—To err is human. To persist is Blunt.
> "There are moments that change the course of history. And sometimes, they smell like plums."
— Lady Fenella Quickwit, after two mugs of mulled wine
————
There are some among us who walk not merely through cobbled streets, but across the very surface of legend.
One such figure, the embodiment of grace, wit, and terrifyingly high cheekbones, is none other than Lady Fenella.
To the common folk, she is Lady Fenella of House Quickwit, Duchess of the Velvet Quill, Baroness of Wry Smirks, and, some say the unchallenged sovereign of charm and chaos alike.
She walks not on the ground, but approximately three inches above it.
When she enters a room, violins tune themselves. Dogs sit. Babies compose sonnets.
Once, a bishop tripped over himself offering to shine her boots. She declined, kindly and the bishop wept with gratitude.
Children dream of growing up to be her. Men dream of marrying her. Women dream of becoming her, then marrying themselves out of sheer efficiency. Even the Queen, upon hearing Fenella's name once during a high tea, reportedly set her cup down and whispered, "Oh, her."
She is the duchess of daring, the empress of elegance, a jewel among women.
She—
———
…Ahem.
Enough of that nonsense.
•
I'm just messing with you....
Truth be told, Fenella Quickwit is about as noble as a raccoon in a cathedral, graceful in her own right, yes, but not someone you'd want near your silverware.
She is, in actuality, a thief.
A nimble-fingered, sweet-talking, quick-running, story-spinning, aristocrat-bamboozling, pocket-emptying thief.
Not just in the "oh she took my coin purse" sense. Good in the "she's probably already sold your coin purse, replaced it with a counterfeit, and is currently negotiating the publishing rights" sense.
————
At the exact moment we rejoin her...truthfully this time, Fenella was not basking in adoration or perfumed rose gardens.
She was clinging to the underside of a baker's cart, covered in stale flour, and internally debating whether she'd left enough time for that baron to notice his signet ring was now on her finger.
She squinted as the cart rolled past a pair of city guards and smiled, sweetly, and innocently, like a schoolgirl with a dagger behind her back.
A moment later, she rolled out from beneath the cart, dusted herself off, and disappeared into the crowd.
So, no. Fenella Quickwit was not a duchess, nor a lady, nor even particularly fond of titles, unless they came engraved on stolen deeds.
But what she was… was trouble.
And today? Trouble was thirsty.
Which is how she ended up stepping through the cracked doors of The Pickled Turnip, a tavern so disreputable even the fleas had unionized.
But we'll get to that.
First, let's check on our wandering hero, Blunt.
Bless his soul.
He's about to make everything so much worse.
———
Bartholomew Blunt arrived in a flurry of dust, and sweat.
His boots were scuffed, his coat misbuttoned.
He shoved open the doors to The Gilded Acorn with the poise of a man who believed every room should be delighted to have him in it, regardless of what the room thought.
Blunt paused at the threshold, silhouetted in golden evening light, one hand on his hip, the other clutching a folded and badly creased letter.
The tavern was fancy, with velvet seats, shiny chandeliers, and paintings of smug-looking nobles on the walls.
Gentlefolk sipped wine while a lute player in the corner strummed a peaceful song.
He stormed past the men at the door, who desperately tried to stop him and announced with authority.
"Ladies and gentlemen, remain seated. I seek no quarrel. I am merely here as a guest."
Heads turned.
"I'd like to meet with the illustrious Lady Seraphina D'Gloucester of the West Wing Tea!"
The maître d', hurried over.
"Sir," he hissed under his breath, "this is a private establishment. Do you have a reservation?"
"Do I look like a man who needs a reservation?" Blunt asked, insulted.
The maître d' exhaled in frustration.
At the back corner of the room, Fenella Quickwit raised her crystal glass to hide a very small smirk.
She looked divine. Not attractive—divine. Dressed in indigo silks with a velvet plume pinned in her hair, and a beauty mark placed with malicious precision.
Why?
She was, at that moment, dressed as Lady Seraphina.
And the suitor leaning toward her, fawning over her every word?
Utterly doomed.
Fenella stood slowly, gauging Blunt as he made protest, attempting to slip away unnoticed.
But the maître d' spotted her. "Allow me Lady Seraphina"
Blunt squinted his eyes, observing her closely, then came to a halt, eyes locking onto her.
"You!" he boomed, pointing. "You're not Lady Seraphina!"
A hush fell over the room. Fenella swallowed hard.
The merchant at a table, a large man with gold buttons and the face of someone who'd never heard the word "no," frowned.
"Excuse me, sir," he said coldly, "but I happen to be hosting Lady Seraphina. Kindly direct your finger elsewhere."
"Then she has you all fooled!" Blunt proclaimed triumphantly. "The real Lady Seraphina is supposed to be taller…"
Fenella blinked, held a fan to her lips, and in a breathy voice replied,
"Darling, whatever are you talking about?"
