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"Well now," said the Innkeeper, "if we are to have second and thirds and tea stronger than stout, then we must ask for the pipes to go out. If you please." A nod and a raise eyebrow gave the inquiry to Falco and Ruthven.
Falco for his part was hard put to decide, having just managed to achieve the right smouldering embers which would put him ahead of Ruthven in the smoke ring contest. Yet his stomach made loud protest at the thought of missing any heart stews or flakey tarts or cheese bread and jam. He looked at Ruthven, puffing away strongly yet without obvious urgency.
Ruthven eyed Eodwine and the girl Gudryn, whose face was streaked with smuges telling of disappointment. She made one last, long, lingering trail of smoke, strangely like a leaf wafting in autumn air, except rising rather than falling, and then lay down her pipe. Quiet descended upon the table as all watched the embers slowly wink out. Gudryn held back a sob and buried her head on Eowdwine's shoulder.
The lass Ćňelhild picked up her flute again and began a less melancoly song this time, a sprightly tune that began softly then built to a faster air. Ruthven took up wooden spoons on the table to accompany her and Falco found his feet keeping time with the floor. From the kitchen came a serving girl with a large pitcher of hot apple cider, the scent of cinnamon rising from it as if to banish the last faint odour of pipeweed. She poured a tankard and offerred it to Gudryn.
Bethberry looked at Eodwine. "I got the last round. Is this one yours?"
It appeared for an instant that he had not heard Bethberry, but then his eyes were drawn to hers.
"It's Falco's turn to treat us," he said quietly.
"Even so, will you not name a treat you would like?" she asked in return.
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