last thing I want is for someone to notice me. I haven't been caught yet, but I know that My Sort aren't welcome, no matter how low down society's rungs you go.

Tonight, though, my corner's been taken. Not that anyone knows it's my corner. That would mean someone at the Toad knows me, and remembers me, and if they did, I couldn't come here anymore. I'd hate to have to find a new place after all this time, I've got a route from place to place plotted out really good, and it'd be hard to find a new one that's safe, to a new place that's safe. So, I have to relocate. I try to scan the room and make it look like I'm considering whether or not I want to come in at all, not like I'm desperately searching for somewhere safe and quiet to hide myself for a few hours.

The bar.

My eyes light on it. At the very end, far from the fire, fairly isolated but not so isolated as to be noticeable, is a vacant stool. It's risky. Sitting at the bar is always risky because there's the chance that someone will notice you aren't ordering something, and pressure you to do business or leave.

I have some money, I could afford to do business, but I don't want to.

In places like this, alcohol is part of what makes the world go round, and if you can't handle your drink, you aren't part of the world. Not only does this stuff go right to my head, but everyone in this country seems to enjoy drinking stuff that tastes like horse piss. I can remember, once or twice, taking sips from peoples mugs back home, and often that was sweeter than candy. Nothing like that in these parts, for which I'm thankful. If there were, I'd be too drunk to ever get anything done.

Carefully, I make my way past the other in the tavern and carefully settle myself down on the stool at the very end of the bar. I turn so my back's to the barkeep. It's not the brightest thing I could do, I know, but I prefer it to keeping my back to the rest of the tavern. Maybe he'll just think I'm unfriendly and dangerous, not scared stiff, and leave me alone.

It seems to be working.

I don't relax.

No matter how drunk everyone else is, relaxing in the Toad is asking to be chopped into more pieces than you have bones and sold as some foreign delicacy in the morning.

I settle down into a state of lesser tension. It's a quiet night, no little tragedies unfold before me. That's fine. I don't come to the Toad for entertainment. I only wish it were like this more often.

I can feel the smile spreading across my face. It's not something I feel very often. This could be a quiet pleasant night, if things continue at this rate. Peaceful, undisturbed . . .

Cancel that.

Two idiots have just come in. A couple by the looks of them. The woman - I think it's a woman - stumbles over one of the heavier fellows by the door. She, I think, is giggling and seems to be apologizing. She, supposedly, is obviously drunk out of her skull.

I hope I never looked that ridiculous when I got drunk.

Possibly-she looks around with a huge, stupid grin on, giggling slightly.

"Hey Greg! Money! Need drink!"

Definitely she.

She doesn't sound foreign, despite her dark skin and crinkled hair. She also begins to make her rather unsteady way toward the bar. Within the confines of my hood, I make a face. So much for my peaceful evening. I can feel the agitation from the other patrons, winning out of their drunken oblivion.

Her companion - Greg, I suppose, winces. Perhaps they aren't a couple, but he makes his way toward the bar, creeping, rather, like a terrified dog, mumbling something, to himself or her.

He doesn't look foreign. Clean cut and thoroughly wholesome looking, or he would be, if his clothing wasn't rumpled and slightly stained from spilt drink like his companions. His hair is brown, a lighter shade than hers, and soft, curling slightly at the ends. He'd look like the perfect well-bred city boy if his skin wasn't sun browned.

I wonder why they're together.

She sprawls against the counter, a ways from me, the picture of misery, and definitely should not be here. She looks an easy target for most anyone.

She begins to flick the scattered and dirty remains of nuts that litter the bar top at the barkeep.

He sits down next to her, looking uncomfortable. "Kenna, stop that."

She looks like a dog scolded by its master. "Yes, Greg."

The barkeep looks irritated and goes back to work. I suppose he's had worse things thrown at him than dirty nuts.

"Good, good," he mumbles, patting her arm, causing the Toad regulars to snigger in amusement. They aren't used to this kind of entertainment.

"Drink?" she asks, beaming up at him, and hitches her stool close to his, snuggling up like any girl in love would.

They definitely shouldn't be here, and they deserve whatever happens to them.

"Kenna, please don't. People are staring," he hisses down at her, looking even more uncomfortable, even as he pushes a handful of coins across the bar top, motioning for the barkeep to bring drinks. I can't help but be impressed - he has sense enough to know that you don't have options at a place like the Toad.

When tonight's barkeep brings them two tankards, she pushes herself off him and slumps back against the bar, drinking it without any kind of pleasure.

Maybe he's just nervous, not unfeeling, because he reaches over and pats her shoulder, making some kind of soothing noises, inaudible to me. He sips slowly at his drink, even as she gets hers refilled, his eyes roaming the room nervously, and hers follow where his go. His, however, are mere darting, furtive looks, quickly avoiding making eye contact with anyone, while hers are fierce glares that might be intimidating in one less drunk.

She meets my eyes and it seems like her glower doubles in force.

Why do I care?

I scowl back at her irritably and tip my head, letting my hood shade more of my eyes.

He's gone back to his drink, staring into the depths, but he looks up when he seems to realize that his companion's attentions have wandered, as she continues to glower at me as she drinks. He follows the direction of her gaze and meets my eyes.

His eyes are rather large, deep and green, with a thick fringe of brown lashes.

I swallow. I can feel my Adam's apple bobbing beneath my cloak pin.

He says something to her, I can't hear what, and gives her his tankard as he stands. They have a brief exchange before he pats her head and moves away.

Oh, no.

He slides gracefully into the seat next to me, although he's far from thin, and flashes me a smile overflowing with charm.

