By the steep wall of the Great Stairs, where the Entry Hall opens up on the Short Hallway, there's a merry little village known as Stairside. A series of ranches and farms run parallel to the stairs here, represented in an articulated system of tall houses, stables, and paddocks. The town has grown over the years, and in the peace following the Household War has experienced a marked self sufficiency.

Mice clamber about in pens; one gnaws upon a post only to receive a stern shout from the nearby Boggart man, bent-backed and sweaty already in the soft morning light, as he sweeps the heavy dust of the region from before his squat home. Following the avenue into the city of Stairside, the road passes by a hotel, a hunter den clamoring in preparation for the lengthy foot voyage up the Great Stair, and a caravan coming up the Short Hallway from the Basement of Sluagh.

The Sluagh, in their tall turbans and dust-whipped garb, unload crate after crate of good onto the open ground of the Stairside market, under the jealous and suspicious eye of the native Boggart farmers as they open their morning stalls for the market as well as the inquisitory and ever-invasive gaze of a relaxed squad of Fairy Soldiers bearing the armor and coats of the Great Imperial Army as they adopt casual patrols through the area. Life in Stairside was awakening to this morning, but somewhere in the town a cry goes afoul and a spark approaches the powdered keg...


This is where our Littles find themselves on this fine morning; their reasons are their own, of course, but our intrepid adventurers find themselves at a table together by quirk of fate and the will of the Forces, after they awake in the morning and emerge from their rooms.

The main hall is a warm room here in the Blue Rat. A dozen Littles of all types mingle and discuss quiet news over their breakfasts, with Old Abbott, the innkeeper, manning the bark and cleaning glasses with a meticulous and orderly dedication. The aged Boggart was thick of beard, though it had gone grey by now, and bald of head as he converses with patrons who seek his charms. Every few minutes a young woman with thick, curly, hair tightly bound into a ponytail with string comes bustling out of the back kitchens with a tray laden with drinks and foods; on this morning, she hastily deposits mugs of water before Your Littles before taking initial drink requests and disappearing into the back once more. This is Elizabeth, Old Abbott's grand daughter and chief help here at the Blue Rat.

Go ahead and describe their morning routine, or otherwise how your Little finds themselves at breakfast on this morning. Decide if this is your Little's first time meeting and the circumstances of their relationship, and engage in roleplay for the time being. Additionally, if this is not your first stay in the Blue Rat, feel free to detail how your character feels about Old Abbott or Elizabeth as well as if they are on friendly terms.

"And as we stood amidst the smouldering wreckage of the caravan, I figured that nothing further needed to be said. And so I dropped my traveling nail and the last of my plates at his feet, gave him the slightest of nods, and made my way into town." Bartholomew concluded the recount of his latest adventures to the three other littlings he was sharing a table with.

"My my, you've certainly had an eventful journey this time around." One of the two other Boggarts at the table said.

"Eventful?" Bartholomew asked with an incredulous grin. "Well I suppose that's one way of putting it, Marian." Bartholomew turned his gaze away from his wife then, and looked to his daughter and her employer. "But my travels weren't nearly as eventful as our Margerie's work with the Detective here down in the Basement." He beamed proudly at the younger of the two Boggart women sitting with him.

Bartholomew had been closely following the news regarding the series of crimes in Viletia that his daughter's employer had been solving ever since he'd first seen a picture of Margerie in the papers. Given their family's past, Bartholomew had been slightly caught off guard by his daughter's decision to become a Detective's assistant. But he'd supported the choice none the less, and he was glad he had. Knowing that she was out there helping to do some good in the House rather than following in his footsteps never failed to put a smile on his face whenever he read about it.

A hasty deposit of water mugs shook Bartholomew from his thoughts as he lifted his head to regard the innkeeper's grand daughter as she took initial drink orders. Bartholomew had a great deal of respect for Old Abbott's lot. When the Restoration Pact had been signed and the Boggarts had finally been allowed back into the house, Old Abbott had been the one sent to confront the bandit clan Bartholomew had grown up in.

Up until that point, the clan had allied themselves with the Slaugh, acting as guides and mercenaries to the invading force in exchange for a chance to do more damage to the Faeries and Sprites than they had ever been capable of on their own. But when Old Abbot arrived, all that changed. Through charisma, intelligence, prowess, or underhandedness, the old Boggart had convinced, debated, coerced, or tricked much of the clan into joining Hearthworth's host against the Slaugh they once aided or simply laying down their arms and taking no further part in the conflict. But while most chose to leave, one way or another, some chose to continue their way of life. Bartholomew and his family were among that number, in no small part due to his own persuasion.

