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Colson a few nodded to him genially. One man called out “All right, Patty?”

They now stared at me openly, and I chose to allocate their quizzical expressions to the oddity of an unfamiliar face in town, rather than the possibility that they knew exactly who I was.

The racket within the pub was such that I’d rarely heard before. The walls were too close, the ceiling too low to bracket all these people standing shoulder to shoulder.

The same woman as before stood behind the bar, shouting, “Beer only! Beer only at meetings, you bunch of louts! I’m not pourin’ any fuckin’ whiskey with this many in a room!

Mind your manners!” And so the pints were meted out by the staff at terrific speed.

Everywhere I looked, glasses sailed overheard, finding tabletops and greedy hands.

Patrick cut through the crowd easily. Some patted him on the shoulder, but Patrick stopped for no one. He pulled me along at his side, and his hand gripped so tightly I almost complained.

The men watched with interest. The women looked on with disdain.

“He’s got a bird on his arm,” someone muttered, none too discreetly. “She looks right familiar, don’t she?”

“That’s the Charmer,” another said. “Caused a bloody earthquake in the market today. Didn’t you hear?”

“Shit. Is that really her ?”

An old and familiar dread climbed my throat. “They know who I am,” I whispered to Patrick, my voice wavering.

He turned and glared down at me. “ Now you’re scared?” he asked. “Where’s that clever mouth gone?”

My face heated. “I suppose I needn’t worry. You’ll just flay them within an inch of their lives if they come too close.”

“Ah,” Patrick said, dropping my hand. “So you do understand.” He turned and nodded to the door that would lead to the stairwell. “If you don’t want me defendin’ your honor, you can head on up to that bed you mentioned us sharing.”

My collar felt suddenly too tight. “I suspect my honor has never entered your mind.”

“Oh, it has,” he said darkly. He leaned so close that his mouth hovered over my ear. “Say the word, darlin’, and I’ll carry you up those stairs.”

I could see the pulse in his throat. His scent corralled me.

“You’re an arrogant fuckin’ bastard, you know that?” I muttered contemptuously, vowels trailing.

“I am,” he admitted, backing away an inch, but only so much as to look me in the eye when he spoke. “Or perhaps I just like invokin’ that Scurry tongue of yours. It comes out when you’re mad.”

I aimed a quick jab at his stomach, which he caught easily.

“Lord,” he muttered, fingers slipping around my hand again.

“We need to teach you to fight properly, darlin’.

Surely, they breed quicker hands in Scurry.

” He gave another of those barely suppressed smiles, the ones that he’d failed to fight back.

“Come on,” he said, turning to the table before us.

He slapped a hand on the shoulder of none other than Scottie, who stood the moment he turned and spied Patrick, offering him his seat.

“A full house, Pat,” he said, adjusting the vast waistline of his trousers. “We expectin’ trouble?”

Patrick gestured for me to take the seat instead. “Always expect trouble, Scottie.”

The round table hosted three other men. Two younger than me, I thought, and one older. The older one peered at me as I sat. He was large. Imposing. He sat with his legs crossed, a pipe between his cracked lips. A prominent brass-colored tooth glinted at me.

That he was a Colson was obvious. It wasn’t the eyes—they were a warm brown rather than Patrick’s blue. It was his expression. Careful, dauntless, overladen. I got the sensation I was an insect beneath glass.

“Nina Harrow, this is my older brother, Gunner,” Patrick said.

Gunner shared a look with Patrick that stretched for a long moment. “Shouldn’t she be behind a locked door somewhere?” His voice was a hoarse rendition of Patrick’s. He seemed exhausted. Irritable. Moments from rage.

Patrick merely nodded, taking a glass of nondescript liquor from the table and downing it all at once.

“She certainly should be, brother. And yet, I’ve brought her here.

” Whatever message passed between them seemed to change hands silently.

Gunner sighed, smoothed his beard with one hand and toasted me half-heartedly.

“Nice to fuckin’ meet you,” he said, then stood to leave. “I’ll be at the bar.”

