for a few moments after Sir Thidrek dragged Sir Othello from the tavern.

After making some enquiries about accommodations, the publican suggested I stay the night at the Inn. I walked out, into the street and began thinking about what Sir Thidrek had told me.

"The Queen has let it slip that she will allow her mark upon your shoppe provided you grant her a specific request."

"What is this request?" I asked, surprised by his candor.

"She did not say." He stated as he attempted to help his charge keep his equilibrium. "I must get the whelp home to his mother. She is fair worried about him."

"I don't suppose she'll let him find his head before she addresses him?"

"The Queen? HAHAHAH!"

I'd looked away from Sir Thidrek and had caught Sir Othello trying to focus. I couldn't imagine what it was that had held his interest as there hadn't been a great deal behind the counter.

I'd looked back questioningly in his direction and had been shocked by the intensity of his eyes. They were the colour of highly polished oak; a golden brown with flecks of a darker shade but how they betrayed the forthcoming solidity of his not entirely developed features with their innocence. It was no wonder I'd never really noticed them before, as his hair hung down, shadowing them from anyone's gaze.

As I continued strolling toward the end, I could only think of three things: The potential horror of the Queen's request, her son's beatific face and when would those tradesmen complete the work on my new apartments above my newly acquired shoppe.