His teeth are very white.

The bridge of his nose is sunburnt.

"Hi there," he murmurs. If cats could talk, I think they'd sound like that. "I'm Gregory."

I guess he's not from around here after all.

I resist the urge to tell him I already know his name, thanks to his loud companion.

"And I'm Tannoy." The woman - girl - growls like a tiger. She must have followed him.

I didn't really notice.

He - Gregory - hisses at her, "Not now, Kenna," and stares at me intently.

I swallow again and my Adam's apple scrapes on metal. My eyes dart uncertainly from one to the other. This is madness and I know it. But, whatever happens, I won't be able to come to the Toad for weeks now. People are staring at us. I should just leave before things get worse . . .

"‘m Peregrine Fisk," I find myself saying. My grasp of the local language has improved since I got here, but it's so ugly, not at all like any of the ones spoken back home. It feels unnatural in my throat and coming off my tongue, and I'm sure it sounds unnatural to him - to them.

"Silly name," Tannoy snarls.

My eyes dart resentfully to hers and I tip my chin up defiantly until I realize he's smiling at me. "Nonsense," his voice is deep, soothing, well-educated. "I think it's a wonderful name. Ignore Kenna. She's had a bit too much to drink."

Oh, Mercus, you don't make polite conversation with someone in the Toad. This is ridiculous.

Tannoy continues to glower at me. "So what're you then?" she asks roughly.

I try not to squirm in my seat. "Yer nosey," I growl back.

She scowls. "Just askin'' . . . not like there's a law against it."

"Nosey," I repeat, getting the thick words out with difficulty. "‘ow's ‘bou' I ask ye than, eh?"

I feel a foot contact the leg of my stool roughly. I know who it is, and I scowl at her as she says "I'm a squire," in an airy tone.

A loud, aggressive mutter starts up from the crowd. I can't blame them. My lips purse in automatic distaste and I pull back before glancing at him. Gregory has a dreamy smile on his face and he leans forward, his fingers stroking my knee. I resist the urge to jerk back. "She's been out too late. She's not talking sense," he murmurs.

"He's a squire too."

I look sharply at him and move to shove him away, this is too much.

"No, I'm not! I'm too old. Be quiet, Kenna."

Tannoy goes silent, slumping like a whipped beast.

He relaxes and smiles again. "Why don't you go have another drink, Kenna?"

I can't help it. I smile back.

"But . . . I want to stay here with you," I hear her whisper pathetically.

"Fine, fine. Just stop bothering the nice young man," he murmurs absently and leans closer to me, bringing one hand up and pushing my hood away from my face. I jerk back, then still uncertainly as he looks at me. "Mercus . . ." he whispers, causing the Toad's patrons to stir once more, but more softly.

His eyes are really green.

I regain control of myself and frown, pulling my hood back up. "Don'," I hiss.

He's as drunk as she. It's obvious when he reaches up and strokes my cheek. "Poor shy lad," he murmurs. I blush.

Idiot.

"Wh-what're you s-so shy for?"

I scowl. "Not yer business, squire," I snarl.

Obviously, she distracts me from pushing his hand away from me.

"It is my b-b-business," she insists. Her eyes dart to Gregory.

I arch my eyebrows. "Oh?" I ask, then wince as I hear the words foreign to my tongue crack with my voice. I try not to blush. I'm not successful.

She curls up on her stool, still glaring at me. "Yeah," she mutters. "So you'd better tell."

Her words manage to come off as fairly threatening, in the way a suicidal madman's would.

"‘ave reason. No tellin'," I growl back at her, trying to salvage my pride.

He turns, looking over his shoulder to glare at her sharply, and she slumps back down, turning to the barkeep.

I can't remember the last time I saw someone drink so much in such a short span of time. "Ye wit ‘im?" I ask the obvious question.

"Yes," she growls. I've never heard a single word radiate so much possessive hunger.

"No!" he says, at almost the same time. He doesn't notice the look in her eyes, because he's not looking at her. "We're just friends. Came out drinking. Nothing but friends." He stares at me and his eyes draw mine back to his face. He strokes my chin with his thumb.

"Good friends . . ." I can hear her murmur.

"Yeah, yeah. Really good friends," he murmurs as he inches closer to me.

She follows him as though drawn by a spell. "Come on, Greg . . . Let's go. I d-don't like this place anymore."

"I do," he whispers in that cattish way.

When did he have time to put his arm around me?

"Run along. I'll see you tomorrow."

"No . . . this is your last night . . . remember?" Tannoy's voice is strangled and pleading, full of emotion and alcohol.

"Stay then," he shrugs, not really paying attention to her as he tucks his chin on my shoulder. His breath tickles my cheek as he speaks. "I don't have to go right away, anyways."

I blush further and try to say something. I don't know what. Anything. It doesn't matter. But all that comes out is an incomprehensible, stuttering mumble. Childish.

"No . . ." She pushes herself to her feet. "I-I'll go." Her voice shakes, with emotion and alcohol. "I know when nobody wants me." Her voice is barely audible. "I understand. Have fun. I hope - I hope he . . ."

Gregory's exploring fingers brush something. I respond instinctively, uncontrollably wrapping my arms around him and pulling him into a clumsy kiss.

If the people in the Toad care enough, we could both be dead tomorrow. But hormones, instinct, something, touch, smell, it's all stronger than my will.

He kisses back. Drunk and clumsy, but tangibly surprised. "Kenna?" I think I hear him mumble before I pull him down for another kiss.

I wonder what she was going to say.