That last part was something he would hate himself for until the day he died.

After the Battle of Quillwaters, where he had learned the hard way the true cost of clinging to old hatreds, Bartholomew was surprised to find a friend in Old Abbott when the two met again in the battle's aftermath. It had been with Old Abbott's help that Bartholomew and his family escaped the shadow of their past to start afresh with new names and a new life.

Bartholomew was once more pulled from his thoughts when Marian nudged him, making the old fool realize that he was the last person Elizabeth was waiting on an order from now. Having arrived in Stairside skint broke and having lacked the opportunity to change that between then and now, Bartholomew could afford nothing more than the complimentary water he'd already been provided. And so he waved the girl off with a simple "I'm fine with just the water, thanks."

Elizabeth was a nice littling as well. That was pretty much the sum of his knowledge regarding the girl. Staying in the Entry Hall for too long had never been something the old Boggart could bring himself to do. Too many painful reminders. Which was why he traveled a lot despite his old age. As a result, he'd never really gotten to know the rest of Old Abbott's family all that well.

"Right then. Enough about me." Bartholomew said to Margerie and the Slaugh Detective once Elizabeth had moved off. "Tell me about these cases in Viletia. I only know what the papers have mentioned, so I'm curious to hear the stories straight from the stars of the show."

While in the midst of a mystery, you'd find fewer more animated or verbose than Artemisia Beltrami. The detective's thoughts were never calm at the best of times, but when stuck on a particularly difficult puzzle, they were practically a whirlwind. Her body would jerk around like a marionette as it struggled to keep up with her line of thinking, and words would pour from her mouth in a stream of consciousness as she exposited on whatever poor souls (usually Margerie) happened to be around at the time. Of course, in classic detective fashion, she saved her best theatrics for the denouement: the moment when she would explain how the crime had been done, who had done it and why.

Unfortunately, for Artie, in this moment, she was not in the midst or the end of a mystery, but a social encounter where she desperately trying to make a good impression on the immediate family of her most cherished (and longest enduring) employee.

Needless to say, she was very much not in her element. She'd been unusually quiet during a lot of the conversation, her usually sharp focus dulled as she did her best to listen to the story told by Margerie's father, but instead found her mind wandering in several directions simultaneously. Her eyes kept darting around the room, surveying the other customers around the Blue Rat inn, constantly wondering to herself "What's your story?" and her right hand started tapping more and more rapidly on the table as minutes went past.

Margerie must have noticed this because she gave Artemisia a hard but discreet kick under the table as Bartholomew was drawing to the end of his story, and the sluagh's focus quickly snapped back to her present company, just in time for the ordering of drinks and to hear the older boggart's question.

"Oh err, yes... you wouldn't happen to have warm drinks here, like, say a mug of tea?" she asked Elizabeth. "If not, err, just water is fine for me too."

"I'll have something a little stronger," Margerie said, which earned her a raised eyebrow from Artie. "What? I'm on holiday."

Artie gave a small sigh before turning her attention back to Bartholomew. "Anyhow, err, cases in Viletia. Yes," she said, and then paused for a moment as she had sort through her tangle of thoughts. While she normally remembered these things quite clearly, the unfamiliar surroundings seem to be muddying her mind.

Evidently, she must have taken to long, before Margerie chimed in again. "Tell them about the one with the missing opera singer," she said. "That's always a good one."

"Oh, yes, that one," Artie said, the fog in her mind dissipating somewhat thanks to her assistant's prompt. She began regaling the story of how she, on one of their less busy weeks, decided to surprise Margerie and a friend of hers (who Artemisia kept misnaming much Margerie's chagrin) with tickets to a famous opera, where the main star mysteriously vanished mid-performance.

Literally. As in, she was meant to disappear in a puff of smoke at just before the interval, and she did. Then the rest of the troupe couldn't seem locate her afterwards, meaning the rest of the performance was promptly cancelled as everyone scrambled to find out what in the House had just happened.

"It was genuinely one of my most interesting cases," Artemisia continued. "And one where I frequently found myself stumped. It was actually your daughter's keen attention to detail that helped me more than once during that time."

