The man's gaze flicked to Gael, who had stepped into the doorway of the back room in his apron and shirt sleeves, hair iron-gray and beard still smelling faintly of smoke. Then the gaze slid to John, paused with a visible measure, and moved on as if he had found a stain and decided not to acknowledge it.
"You are not safe," the man said. "I am your protector. I am responsible for your person and your reputation. You will come with me. Now."
"No," Sera said.
"You cannot spend a night in a forge," the man said. "With an old man and a boy who does not know his place."
Fizz made a sound like a kettle beginning to scream. "He did not."
John's hand tightened minutely. "Stay," he said, "quiet," to Fizz.
Fizz whispered through his teeth. "I can bite that clasp off his cloak and feed it to him letter by letter."
"Stop," John repeated without looking away from the man.
Sera's eyes hardened by a shade. "You will not speak about them in that tone."
