Page 92 of Emma & Edmund

"And where is here?" Emma groggily rubbed her eyes, resting on her elbows, distantly shocked at how dark it had gotten outside. How long had she slept for it to turn to night so fully?

"An inn."

Through the slim window, the glowing lights of an inn shined into the night. The smell of ale and stew faintly permeated the carriage walls. Inside, shadows danced, moving and mingling amongst each other.

"Where did you find the money for an inn?"

Daring a glance at Molek, Emma regretted it the moment she saw his sly smile.

"Well," he began, sharp teeth shining in the cabin's lamp light, "if I am Mr. Gerald Thompson, I should have access to Mr. Gerald Thompson's wallet, shouldn't I?"

"Excuse me!" Emma shouted, scrambling up, watching Molek bounce a pouch in his palm, retrieved from God knows where. The tinkling of coins was muffled by the layers of bank notes peeking out the open mouth of the bag. "Where did you get that?"

"What do you care? Because of it, you get dinner and a bed."

As much as Emma wanted to remain indignant, offended at her family home so blatantly robbed just under her nose, she couldn't deny that he was right. She needed those luxuries, lest she show up to Belmont with a crooked neck from sleeping in the carriage and a carved-out belly.

"And just how will we go about this? It's not like you can waltz in looking like that."

She was growing to hate that toothy grin Molek donned.

"You'll go in first, of course. I'll meet you later."

"I beg your pardon!" Emma shot out of her seat, standing as much as she could in the small cabin. "I cannotdo that."

"And why not? It wouldn't be the first time you've been in a pub, will it? Do you think you're the first girl to step through that door?"

"The first one of repute, I'm sure."

The laugh Molek let out echoed in her ear.

"What reputation?" The words twisted a knife in her gut. "Besides, no one here will think of you as anything but a traveler looking for a bed. And a traveler with coin."

Taking her wrist, Molek pressed several pieces of silver into her palm, closing her fingers around the money. Emma wanted to punch him with the closed fist.

But she needed a bed and food and huddling in that coach wouldn't make those come any sooner.

"Fine," Emma spat, tucking the coin into her purse, "You're doing a horrible job of keeping me safe. But don't you dare come in until after my bath."

"And if I don't listen?" Emma's hand itched to slap his smug face.

Pushing open the carriage door, Emma didn't even bother to respond, only slamming it behind her.

Laughter and song, the clanking of glasses, and the clattering of forks burst through the front door as she pushed it open, warmth billowing from the roaring fire.

Molek was right, it wouldn't be the first time Emma had been in a pub. But it would be the first time alone, and the first time as a woman. What she wouldn't give for a cap and trousers right then, to hide away her skirts and tuck in her hair in a vain attempt to hide her womanhood. Even with Heidi's exceptional packing, she had none of those things.

The loud growl of her stomach was the only thing that forced her feet to move, sweat forming on the small of her back as the heat enveloped her.

She had worried that the crowd of the large dining room would turn to gawk at her, to perhaps even point and laugh. But besides from the wayward glance, there was no break in the individual lives, conversations, and stories being told. She was far from the only woman, some as young as her, laughing and singing along with the rest without a hint of debauchery.

The only real struggle came from actually getting to the barmaid, crowded with what felt like every single person in the town.

With enough precise movements, weaving through the wanderers, the lingerers, and the downright drunks, she was only a few people away from the worn counter. She could see the simmering pot tucked within the sun-bleached and coal-stained brick.

Above the fire, on a long-rusted nail, hung a strange piece of art. It almost looked like a child made it from twigs, fashioned into a haphazard triangle, held together at the corners with painted wood beads. From the bottom dangled a frayed tassel.

Not exactly the thing she would choose to decorate her establishment with.

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