"Oh stop," said Margerie with false bashfulness, giving her boss a light, playful slap on the shoulder.

Well, it was meant to be light and playful. Since Margerie was a good deal stronger than her twig of an employer, everyone could see Artie visibily wince as she made contact, though she tried her best to play it off, even as she rubbing her arm thinking 'There's going to be a bruise there tomorrow, I just know it.'

"Oh Margerie, you really must be careful with the less sturdy littlings." Marian chastised in the way that parents do when she saw Artemisia wince under the force of a playful slap delivered by a Boggart who had always had problems knowing her own strength. The older Boggart woman then turned a sympathetic eye on the Slaugh sleuth. "I do hope my daughter hasn't been making a habit of that." Marian said apologetically. "Either way, it happens enough around these parts that Old Abbott has plenty of ice packs on had for these occurrences. Just ask for one from Elizabeth when she returns and she'll have it to you as soon as she can."

"Ah you worry too much, dear." Bartholomew spoke up. "Slaugh can shrug off much worse than an overly exuberant slap on the shoulder. More likely it just surprised her a little." The old bandit then turned his gaze back towards his daughter and her employer. "Well, don't keep us in suspense." He said encouragingly. "What in the House had just happened?"

The conversations within the Blue Rat are warm today. Nearby Littles debate the finer points of this season's mouse breeding, whilst a particularly surly Salamander a few tables over declares, a little too loudly for politeness, that the journey down the great stair trolley was certainly superior to the destinations below. There's a brief moment of harrumphs and guffaws, before the slight is brushed away by Elizabeth's appearance in the room bearing another tray of drinks.

"That's some bold language before breakfast is even finished!" She calls out to the Salamander, who wilts beneath her strong glare. Old Abbot looks to his granddaughter with some concern, his ceaseless glass washing coming to a temporary doldrum. Elizabeth sweeps into the dining area and approaches our Little's table of Force deigned significance. She holds the myriad drinks up effortlessly, as she swiftly places them down before their respective clients.

"'ere we go, mug of water, hot tea, and for the miss we have a splash of cider." Elizabeth winks. "Grandfather won't mind an early opening of the keg, eh?"

She sweeps away at that, visiting a few other tables, before returning to the bar and making a few quiet words with Old Abbot, who has since returned to his never-ending task. At this time a level of excitement almost anyone of good sense would wish to avoid spontaneously sparks to life.

The door opens with immense verve.

In marches a squad of Fairies, each in the immaculate uniform of the Great Imperial Army; one of which, as is dramatically necessary, lacks a helmet. Perhaps this is because it would greatly disturb the hairstyle he bears of a rather dramatic 'swoosh' of swept aside hair atop shorter shaved sides. Perhaps infuriatingly for the ruckus he is starting, the Fairy in question is a rather handsome young man- if taciturn by appearance, with a stern upper lip and a critical eye. He makes a sweeping gesture with an arm, unfolding an official decree in his hand and sweeping it around the room as if its mere appearance would instill its significance to those present- though this was hardly a satisfactory showing for anyone to truly read the parchment at all. The only sensible content anyone would be able to make out is the elaborate and formal header and filigree of the document.

"Start on the right. Keep a man on the door." He declares to his soldiers. He hands the parchment to one of them, and smooths his jacket down his torso. "Please have your travel paperwork on hand, be orderly and quiet and we will be out of your hair in short order. I am lieutenant Francois Guillaume D'Arcy, here under orders from Gamekeeper General Jean Claude Van-Claude of Mount Guignol. Remain seated."

At the bar, Old Abbot visibly seems stunned. He places his glasses down, and coughs into a fist, clearing his throat. He seems to draw himself up-- But it is Elizabeth who shouts;

"Lieutenant D'Arcy!" She musters an immense chastisement from her personage. "This is insulting, your attitude is apalling, and you have no right to disrupt our morning like this!"

"And you, miss Elizabeth, should remain quiet to avoid making a scene. This is official business."...

And in blistering pace, D'Arcy crosses the room to the bar- where Elizabeth appears to be trying for the House's record in talking over an investigating officer in concurrent speech. Their words mingle and blend into an incoherent blur of discourse, one which Old Abbot himself seems bewildered at. Without a doubt there was some history to this reception between the two. The specifics, however, are difficult to discern.

Attempting to intervene or otherwise understand what exactly they are arguing about will require a Basic Success on whatever method is attempted; a two of a kind. Feel free to be as simple or as creative as you wish, if this be your intended direction of action.

