"Malia," the archer says, suddenly and sharply, "if you're going to stand behind me and nod and pull approving faces at this child while I lecture her for what she's done, I'll ask you to wait elsewhere, please."
The wizard looks taken aback, for a second, then settles into a studied, unruffled expession, slow blinking like a cat. "I only—" she says, in a lazily confident tone.
"I know," the archer says grimly. "Go wait."
Malia glances quickly at the others. The paladin is already looking away, rocked back on his heels as if to escape by the only fraction of an inch he can. The berserker looks back at Malia, looks at the archer, looks back at Malia, widens his eyes, and shakes his head to say he's not fool enough to step between them.
The wizard puts her hands in her pockets, turns, and strolls away from them, and the soot-streaked stubborn-faced youth, and the arson-charred travelling medicine show wagon they're clustered by, pace measured and calm until she rounds a bend in the path out of view.
The sun's whiled across the sky a little when Steadfast-Be putters along the little track, down to the nearby brook, and finds the wizard seated on a rock, smoking a sloppily-rolled cigarette and apparently contemplating the clouds.
The archer sits herself likewise, saying nothing yet, on a rock close enough that they could tangle fingers, if they both reached; but no closer, yet. She sighs, once.
"Malia—" she begins, and the wizard stops her with a silent, jerky motion of her hand, then thrusts something toward her.
The archer takes the wilting posy of plucked wildflowers and cradles it between her hands, while the wizard stares at the sky, ferociously blank-faced.
"We're not all terrifying wizards, Malia," the archer says finally, rueful and quiet. "Aye, the man sold her grandmother coloured water when she should have had real medicine, and the old woman's dead, thinking she'd done some canny penny-pinching. Aye, he's a bastard. You'd do worse to him, if he crossed you." She lifts herself and gingerly slides to a closer perch, where she could unilaterally reach to touch the wizard, if she extended an arm.
"She's a fierce child," Malia says, to the sky.
"Aye," the archer says. "But I don't encourage it, not if it'll get her horsewhipped. Or worse, Malia; do you not know how these small places are? She's not a terrifying wizard; she's not even me, not yet. Not without some growing, and her feet already under her to walk away from trouble."
Malia watches the clouds, and slowly inches a hand out to snag the hem of the archer's shirt, tugging her onto Malia's own rock perch, thigh to thigh. With feral wariness, the wizard settles her head on Steady's shoulder.
"This is very sweet," Steadfast-Be says softly, brushing petals with her thumb. "I hope — I hope you forgive me," and Malia immediately turns her head to lightly bite her shoulder.
"I have a delicate heart," she says mulishly.
"I know, love," the archer murmurs, risking an arm around her waist.
"One day—" Malia is near inaudible, muffled against Steady's shirt. "Terrifying wizards are seldom forgiven."
"Oh, come here," the archer sighs, and hauls Malia into her lap.
