His own coat is off, draped over the chest at the end of his bed. The little scarf tied around his throat goes with it, and with his back to her, he tips his head as if to judge the sound levels. She's right: there's the faint strains of a stringed instrument somewhere, the occasional thump and scrape of furniture, the swell of noisy conversation that dims away again, but not as rowdy as it can get.
"It usually quiets off before the sun starts," Loxley says, turning and sitting down at the edge of his bed. He follows her action, tugging loose the buckles of his boots, shucking them off.
Noticing that she's watching him, and so returns the favour, corner of his mouth curling. "But I don't doubt a whole horde of drunken louts will come flooding in from the Tourney," thump, goes the second boot, "us being the first of them."
That said, he feels oddly clear. He'd ceased to drink after that last beer and on purpose, and there is always something uniquely sobering about a woman of Derrica's beauty. And she certainly seems steady on her feet too.
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"It usually quiets off before the sun starts," Loxley says, turning and sitting down at the edge of his bed. He follows her action, tugging loose the buckles of his boots, shucking them off.
Noticing that she's watching him, and so returns the favour, corner of his mouth curling. "But I don't doubt a whole horde of drunken louts will come flooding in from the Tourney," thump, goes the second boot, "us being the first of them."
That said, he feels oddly clear. He'd ceased to drink after that last beer and on purpose, and there is always something uniquely sobering about a woman of Derrica's beauty. And she certainly seems steady on her feet too.