Otherwise, our Littles witness as the soldiery begin to systematically maneuver about the tavern, checking people's paperwork and identification, as well as searching about the legs of the tables and beneath the chairs.

A booming bellow cut through the arguing like a razor blade cuts through rat hide. All present fell silent and turned towards the source of the sound. Any trace of Bartholomew's previous joviality had vanished without a trace as he fixed the two offending littlings with an intimidating glare, honed over three long decades of terrorizing the House into a visage that only the bravest hearts could hope to face without skipping a beat.

"I came here today... to enjoy a peaceful breakfast with my family... Something I don't get to do all that often, mind you... And to finally meet someone that my daughter has been speaking highly of in her letters home." Bartholomew growled, his every breath coming now in ragged angry huffs. "It's bad enough that I must weather this unexpected infestation of Flies... But now you would have me endure your bothersome bickering too? No. I think not... You." Bartholomew pointed at D'Arcy. "Do whatever the fuck it is you came here to do, then take your swarm and piss off... And you." He turned his finger on Elizabeth. "Bring me and mine some breakfast and get me a jug of the Triple X. I am too hungry, and am I far too sober to be dealing with this rat shit... Well? Why are you two just standing there? MOVE!"

Bartholomew bellows, and silence sweeps over the inn. Old Abbot chuckles to himself, but remains quiet and out of the affair in an official capacity. He steps to the back, and returns in swift order to lay a hefty tankard before Bart.

"Food's cookin'. Be out in a jiff." He gruffly murmured, which seems to shatter the imposed illusion of silence. The soldiery continue their searching, and D'arcy clears his throat and brushes down his coat once more.

"The gentleman is right." He says with a sharp look at Elizabeth. "There is much to be done."

"You're blaming a Little." Elizabeth cuts quietly, her voice carrying only over to Our Littles out of convenience and sharpness.

"It makes sense." D'arcy does not meet Elizabeth's gaze. "The damage that was caused. Must have been a Boggart."

"You're insane. It could have been any manner of beast."

"But it was a Boggart." D'arcy maintains. Elizabeth seems about to speak, before shaking her head and running into the back. D'arcy nods once she leaves, adopting the air of one who has achieved some kind of...victory? Then he turns to Bart and his companions to continue. He approaches their table and brandishes the warrant from before, displaying it to the table.

"I am in search of a thief. Several heads of livestock have been stolen. Damage reports indicate sufficient reason to suspect a Boggart. If you're good, innocent, folk then you have nothing to fear and my men will be out of your hair in short order."

He clears his throat, eyeing Bart, then his family, and finally Artemisia directly. His next words come curt, interrogative, but also keenly without any sort of prejudice. It was a shocking thing to be sure, but not one of some inborn cruelty.

"You lot aren't the thieves I'm looking for, hm?"

The direct scrutiny of a Grand Imperial Lieutenant was a withering thing, indeed.

REACT with Will+Society, looking for a Basic Success. Failure will render you SCARED for the remainder of the scene; such is the weight of D'arcy's authority

"Oh thank you!" Artemisia paused in her storytelling to take a sip of her newly delivered tea. She blowed on the liquid's surface before taking a very loud slurp. "So where was I?" she asked once she'd placed the cup back on the table.

"The show was cancelled during the interval," Margerie prompted. "Due to the star singer being spirited away."

"Yes, that!" Artemisia said, pointing a claw at her assistant before turning back to Bartholomew and Marian. "Obviously, being the first at the scene before any sort of law enforcement or paparazzi, it was imperative we got access to the backstage area for anyone else. See, while I appreciate the speculative efforts of others, it is unfortunately not uncommon to find certain aspects compromised by less talented investigators long before I've had a chance to-" Just as she was hitting her stride, the squad of fairy soldiers made their way through the doors and began exercising their authority upon the inn staff and patrons. The words froze in Artemisia's throat, and she suddenly looked a little sheepish, hoping none of them have overheard what she was saying.

She wasn't the only one either. The moment Bartholomew started shouting, Margerie also adopted an uncomfortable expression (not to mention, her cheeks starting to flush slightly when her father mentioned the praise she had had for Artie in her letters). The younger Boggart made a not-inconspicuous effort to hide behind her cider as the conversation continued.

