(there I go again) when they walked into the Inn. “The Stunted Goat” the Landlord appeared nervous of her and yet strangely pleased to have her under his roof. In any case, it was apparent that he recognised her and Stiles intercepted a warning look that she gave him that plainly meant ‘keep your mouth shut’. A few other people looked up from their drinks and stared at her silently as she passed, but since they were all of them men, perhaps there was nothing to infer from this, and yet it did seem as if they too knew her, or knew of her. This was no help either he decided.
The Stunted Goat was a smoky den type of place, very ye olde. Very, very, actually, it even had straw on the floor and a fireplace so large that a child of at least ten could have stood up in it easily, if they did not mind being incinerated. For some reason, you got the impression that the blazing fire was a permanent feature, like the patrons, (or were they inmates?) It seemed that they had been there from time immemorial and were fossilised in their seats.
The landlord barely raised an eyebrow when she asked for a single room. But Stiles was distinctly uncomfortable about it. He opened his mouth to object, but with that curious instinct that she seemed to possess she dug him in the ribs to silence him before he even uttered a word; she had not even looked at him. She pulled him aside.
‘Rooms cost money,’ she hissed. ‘Besides, I don’t think I should leave you alone, especially at night.’
Stiles shrugged. ‘Okay.’
She handed him the key. ‘You go upstairs,’ she said. ‘I have something to take care of, I won’t be long.’
He left feeling puzzled. More mystery, what was she up to now?
The mystery was cleared up pretty quickly when she reappeared in the room five minutes after him and rather sheepishly handed him a grubby packet of cigars. ‘I got these for you,’ she said, almost shyly. ‘They um didn’t have cigarettes and anyway cigars are more … more you , I think.’ Stiles was touched and surprised. ‘You didn’t have to.’ Was all he could say; it sounded wrong – ungrateful.
‘Oh, I think I did, because of – you know. And you said … well anyway …’ She looked around. ‘Nice room.’
It was, in fact, surprisingly un-awful, not at all what the downstairs led you to expect. Of course, it might be riddled with damp by daylight, but by candle and firelight, it looked cosy, with heavy velvet curtains framing a leaded diamond pattern window, and a large easy chair by the fire and a four poster bed with damask curtains. It was embarrassingly like the honeymoon suite in a country retreat.
Stiles settled in the chair and lit a cigar from a handy candle. ‘Ah.’ He sighed. He ran an impressive line in smoke rings, and she watched for a while, fascinated.
‘You take the bed,’ he said, chivalrously. ‘I’ll be fine right here.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she retorted. ‘There’s plenty of room for both of us, we’ll need a proper night’s sleep, if we can get it. I think I can trust you.’
Stiles looked acutely self-conscious. ‘I don’t think it’s a question of trust,’ he said. ‘I mean, from what I’ve seen, one wrong move and you’d break me in half. Not that I would. It’s just, well – it wouldn’t seem right. I don’t think I …’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, again. ‘We’ll be fully dressed. Would you be this prissy about us sharing the same pile of straw?’
‘No, but …’
‘Then it’s settled. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll put a bolster down the middle of the bed – okay.’
Stiles gave in. ‘Okay’
She lay down on the top of the covers with her head propped up in her hand. ‘Mmm. I love the smell of cigars – it’s a proper smell for a man. You smell of cigars all the time, you know. Cigars and old leather, better than poncey after-shave or that lieutenant of yours,
The Stunted Goat was a smoky den type of place, very ye olde. Very, very, actually, it even had straw on the floor and a fireplace so large that a child of at least ten could have stood up in it easily, if they did not mind being incinerated. For some reason, you got the impression that the blazing fire was a permanent feature, like the patrons, (or were they inmates?) It seemed that they had been there from time immemorial and were fossilised in their seats.
The landlord barely raised an eyebrow when she asked for a single room. But Stiles was distinctly uncomfortable about it. He opened his mouth to object, but with that curious instinct that she seemed to possess she dug him in the ribs to silence him before he even uttered a word; she had not even looked at him. She pulled him aside.
‘Rooms cost money,’ she hissed. ‘Besides, I don’t think I should leave you alone, especially at night.’
Stiles shrugged. ‘Okay.’
She handed him the key. ‘You go upstairs,’ she said. ‘I have something to take care of, I won’t be long.’
He left feeling puzzled. More mystery, what was she up to now?
The mystery was cleared up pretty quickly when she reappeared in the room five minutes after him and rather sheepishly handed him a grubby packet of cigars. ‘I got these for you,’ she said, almost shyly. ‘They um didn’t have cigarettes and anyway cigars are more … more you , I think.’ Stiles was touched and surprised. ‘You didn’t have to.’ Was all he could say; it sounded wrong – ungrateful.
‘Oh, I think I did, because of – you know. And you said … well anyway …’ She looked around. ‘Nice room.’
It was, in fact, surprisingly un-awful, not at all what the downstairs led you to expect. Of course, it might be riddled with damp by daylight, but by candle and firelight, it looked cosy, with heavy velvet curtains framing a leaded diamond pattern window, and a large easy chair by the fire and a four poster bed with damask curtains. It was embarrassingly like the honeymoon suite in a country retreat.
Stiles settled in the chair and lit a cigar from a handy candle. ‘Ah.’ He sighed. He ran an impressive line in smoke rings, and she watched for a while, fascinated.
‘You take the bed,’ he said, chivalrously. ‘I’ll be fine right here.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she retorted. ‘There’s plenty of room for both of us, we’ll need a proper night’s sleep, if we can get it. I think I can trust you.’
Stiles looked acutely self-conscious. ‘I don’t think it’s a question of trust,’ he said. ‘I mean, from what I’ve seen, one wrong move and you’d break me in half. Not that I would. It’s just, well – it wouldn’t seem right. I don’t think I …’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, again. ‘We’ll be fully dressed. Would you be this prissy about us sharing the same pile of straw?’
‘No, but …’
‘Then it’s settled. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll put a bolster down the middle of the bed – okay.’
Stiles gave in. ‘Okay’
She lay down on the top of the covers with her head propped up in her hand. ‘Mmm. I love the smell of cigars – it’s a proper smell for a man. You smell of cigars all the time, you know. Cigars and old leather, better than poncey after-shave or that lieutenant of yours,
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