It was at this point that the clerk came out from behind the counter and approached them. Seymour doubted that he had overheard much of their conversation, as they hadn’t been talking loudly and there was a great deal of clattering emanating from the kitchen area behind him, so it hardly seemed fair for him to butt in.
“Miss,” said the clerk to Fiona, edging up right behind Seymour. The merman felt the man’s breath on the back of his neck. “Is this grunie bothering you?”
“No,” Fiona replied bluntly. “This wee twerp is, though.” She mussed Duncan’s fiery hair. “If you’re looking for someone to throw out, take him.”
Duncan swatted at her hand. “Ey! I wasn’t doing anything!”
The clerk glared at the lot of them and returned to the counter.
“Creep,” Fiona muttered under her breath, her eyes following him as he left. “Who does he think he is?”
His mouth full of bread, Seymour grunted in agreement.
After a moment’s pause, Fiona leaned forward, locking him in her gaze. He stared back into her eyes—Rezyn, those eyes! He was sure he had seen those eyes before. Friendly and brown, just a little bit sad.
“You know, Seymour, you’ve got ‘bad decision’ written all over you, but…” She smiled wryly. “I suppose I find you fascinating. Do you have plans for this evening?”
“Not as of yet.”
She got up. “Meet me by the ferry at five. For now, I’ll leave you to you’re work. I think I’ve been distracting you.”
“Yes. You’re the private detective from Brysail, aren’t you? His lordship told me he was going to try and hire someone to work on Charles Sigmund’s case. That’s you, isn’t it?”
“You’ve got the makings for a detective yourself, Fiona.”
“Nah, I just have a good memory. Come along, Duncan, it’s time to go.” She paused in the doorway, her red hair glimmering in the sunlight, and looked over her shoulder. “See you later, Seymour.”