“I still don’t know about this,” Scylla mutters as she hitches her frosty hounds to a post, careful to give them reassuring scratches. “Are you absolutely sure that I look alright?” Her hands lift up again, fidgeting with her hair beneath her hood.

“Positive.” Warwick does his part to clean up, collapsing the dogsled they rode in on and propping it against the same post. “Besides, I’ll be right here with you, and I’m scruffy enough to make you look like royalty.”

Priscylla opens her mouth as if to respond, but changes her mind, nodding firmly as she steps back onto the road. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.” She shoves her hands in the pockets of her dress to disguise their shaking.

Warwick can hardly blame her for nerves; even with the advantage of his sterling reputation, going out and meeting people is terrifying more often than not. Had he chosen any trade not dependent on talking to people and helping them feel better, he could easily see himself in a similar position to Priscylla.

“Visit the apothecary, pick up produce, go home.” A few steps ahead of him, Scylla recites the plan under her breath. “Hmm. Maybe we’d have a little bit of extra time before sundown.” She looks back, speaking a hair louder in Warwick’s direction. “Would you be up for an early supper in town?”

Warwick gestures with open hands. “I don’t see why not.”

Scylla nods sharply before turning back to the road, watching the people on the streets. “Apothecary. Produce. Early supper. Home. That’s only four things.” Her eyes dart back and forth, staring down anyone who gives her more than a glance. “Apothecary. Produce. Early supper. Home.”

Where Warwick’s reputation shines, Priscylla’s molders. She’s said time and again that she doesn’t care how others see her, is proud to confuse or scare the small-minded, but watching her scan for threats on an uptown promenade draws that into harsh relief. Only a handful of people look at her like they realize who she is, and surely only a few of those would wish her ill, but… There’s not a proper guarantee that they’ll finish their business here without incident. Warwick picks up the pace a bit, walking shoulder-to-shoulder alongside Priscylla.

If she notices, she doesn’t show it. She simply maintains a firm, steady power walk for a handful of minutes before abruptly turning on her heel. “This is the apothecary. I would knock, but, well. You know how it is.”

The smashed planks and drywall fragments piled up on the curb give Warwick a pretty good clue how it is. He turns a practiced eye to the splintered remains of the door, mulling over how much force it would take to punch through four and a half centimeters of alder hardwood. The mental image of Mrs. Falk, abashedly listening in on their conversation, springs to mind, and it takes a few seconds of mental gymnastics to square the kindly reanimated lady with the undead juggernaut that had done this.

Priscylla notices him staring, and clicks her tongue in irritation. “Like I said, it was my mistake not giving her clearer instructions. It’s only fair that I make reparations.”

“Did somebody say reparations?” Behind Priscylla, a hulking figure steps out of the empty doorway, arms crossed. “‘Cause where I come from, if you break it you bought it.” Obviously the apothecary– if their attitude didn’t give it away, the faint stains of powder on their hands and coat certainly would.

Priscylla blanches, spinning around in a frantic whirl. “Mevre, hi! I’m so sorry about the door, I hope you weren’t inconvenienced. My… ah…” Priscylla grits her teeth as she searches for the right word. “My associate was a little too impatient, and that’s entirely my mistake.”

“Easy, easy.” The apothecary, Mevre, crosses her arms, squinting down at Priscylla. “I’m sure you’re plenty sorry. What I want is a guarantee it won’t happen again, a plan to make up for what you cost me, and a good reason that I shouldn’t cut off your supply.” She leans in close as she finishes, casting a long shadow over the witch.

This might be a new town, but Warwick knows a shakedown when he sees one. He raises a hand and steps forward, arm raised, when Priscylla cuts him off, talking fast with her face flushed red. “First of all, I’ll give my go-between precise instructions in the future. Second, I can have an enchanted door out here by next Moon’s Day. Third, I pulled an overnight shift a few months ago to make sure you had enough cough remedies for the dry season, so you owe me.” Her voice cracks on the last breath, and everyone winces.

The corner of Mevre’s mouth twitches a few times, but ultimately she throws up her hands. “Alright, fine, that’s fine. But I hope you know I’m sticking my neck out for you here.” She turns to head back inside before pausing. “And I’ll need the door by Sun Day instead.”

Priscylla grimaces. “No promises that I can do that.”

Mevre just shrugs. “Work a miracle, miracle worker. Anyhow, if you or your…” She waves a hand in Warwick’s direction. “Parole officer here need a sniffles cure, come on in. Else, I’ll see you on Sun Day. Don’t be late.” With that, she slips back through the doorway to man the registers.

Warwick hisses out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “What a perfectly ghastly penny-pincher. I’m sorry about that.”

Priscylla, after a few deep breaths of her own, gives him an odd look. “Why? That went about as well as I could have hoped for.” Something obviously occurs to her, and she kneels by the shattered wood to chant a quick charm against splinters.

“She-” Warwick babbles for a moment. “She threatened to ban you from the premises! She’s making you work over the solstice weekend to fix her stupid door!”

“Hot air and nothing more,” Priscylla chuckles, brushing off her dress as she rises. “I guarantee you that I’ll be able to do a rush job on the door, bring Mevre in to take a look at it, list off some of the embellishments that I was excited for but just couldn’t find the time, and she’ll triple the deadline because she’s a sucker for bells and whistles.” Satisfied, she turns back to the path with a swish of her skirts. “If anyone’s getting away with something here, it’s me.”

Warwick pouts, nudging at the wreckage with his boot. “I still think you deserved more courtesy.”

Priscylla laughs openly at that. “It’d be nice, I don’t doubt, but I can absolutely take care of myself.” She turns back to toss him a wink. “As precious as that knightly instinct of yours is.”

By the time Warwick can compose himself long enough to think of a response, they’re already to the grocer.