It wasn't long before Lieutenant D'Arcy made his way over their table, in which he began scrutinizing each member of Artie's company before his eyes landed on Artie herself. Flustered and more than a little worried that his attention on them was because of her, she quickly tried to speak. "Oh, err, I can assure you, ah, sir, that neither me nor my company are involved in whatever it is you and you, ah, fine officers are investigating." She leans on the table in attempt to appear casual. "Err, if you don't mind me asking, because I couldn't help overhearing, what exactly makes you so certain the perpetrator you are searching for is a boggart?"

An annoyed grunt escaped Bartholomew's clenched teeth when Old Abbott disrupted his intimidating display. The old bandit did no more than that, annoyed though he was, since the innkeeper had brought him a formidable tankard and promised that food was on the way. Bartholomew took up the drink and drained a third of it in a matter of seconds. As he paused to lower the tankard and let out a satisfied "Ahh.", the aging Boggart felt a hand gently grip his shoulder. "You're slipping, Bartholomew." His wife's voice came low and concerned from beside him.

"We'll that is to be expected." Bartholomew said with a shrug of his free shoulder, too engrossed in his drink to be aware of the worry. "I'm getting on in my years, dear. I can't be fierce and frightening forever." He raised his tankard for another drink, but was stopped by one hand over his drink pushing it back down on the table and another hand on his chin turning his head to face the owner of the hands.

"That's not what I mean, my love." Marian said to her husband, the man now fully aware of his wife's concern. "You're slipping, Bartholomew."

Bartholomew took a moment to fully digest the true meaning of those words. Then he sighed and bowed his head in admission. "I suppose you're right." He said.

"Have you paid him a visit since you arrived?" Marian asked, something that caused both other Boggarts at the table to wince for reasons not readily apparent.

"I... No. I haven't. Not yet." Bartholomew said. "I was planning to go see him after breakfast."

"I'll come with you." Marian said as her hand left her husband's shoulder. "I've been meaning to visit him too, but I keep having trouble finding the time. Mouse ranching is busy work."

"I can imagi-" Was as far as Bartholomew was able to get before noticing the Lieutenant heading towards their table. "Does this fucking Fly have a death wish or something?" The old bandit growled in Hearthish.

Bartholomew felt the old urges rise up within him. Urges that only strengthened when his fight or flight instincts kicked in as D'Arcy started making accusations. Before he could do anything rash though, he was forced to shut one eye momentarily as a ray of sunlight glinted off his tankard and into his eye. That reminder of the tankard's presence further reminded Bartholomew that you didn't need anything too grand to throw off a show of saber rattling. And so he simply leaned over the side of the table, spat on the Fairy's boot, and returned to his drink as Artemisia began talking.

D'arcy's critical eye rests on Artemisia. It bores into her. It then sweeps over the table and seems to, wisely, disregard Margerie and Mariam. Bartholomew receives the scrutiny of his gaze-

And then D'arcy looks down at his boot. He tilts his head. His wings flutter once, then grow still. His head snaps up to Bart and holds his gaze.

"Madam," He addresses Artemisia despite staring coolly at Bart. "If you wish to be of assistance and learn additional details, you and your company are free to come down to the garrison. Your lot certainly isn't cowardly enough to be my thief. Public is not for the sharing of critical details, however. The sooner this can be solved, the sooner we can all return to our pleasant days."

Even as D'arcy says this, murmurs go around the tavern. Seemingly, loose lipped guards have already shared the key details; 'Mouse thief', 'Sluagh embassy', and 'lots of damage'. Elizabeth, in a crucially timely manner, appears behind D'arcy with a laden tray of food. Wordlessly she drops the tray onto the table, causing D'arcy to flutter back as stray food splatter comes his way. Elizabeth shoots him a nasty look, and to this one he seems utterly bewildered. His attention is stolen entirely by Elizabeth as she swivels away from the table and makes a show of disregarding the fairy lieutenant.

D'arcy shakes his head, then makes a gesture with his hand as he flutters noisily towards the door.

"This is a waste of time, we're going back to the Garrison if anyone has any details or concerns they wish to contribute to our search."

And as D'arcy exits the front, Elizabeth slams her hands onto the bar-- startling poor old Abbot in the process as it shakes under her Boggart strength-- before rushing with some haste out the back. Old Abbot looks as if he's about to follow her into the kitchen, but has to turn and catch a few bottles that had nearly toppled in Elizabeth's display of annoyance.

