( there's a moment — several moments — where he's visibly thrown by her response, and though he manages to stop himself from vocalising anything, his lips part into a vague approximation of 'what?'. ) My boots ( he starts eventually, tone reflecting equal measures of insult and scandal, ) are far more fond of rain, mud, and ale. Occasionally tea, but a Briton who wastes even the smallest of drops deserves to be shot, so they're yet to truly cultivate a taste for it and I've no interest in developing it. Whine, on the other hand: you're quite right. I've been in the company of far too many women with a talent for the trait that they've, in turn, developed a remarkable ability to withstand even the most contemptible of complaints. I, as it happens, am yet to do so. ( a breath and a small, dismissive wave. ) Allergic, you see. Brings me out in dreadful hives.

( it's only when she steps away and crosses his arms that humour really, truly re-enters his expression. she's small, like charlotte, he thinks, and defiant (like charlotte), though a redhead (henry), and there's an odd twist in his stomach he recognises, loosely, as homesickness. it manifests itself as a laugh, oddly boyish in spite of the light edge of mocking and he lifts his chin to look down at her. ) Ah. ( murmured. ) Of course you do. I can see it in both your girth and your height; your hometown, I'm sure, tells many tales of the large ( his eyes narrow briefly and he seems to consider something, privately debating between himself. she's from the west country, he's sure, but—

definitively, then: ) Cornish girl stomping from house to house, eating each and every villager out of house and home. The tale of Hansel and Gretel, I'm sure, was written as a prophetic warning for you and you alone.