Opening the door, he stepped out, shut it-and locked it.
Flick heard the bolt click home. Lips parting, arms falling to her sides, she stared at the closed door.
Her temper soared.
Just like that! Put into her room and locked in, while he-!
Clenching her fists, she closed her eyes and gave vent to a frustrated scream.
Demon returned to the dim first-floor corridor at the front of the inn two hours later.
To find two young sprigs, decidedly the worse for the inn's ale, serenading outside Flick's door. His footfalls muffled by the corridor runner, he was upon them before they realized, materializing menacingly beside them.
They jumped like scalded cats.
"Ooh!"
"Aaah!"
Then they blinked and grinned inanely.
"There's a delightful widow behind the door."
"We're attempting to entice her to come out and play, don't y'know."
The first blinked again and stared myopically up at him. "Have you come to join us?"
With satisfying abruptness, Demon disabused them of that notion. He sent them fleeing, stumbling on their way, their egos shredded, their ears burning, their rears bruised courtesy of his rather large shoes. He saw them back to the stairs before returning to Flick's door. In the dimness, it took a few tries to get the key in the lock-eventually, he managed it. Straightening, he turned the key, lifted the latch and stepped inside.
Only lightning-quick reflexes allowed him to catch and hold back the heavy earthenware jug that came swinging down from his left.
Stretched on her toes, her hands clamped about the jug, Flick met his gaze. Darkly.
"Oh. It's you."
Leaving the jug in his hands, she swung away and stalked back across the room. She stopped before the fireplace, before the cheery flames, and swung to face him as she folded her arms.
Demon took in her belligerent stance and mutinous expression, then shut the door. She held her fire while he locked it and set the jug down on a nearby side table.
Then she let loose.
"You locked me in here and left me at the mercy of those!…" she gestured eloquently. Her eyes flashed. "I've had to endure two hours of nonstop caterwauling-no, no-I mustn't forget the poems. How could I forget the poems?" She flung her arms to the skies. "They were hideous! They didn't even rhyme."
She was unrestrainedly furious. Demon considered the sight.
"Anyway." Abruptly deserting fury, she fixed him with a narrow gaze. "Where did Bletchley go?"
Despite her ordeal with badly phrased poems, she was obviously all right.
"The tap, then to his room." Dropping his gloves on the side table, he pointed upward. "In the attics." Shrugging out of his greatcoat, he dropped it on a chair, noting as he did the large number of lighted candles set about the room. Flick had obviously felt in need of light-and reassurance.
She refolded her arms and frowned at him. "He didn't speak to anyone?"
Glancing around, Demon noted that the chamber was large and commodious, and well-appointed with decent furniture. The bed was long and wide, and made up with pristine linen. "No one of the ilk we're looking for. He didn't speak to anyone beyond the usual taproom chat."
"Hmm." Frowning, Flick watched him as he strolled unhurriedly toward her. "Maybe he did just come here for the prizefight."
"So it appears." His gaze returning to her face, he stopped directly i