I hate my job.
The Olympic tournament had not yet begun, but we needed money to get tickets. With as little qualifications as I have (besides knowing how to pummel a man’s brains out) and none of the Italian bonds I’d left un-cashed within my keeping – I was reduced to working shifts as a barmaid at an inn. A cheap one.
William did little to help. He’d been hired as a porter, but he did little but join in with the other drunks and sing.
The uniform was annoying. I’d never worn any such clothing in my life, so tight and skimpy. I was practically falling out of my top. And every time some man wolf-whistled, I had to count to ten in order to restrain myself from gorging his eyes out.
Today, however, things were different.
As I was serving the usual drunks rolling around in their own piss and vomit, a young sailor came stumbling in, calling for a ‘Mariqah de Saint-Omer’.
That was me.
I made my way to him and he handed me a sheet of paper.
“From the docks, madam,” he said, panting, “By God, I’ve been lookin’ for ye everywhere!”
I frowned at him, “Do I know you?”
I held up the page, not having read it yet, “Who… who sent this?”
“The captain,” he said, “He told me just t’give the letter t’ye, that’s all. I’m sorry, I can’t give ye any names.”
I nodded at him, handing him a few coins for his troubles, and read the sheet.
My eyes widened at the note and I left the inn, racing to the docks…