Bartholomew spent the rest of the encounter pointedly ignoring the Fairy Lieutenant, his gaze only ever straying from his drink to give reassuring glances to his wife and daughter or to give Elizabeth a thankful nod when she arrived with food. Though while he wasn't looking very far, the old bandit had his ears open and listening to every detail he could pick up from among the whispers of the crowd. From what he could piece together, a mouse thief was on the loose. One whose thefts left quite a bit of collateral damage in their wake. One who was bold enough to steal from the Slaugh even.

"Do you know anything about this mouse thief?" Bartholomew asked his wife.

Marian shook her head. "The Faeries have been trying to keep it quiet so far." She replied. "Not a word could be pried out of them and all offers of aid have been politely yet firmly rebuffed."

"Of course they would be. Prideful buggers." Bartholomew said. "...If they're changing tack now though, that must mean they're getting desperate. And desperate Flies do tend to give generously in our experience, don't they?" The old bandit gave a dark chuckle that was swiftly cut off by another nudge from his wife.

"None of that at the table." Marian decreed. "Besides, weren't we going to pay him a visit after breakfast?"

"We are. We are. We still are." Bartholomew said, hands raised placatingly. "Though I'm thinking this mouse thief should be dealt with before it can cause anymore trouble. And hey! Once the thief's been dealt with, I'll have a nice tidy sum to buy a little something for when we go see him, yeah?"

Marian eyed her husband for a moment before sighing and shaking her head at the floor. "Just be careful, ok?" She requested.

"Of course dear." Bartholomew said softly, before turning to the food that had been brought to the table. "Now then. Let's see to this breakfast!" With that said, Bartholomew eagerly dug in.

It took all of Artemisia's composure not to shrink under D'arcy's gaze. In her line of work, she'd crossed paths with a number of other investigators, some more willing to work with her than others. More often than not, she found herself stepping on their toes, and she'd gotten used to their resentment and their withering stares, to the point that most of the time she wasn't even able to register it.

But D'arcy's stare? Oh, she was definitely able to perceive that, and it made her quite aware that she hadn't built up enough rapport with this individual to start throwing her weight around.

She was quiet for a long moment, even after he left, at which point Margerie looked over at her over her glass. "Nice job there, boss," she said drily.

"I don't really have an excuse for how poorly handled that," Artemisia said, doing her best to avoid eye contact with everyone else at her table.

"You sure don't," Margerie responded. She smiled slightly before turning her gaze back towards her parents, watching them as they talked amongst themselves. "Hey, if you're planning getting involved, father, Artemisia could always come along. I promise she's better at spotting clues than making conversation."

Artemisia shot her assistant a look, but didn't say anything otherwise. Instead she simply began tucking into her breakfast, still a little shaken and more than a little gloomy.

"Hmmm." Bartholomew hummed at his daughter's suggestion. The situation did seem well suited for a detective. But from the looks of things, the detective herself wasn't keen on getting involved. And as much as he enjoyed working with Slaugh, he enjoyed earning a bigger cut of the reward money more. But how to keep Artemisia from getting involved without disappointing his daughter. Bartholomew glanced around in search of an idea and found it when his eyes landed on the door leading into the kitchen.

"Maybe so." Bartholomew said after swallowing another bite of breakfast. "But in my old age, I am fairly certain I'd just slow her down. That Elizabeth girl though... If she is anything like her grandfather, she won't be content to just stay in that kitchen while other littlings solve the crimes. Perhaps while I'm off keeping that Imp from causing any more trouble, you two could help the girl figure all this nonsense out."

Artemisia glanced over at Bartholomew as he spoke, squinting slightly at the older boggart. After a moment, she said, "Yes, I suppose we could do that." She nods, before looking over at Margerie. "You know Elizabeth, right?"

"Only a little," Margerie said. "At most we're acquaintances, I'd say."

"Well, that's more than I have," Artemisia said. "We can go talk to her after we've eaten. She might have her own information she can share on this situation, information she wasn't keen to share with authorities." She grimaced. "Which given how... strict they are, they can understand."

"If that's what you want to do," Margerie said. She then began tucking into her own food.

Once he had finished his meal and emptied his tankard, Bartholomew rose from his seat, bent down to peck his wife on the cheek, straightened up again, and turned to regard the table as a whole. "I shall be off then." The old Bogart declared. "I wish you well in your endeavours." With that said, Bartholomew made for the exit.