locals.
‘By
“your lads”
, I assume that you’re referring to the patrons at the far end of the tavern?’ said Quaint, cupping a hand to his ear. ‘It sounds like your friends are otherwise engaged. I’m afraid that you, Mr Peach, are very much on your own.’
‘I ain’t scared of an old man like you,’ Peach said defiantly, despite the quivering wreck of the rest of his body.
‘My dear man, it is not
I
of whom you should be frightened,’ said Quaint with a smile, relaxing his weight from the table. ‘But my female companion here is another matter entirely.’
Peach slumped into his chair, clutching at his groin.
‘Ruby, my dear, I wonder if you would mind showing Mr Peach what I mean?’ Quaint grabbed Peach’s right hand and thrust it down hard onto the table, splaying his fingers. Peach winced, but his attention was wisely on Ruby, not Quaint.
‘Love to, Mr Q,’ Ruby said, unbuttoning the fastenings on the front of her dress. Not removing her gaze from the landlord, she slid her nimble fingers down into the shadows, and produced a slender silver dagger from a hidden scabbard in her cleavage. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, Ruby flipped the knife up into the air, catching it perfectly by its point on her fingertip. Then, holding her palm flat with the knife upon it, she gently flexed her fingers, and the knife rocked in a see-saw motion before rotating in a complete circle. Peach’s eyes were mesmerised by the display, as the knife almost took on a life of its own. With a deft flick upwards, Ruby tossed the knife high into the air once again. It fell in slow motion; landing with a dull thud in between Peach’s outstretched fingers, a fraction of an inch from his skin. That wasthe second time that night that Ruby had nearly caused Peach to swallow his tongue. The landlord watched the knife like a man entranced as it swayed like a metronome half an inch into the wooden table.
Quaint’s booming voice snapped him back into the room. ‘Miss Marstrand here was trained by a remarkably gifted German fellow named Viktor Dzierzanowski, arguably the best knife-smith in the modern world, and a favourite of Prince Albert himself, I understand,’ Quaint said, absentmindedly picking at his fingernails. ‘Ruby was Viktor’s prize pupil, and she can skewer a bluebottle at twenty paces.’
Ruby shrugged, coyly pretending to hide her embarrassment. ‘Well, that’s awfully sweet of you to say, Mr Q, but I have to admit, I
am
a bit rusty. Perhaps Mr Peach would appreciate a more…
practical
demonstration. Tell me, what shall I aim for -his ears or his balls?’ she asked innocently.
The nervous barman nearly fainted on the spot. His forehead was swamped with a sudden flurry of fresh, speckled perspiration and his lower lip quivered like a fish on an angler’s line.
‘W-W-What did she j-j-just say?’ he stammered.
‘Ears or balls, Mr Peach, ears or balls!’ Quaint thundered. He pretended to mull over the question, closely inspecting the man’s ears, before glancing briefly down at his already tenderised groin. ‘Well, he’s got two of each, so from where I’m sitting they’re much of a much-ness, my dear. Perhaps Mr Peach has a preference.’
‘Hmm,’ Ruby said, as she plucked her knife from the table. She held it up and squinted, aiming at Peach’s head. ‘The earlobes look a bit more of a challenge, don’t you think, Mr Q? Look at them tiny little things. Like little rat ears, aren’t they? But I might miss them altogether and catch him straight in the eye, and you know how much mess
that
makes.’
Quaint enjoyed watching the colour drain from the landlord’sface. ‘Don’t remind me! You remember that poor fellow who accosted you backstage in Belgium?’
‘Gosh, yes,’ giggled Ruby. ‘I threw the knife so hard it embedded itself in the poor man’s skull and no one could pull it out! The funeral was a nightmare. They had a devil of a time finding a coffin to fit
‘By
“your lads”
, I assume that you’re referring to the patrons at the far end of the tavern?’ said Quaint, cupping a hand to his ear. ‘It sounds like your friends are otherwise engaged. I’m afraid that you, Mr Peach, are very much on your own.’
‘I ain’t scared of an old man like you,’ Peach said defiantly, despite the quivering wreck of the rest of his body.
‘My dear man, it is not
I
of whom you should be frightened,’ said Quaint with a smile, relaxing his weight from the table. ‘But my female companion here is another matter entirely.’
Peach slumped into his chair, clutching at his groin.
‘Ruby, my dear, I wonder if you would mind showing Mr Peach what I mean?’ Quaint grabbed Peach’s right hand and thrust it down hard onto the table, splaying his fingers. Peach winced, but his attention was wisely on Ruby, not Quaint.
‘Love to, Mr Q,’ Ruby said, unbuttoning the fastenings on the front of her dress. Not removing her gaze from the landlord, she slid her nimble fingers down into the shadows, and produced a slender silver dagger from a hidden scabbard in her cleavage. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, Ruby flipped the knife up into the air, catching it perfectly by its point on her fingertip. Then, holding her palm flat with the knife upon it, she gently flexed her fingers, and the knife rocked in a see-saw motion before rotating in a complete circle. Peach’s eyes were mesmerised by the display, as the knife almost took on a life of its own. With a deft flick upwards, Ruby tossed the knife high into the air once again. It fell in slow motion; landing with a dull thud in between Peach’s outstretched fingers, a fraction of an inch from his skin. That wasthe second time that night that Ruby had nearly caused Peach to swallow his tongue. The landlord watched the knife like a man entranced as it swayed like a metronome half an inch into the wooden table.
Quaint’s booming voice snapped him back into the room. ‘Miss Marstrand here was trained by a remarkably gifted German fellow named Viktor Dzierzanowski, arguably the best knife-smith in the modern world, and a favourite of Prince Albert himself, I understand,’ Quaint said, absentmindedly picking at his fingernails. ‘Ruby was Viktor’s prize pupil, and she can skewer a bluebottle at twenty paces.’
Ruby shrugged, coyly pretending to hide her embarrassment. ‘Well, that’s awfully sweet of you to say, Mr Q, but I have to admit, I
am
a bit rusty. Perhaps Mr Peach would appreciate a more…
practical
demonstration. Tell me, what shall I aim for -his ears or his balls?’ she asked innocently.
The nervous barman nearly fainted on the spot. His forehead was swamped with a sudden flurry of fresh, speckled perspiration and his lower lip quivered like a fish on an angler’s line.
‘W-W-What did she j-j-just say?’ he stammered.
‘Ears or balls, Mr Peach, ears or balls!’ Quaint thundered. He pretended to mull over the question, closely inspecting the man’s ears, before glancing briefly down at his already tenderised groin. ‘Well, he’s got two of each, so from where I’m sitting they’re much of a much-ness, my dear. Perhaps Mr Peach has a preference.’
‘Hmm,’ Ruby said, as she plucked her knife from the table. She held it up and squinted, aiming at Peach’s head. ‘The earlobes look a bit more of a challenge, don’t you think, Mr Q? Look at them tiny little things. Like little rat ears, aren’t they? But I might miss them altogether and catch him straight in the eye, and you know how much mess
that
makes.’
Quaint enjoyed watching the colour drain from the landlord’sface. ‘Don’t remind me! You remember that poor fellow who accosted you backstage in Belgium?’
‘Gosh, yes,’ giggled Ruby. ‘I threw the knife so hard it embedded itself in the poor man’s skull and no one could pull it out! The funeral was a nightmare. They had a devil of a time finding a coffin to fit
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