"What makes you think Lord Insiadis, won't gut you like a dab when he sees you?" Violin's heliotrope eyes regarded Lux coolly, her dirtwater hair in her eyes again.
They were just cresting the bridge at Seventh Crossing. The hawkers and peddlers of Widdershins Mark were out earlier than usual; there would be no opportunity to sell on the holiday tomorrow. Violin's pale face held its practiced boredom. It was unlikely they might be regarded much less overheard in the mercantile din, but one never knew
Violin is an attractive if somewhat disheveled nineteen year-old lass. She is a new Resistance member. You are on your way to see Lord Insiadis right now.