The merchant beside her frowned. "This is Lady Seraphina, sir."
Blunt scoffed. "No, no, no. The Lady Seraphina I was meant to meet has more eyebrows!"
Everyone stared.
"I meant… dignity!" he corrected, not helping at all. "More dignity in the brow region!"
A murmur rose. The diplomats began whispering.
"And a squarer nose," he added confidently.
"Squarer…?"
"Yes! And I'd recognize her scent anywhere. Lavender and rose."
The diplomat next to the merchant looked uncertain. "She does smell nice…"
She leaned in slightly, her smile syrupy sweet and her voice a bit low.
"Darling," she began brushing a non-existent speck off Blunt's coat, "I have no idea who you are, Perhaps you've taken one too many blows to the head?"
"I have, yes— but that's irrelevant!" Blunt jabbed a finger. "You're an imposter! A fraud! I demand—demand—the real Lady Seraphina reveal herself at once, or I shall be forced to… escalate!"
"Escalate?" asked the merchant.
Blunt puffed up. "Yes. Verbally. Possibly legally. I have a pamphlet."
"My sweet boy," she purred, "If you say one more word, I shall have the house guards escort you to a pigsty—which, frankly, suits the state of your boots."
"I stand by my word!" Blunt barked.
Now attracting the attention of half the tavern, Fenella saw her exit window rapidly narrowing. If she didn't act fast, she'd be spending the night dodging questions, fists, or worse, paperwork.
The maître d' summoned two men in matching waistcoats.
That did it.
Fenella put on her best high-society chuckle, light, musical, and sauntered toward Blunt.
"Why don't we… talk somewhere private, darling?"
She trailed a gloved finger down his lapel.
Blunt stuttered. "Oh. Uh. I mean… yes, of course, I'm not unfamiliar with… privacy."
She took his arm and led him toward the hall.
By the time they reached the hallway, Fenella pulled him closer, kissing him on the lips.
"Give me a minute, will you?" She said and vanished through the kitchen door.
Blunt stood dazed in the corridor, smiling faintly.
"She… kissed me," he whispered to no one in particular.
-----------
In the alley behind The Gilded Acorn, Fenella crouched between two barrels, heart pounding from the close call, though her face showed nothing but satisfaction.
She slipped her gloves off, pulling a pouch from her sleeve.
"It took no effort at all."
"You nearly ruined my con, you daft, shouty turnip," she muttered, "But at least you were loaded."
She tugged open the strings and peered inside.
Silence.
Then—
"What the bloody—"
Inside were exactly:
Three copper coins
A dried fig
A lucky pebble
A few rocks
And a small wooden carving of a duck with one eye missing.
There was a long pause, as she stared at it.
The duck stared back.
—————
"Did I mention Fenella's luck? No? Well… she has it. All bad."
————
Fenella stared at the contents. Then at the sky. Then back at the pouch.
"He carries around rocks and poultry carvings?"
She resisted the urge to throw it across the alley.
Then she groaned, sank back against the wall, and muttered under her breath.
"I should've just robbed the merchant."
...,.....
That Evening
Blunt, having narrowly escaped an afternoon of humiliation and a suspiciously aggressive goose, wandered into the only establishment in the district known for both its loose stools and looser morals-
The Pickled Turnip.
A charming little pit of despair where dreams went to drown and bar tabs lived forever.
Festooned with faded bunting, and always on the verge of collapse. The painted sign above the door featured a lumpy purple root vegetable with a sour expression and one black eye. The letters beneath it read: Ale • Misery • Regret.
The tavern's reputation preceded it. So did its smell.
Inside, the place heaved with sweat, and raucous life. Candle smoke curled in lazy spirals, mingling with the scent of spilled beer, and old arguments. A small band in the corner played something that could only be described as musical if you were very drunk or in despair.
"Oi, put yer elbow down, that's my dinner!"
"Then your dinner's hogging the table, Marcy!"
A bearded man was attempting to eat a pickled egg from a stranger's plate without using his hands.
Across the room, a card game was descending into chaos, as accusations of cheating were being hurled along with actual playing cards. One of them embedded itself in a man's hair.
A cheer rose up as a round, red-faced man behind the bar slammed a tankard onto the counter with a proud announcement.
> "FREE DRINKS, YA SODS! My wife's had the bairn! A girl! Got all ten fingers! None of mine, thank the gods!"
"Sixteen hours of yelling and she didn't stab me once. She's a bloody saint!"
The room erupted into applause. Someone tossed a sausage in the air, while another tried to kiss a chandelier.
Blunt elbowed his way to the bar and slammed a coin on the counter.
"Your finest ale, good sir!"
"We only serve one ale," Witlow grunted, slapping down a dented mug.
"Then I demand your least-worst."
"That's this one."
The mug was warm, and the ale was cloudy. Blunt drank anyway.
Now seated, he began to enjoy the haze, the chaos, the clash of laughter and failure, when he heard a sigh.
