One, two. One, two.

Elodie scrubbed at the floors with the mop, imagining that she was a rower on a large ship setting out to sea. It helped distract from the callouses that were starting to break open into blisters once again. So far, Elodie had successfully hidden them from her mother—though she could only imagine what she’d say when she finally noticed.

Is it worth it, Liddie? Is it?

One, two. One, two.

Elodie swallowed back hot tears that started to rise behind her eyes. She imagined the ship again, the rocking waves, letting the trance take her away.

“Miss Elodie!”

Elodie jumped, wielding the mop as it if it were a weapon. She was secretly a little pleased with her own reflexes; perhaps she wasn’t such a failure of a soldier after all. Upon seeing who it was though, Elodie dropped the mop and laughed.

“Goodness me,” Elodie continued to let the laughter peel from her lips, the tension in her shoulders releasing with every giggle, “Torsten Mosse, you’re going to stop a girl’s heart if you’re not careful.”

No, Eldoie hadn’t forgotten his name. It was in her nature to remember such things.

Elodie wondered for a moment if she’d offended Torsten. She tilted her head to the side inquisitively, blinking, lashes fluttering over her big brown eyes. She’d heard there was a girl that had gone around cursing people. Maybe she was here and Elodie just didn’t know it. She parted he lips, about to make an inquiry when Torsten finally spoke.

Elodie only grew more perplexed. She took the purple pansies that were thrust in her direction, looking down at them then back up at Torsten.

“Othello? The gifted man?”

As if in sympathy, Elodie’s cheeks also started to turn pink. A bright smile lit her face as she looked Torsten over—sweet nervous thing that he was. His disposition was so at odds with his hyper-masculine form, which made it all the more endearing.

“A monster slayer?” Elodie teased, playing with one of the flowers in the bouquet, “My, my, aren’t you full of surprises Mister Mosse?” She paused for a moment, brow pinching together in confusion.

“Do you think it wise? He may be the champion of Nevermere but, well,” Elodie said pleasantly, “He’s a Coheedsman. You should be careful about the company you keep — lest you turn barbarian yourself.” It was a playful tease, but there was truth in it. Othello may be the ‘Champion of Nevermere’, but that hardly made him esteemed company. He was a novelty more than anything else. An exotic tool of the crown.

Elodie’s flirtatious smile slowly started to wilt the longer Torsten spoke. Her trademark indignance started to deepen the flustered blush in her cheeks. His contrarian response surprised her. Elodie was right—she was sure of it—and advice had been delivered in the spirit of a friendly warning (or at least, in her view).

How could Torsten not see the value of her perspective? Did he really think that anyone would have been left to perish in the maze? That Othello was some sort of knight in shining armor? Coheedsmen were barbarians; it was the generally accepted view, and the one Elodie held herself. Even if Othello behaved himself, he was a barbarian all the same. Perhaps it was Torsten’s good heart that clouded his judgment. Or perhaps he was right: there were clearly key differences between them that she’d overlooked for his pretty face.

When Torsten stepped back, Elodie’s eyes narrowed. “I daresay you’re right,” she returned in a biting tone, switching her mop to her other hand, “If you have nothing more to say, Mister Mosse, I bid you good day. There is much work to be done.”