I swallowed, my neck prickling uncomfortably. Perhaps it would have been wiser to go upstairs.

Next was a man with badly mussed hair and a boyish chin. His eyes quivered, unfocused, and mimicked Patrick’s in color—surely another Colson.

“Me baby brother, Donny,” Patrick gestured, taking Gunner’s abandoned seat beside him.

Donny stared past me as he spoke. “Milady,” he said, and he reached into the air, presumably for my hand. I suddenly recalled young Patrick referring to a brother who couldn’t see well. I gave the man my hand, and he kissed my knuckles.

“Glad to meet you, Donny,” I told him.

“Fuck me,” Donny said, dropping my hand abruptly. “Is she a proper lady then, brother? Sounds like an Artisan or some such.”

“She’s as proper as they come, Don,” Patrick muttered. “And she sounds like an Artisan ’cause she is one.”

Donny turned his head in my direction. “Scottie brought you down the tunnel then, did he?”

I frowned at the man in question. “Something like that.”

Scottie took a large swill of beer and grimaced as he swallowed. “Sorry about the knock to your noggin, hen,” he said, then looked sideways to Patrick for approval.

Patrick’s jaw ticked, and the big man put his drink on the table and looked down into his lap.

“I’m Briggs,” said the only other occupant of the table. He was a tall man with a mop of shockingly red hair and a friendly disposition. He stood to shake my hand and offered a genuine smile. I nodded to him. “So, then,” I said to the group at large. “You’re Patrick’s browbeaters, are you?”

They each stilled completely in the act of lounging or drinking and stared at me, speechless. Then Donny broke, snorting into his glass. Scottie followed, then Briggs, and finally Patrick.

“What tales have you been tellin’ her?” Donny asked Patrick. “Ain’t you s’posed to be convertin’ her to our side?”

Patrick’s eyes met mine. I hoped he couldn’t see me swallow reflexively. “She’ll come round,” he said simply, assuredly.

“So, what are you then, Nina Harrow?” Donny continued. He had Patrick’s devilish charm, his confidence, but he was boyishly limp-limbed and languid, unburdened by the same duty his brother was.

I looked furtively to those patrons closest, lowered my voice, and said, “A Charmer.” I did not elaborate as to the medium.

“Blimey. Another one, Pat?”

Patrick merely took a deep drag, but my attention darted between them, perplexed. “Another one?”

“Pardon,” Donny continued, ignoring me. “But I don’t give a figgy for your station. I meant what are you? Are you beautiful? Married? Someone tell me if I should be romancin’ her—”

“Not unless you want to spend the night in a canal, Donny,” Patrick said evenly.

“Ha!” Scottie barked. “He couldn’t charm a fish if he were a worm.”

Donny scowled. “Just so you know,” he said to me, finding my hand on the table, “I’ve got much more than a worm. It’s more the size of a—”

“Shut the fuck up, Donny,” Patrick groaned, stubbing out his cigarette. “You said you were goin’ after the lads from now on.”

“That’s not true. I’m happy to tip my cap at anythin’—”

“God almighty. Let’s get this debacle over with,” Patrick said, standing abruptly.

“But it’s not half seven, Patty,” Briggs said, leaning back to view an old grandfather clock by the wall, its glass cracked.

Patrick looked out over the packed pub. I followed his sights, to where a woman was beginning to climb to a tabletop and two men were tussling, though the lack of space made them unable to do more than grab each other’s ears.

The piano playing had ceased so that it could be pushed to the wall and allow more room.

“Close enough,” he said. Then he walked to the bar. I watched him talk briefly with the woman pouring pints from a tapped keg. I saw her shoulders rise and fall on a sigh, and then she dragged a large brass bell from beneath the counter.

As soon as the bell began to clang, the noise died.

The fighting men froze mid-headlock. The woman on the table awkwardly crouched down, unsure what to do next.

Patrick took a swig of liquor straight from a bottle, closed his eyes briefly, where few could see him galvanize himself, and then climbed atop the bar.

No one clapped. No one called to him. There was only the quiet clinking of glasses and taut anticipation.