Not loud. Not an annoyed sigh. But a very specific sigh, the kind of sigh one makes when being forced to tolerate the company of profoundly stupid people.
Blunt turned his head lazily.
Behind him, wrapped in a deep green cloak with the hood half-drawn, sat a woman nursing a drink and glaring into it.
He turned away, then did a double take.
"...Oh ho," he said aloud.
She looked up, and their eyes met.
"YOU!"
Half the tavern turned to look.
Fenella Quickwit closed her eyes, sighed again, deeper this time and muttered,
"gods preserve me…"
Blunt rushed to her table like a moth.
"You're the… the noblewoman! The thief! The kissy one!"
Fenella adjusted slightly and looked away.
"You remember me, don't you? Earlier today? The Gilded Acorn? You flirted, you fondled, you pilfered!"
Fenella took a long, deliberate sip of her drink and refused to look at him.
"Sir, I don't know who you are."
"You stole my pouch."
"Which pouch?"
"The pouch with the duck!"
A man at a nearby table leaned in. He was bald, cross-eyed, and smelled like vinegar.
"Did he just say 'duck'?"
"Yeah," his drinking mate replied. "Maybe it's code. Like 'the duck flies east.'"
Fenella growled under her breath.
"Listen, Doughface, I don't know who you think I am—"
"You're her! The lady at the estate! The one who definitely wasn't the real Lady Seraphina."
"Oh for the love of moldy turnips,"
"You ran off with my coins!"
"Coins? Your pouch had three shillings and stones in it!"
"That was a memory stone! It reminded me not to trust beautiful women."
"If you don't leave this table in the next five seconds, I will staple your tongue to your chin with a hairpin." She muttered, taking another sip.
Blunt raised a hand, smiling.
"Now, now, let's not make threats. I'm here to extend a gentlemanly arm of goodwill—"
"Break it," she said.
"Pardon?"
"Your arm. I'll break it."
"You're bluffing."
"I once took down a tax collector using nothing but a candlestick and a haiku."
"…Really?"
"No. But I am this close to setting your boots on fire."
Blunt blinked and glanced down, as if genuinely worried she might have already done so.
"Well," he said finally, "I just wanted to say I forgive you."
Fenella raised an eyebrow. "You forgive me?"
"Yes. For being overwhelmed by my presence. It happens."
She looked him up and down.
"You look like someone accidentally sculpted a statue out of leftover bread dough and gave up halfway."
"That's a strangely accurate metaphor."
"Now scram."
"Now my apolog—"
Fenella stood so fast her chair screeched backward. A nearby patron ducked instinctively.
"You really want to do this now?"
"Yes! Because I believe in truth, justice, and the right to harass thieves in public!"
Witlow leaned over the bar.
"If you're going to kill each other, do it outside. I've just mopped."
"When?" Fenella asked.
"Never," Witlow shrugged. "But it's the threat that counts."
They stared at each other a moment longer before—
THUD. CLANG.
"Oof—my spleen!"
A loud crash from the far side of the tavern interrupted them.
Blunt glanced toward the commotion.
A man in partial armor tumbled face-first off a bench near the hearth, arms splayed, a flagon spinning out of his hand.
"Not again," someone said out loud.
Witlow didn't even look up, just wiped his hands on his apron and said;
"That's just Gaspard. Probably fell off the bench."
"He thinks he's a knight!" A voice in the bar shouted.
"I am a knight!" came the muffled protest.
Two regulars, Burly Dave and Even Burlier Dave, hoisted the man up by his armpits.
"Out you go, Sir Gooseflesh," one grunted.
"Tis Sir Gaspard the Grim, if you please," the knight slurred as they dragged him out.
His helmet was askew, his sword belt caught around one leg, and his left boot was missing, with trail of spilled mead following behind him. "Vanquisher of shadows! Wooer of maidens! Slayer of… of…"
The door swung shut behind him. The room exhaled.
Blunt turned back to Fenella, now seated once again and sipping her drink like nothing happened.
"Well," he said. "That was weird."
She didn't look up.
"You're weird."
"That's fair."
They sat in silence. For half a moment.
Then a hulking man at the door growled:
"BLUNT."
Blunt's spine stiffened.
"Oh dear."
"You owe me forty crowns."
"Ah. Gerald. How wonderful to see your enormous... terrifying face again."
Fenella slid her hood further down.
"Not my circus," she whispered.
"Not my clown," Blunt muttered back.
As Gerald stomped toward them, Fenella slipped out of her chair and melted into the crowd.
Blunt didn't notice.
Just then—
BLOWWWW.
A trumpet sounded outside.
The room quieted. Heads turned toward the open windows.
A shout rang out:
"A ROYAL PROCLAMATION! FOR ONE—BARTHOLOMEW BLUNT!"
Everyone turned to stare.
Blunt blinked.
"…Wait, me?"