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If she was being honest she had never tried whiskey, but she didn’t leave France to keep sipping strawberry wine and champagne. “Umm, yes I do,” Estelle said, watching the girl hold up two fingers. She certainly hadn’t expected that. “Shouldn’t I at least know your name?”
Dorcas had never met a girl with such a refined, thick accent that drank whiskey. This was something she was prepared to see. As the bar tender slid the shots forward, she curled her finger around one and waited for the other to do the same. “Dorcas Meadowes. I live here-- but you don’t, or didn’t. Why would you want to come to a place like this?” With so much war and death and distrust around every corner, Dorcas couldn’t help but feel slightly suspicious of the foreigner.