His thoughts roiled and tumbled, troubled by everything his father had said and the way Emily had acted when he’d told her. He was damned if he’d lose her just to please some notion of society that his father possessed; he’d tried to explain that but she’d been too upset and angry to listen. He kept his hand firm on the cudgel, eager to use it at the least provocation. But everything was quiet, all the inns and alehouses subdued as men eked out their money until payday, stretching out their ale or gin over an hour or more, their faces as sullen as their spirits. When they were done he wandered away, heading down to the river. The fires were burning on the bank and as he approached he could make out the shapes and empty faces of the folk gathered around them, cooking some food or simply taking in the heat. Eyes glanced up at him with suspicion and wariness before turning swiftly away again, bodies moving back slightly. He stood silent until Gordonson came over, his withered arm gathered at his side, a smile on his face.
