Scarlet

the edge of the bar digging into her stomach.
    “I believe you owe her an apology,” the fighter said in his quiet, even tone.
    A gurgle slipped out of Roland’s mouth. His feet flailed in search of the ground.
    “Hey, let him go!” a man yelled, leaping off his stool. “You’re going to kill him!” He grasped the fighter’s wrist, but he might have grabbed an iron bar for as much as the limb budged. Flushing, the man let go and pulled back for a punch, but as soon as he swung, the fighter’s free hand came up and blocked it.
    Scarlet staggered back from the bar, dully noting a tattoo of nonsensical letters and numbers stamped across the fighter’s forearm. LSOP962.
    The fighter still seemed angry, but now there was also the tiniest bit of amusement in his expression, like he’d just remembered the rules to a game. He eased Roland’s feet back to the ground, simultaneously releasing him and the other man’s fist.
    Roland caught his balance on a stool. “What’s wrong with you?” he choked out, rubbing his neck. “Are you some lunatic city transplant or something?”
    “You were being disrespectful.”
    “ Disrespectful? ” barked Roland. “You just tried to kill me!”
    Gilles erupted from the kitchen, shoving through the swinging doors. “What’s going on out here?”
    “This guy’s trying to start a fight,” someone said from the crowd.
    “And Scarlet broke the screens!”
    “I didn’t break them, you idiot!” Scarlet yelled, though she wasn’t sure who had said it.
    Gilles surveyed the dead screens, Roland still rubbing his neck, the broken bottles and glasses littering the wet floor. He glowered at the street fighter. “You,” he said, pointing. “Get out of my tavern.”
    Scarlet’s gut tightened. “He didn’t do any—”
    “Don’t you start, Scarlet. How much destruction were you planning on causing today? Are you trying to get me to close my account?”
    She bristled, her face still burning. “Maybe I’ll just take back the delivery and we’ll see how your customers like eating spoiled vegetables from now on.”
    Rounding the bar, Gilles snatched the cable out of Scarlet’s hand. “Do you really think you’re the only working farm in France? Honestly, Scar, I only order from you because your grandmother would give me hell if I didn’t!”
    Scarlet pursed her lips, holding back the frustrated reminder that her grandmother wasn’t here anymore so maybe he should just order from someone else if that’s what he wanted.
    Gilles turned his attention back to the fighter. “I said get out!”
    Ignoring him, the fighter held his hand out to Émilie, who was still half curled against a table. Her face was flushed and her skirt was soaked through with beer, but her gaze glowed with infatuation as she let herself be pulled to her feet.
    “Thank you,” she said, her whisper carrying in the uncanny silence.
    Finally, the fighter met Gilles’s scowl. “I will go, but I haven’t paid for my meal.” He hesitated. “I can pay for the broken glasses as well.”
    Scarlet blinked. “What?”
    “I don’t want your money!” Gilles screamed, sounding insulted, which came as an even further shock to Scarlet, who had only ever heard Gilles complain about money and how his vendors were bleeding him dry. “I want you out of my tavern.”
    The fighter’s pale eyes darted to Scarlet, and for a moment she sensed a connection between them.
    Here they were, both outcasts. Unwanted. Crazy.
    Pulse thrumming, she buried the thought. This man was trouble. He fought people for a living—or perhaps even for fun. She wasn’t sure which was worse.
    Turning away, the fighter dipped his head in what almost looked like an apology and shuffled toward the exit. Scarlet couldn’t help thinking as he passed that despite all signs of brutality, he looked no more menacing now than a scolded dog.

 
    Three
    Scarlet pulled the bin of potatoes out from the lowest shelf, dropping it with a thud on the floor before lugging the crate of tomatoes on top. The onions and turnips went beside it. She’d have to make two trips out to the ship again and that made her angrier than anything. So much for a dignified exit.
    She grabbed the handles of the lower bin and hoisted them up.
    “ Now what are you doing?” Gilles said from the doorway, a towel draped over one shoulder.
    “Taking these back.”
    Heaving a sigh, Gilles braced himself against the wall. “Scar—I didn’t mean all that out