Casimir took the rag wrapped parcels with a wink and a reminder for the beautiful young lady to stay safe.
"Save yer flattery. Y'had real coin for once," the old woman said, waving him off.
He led him down the alley to a quiet dock. At the other end, a small barge finished unloading, lanterns flickering as the men worked. Casimir sat against a piling, one of his legs dangling over the edge. After a moment's hesitation, Murtagh joined him.
"What's in this?" he asked, taking the proffered food, but eyeing it with what he felt was healthy skepticism.
Casimir shrugged and swallowed. "Think it's eel. Sometimes it's good lake trout or sausages, sometimes pigeon or rat or something, but the rags are always washed and she's given me what's left at the end of the night for helping her pack up often enough that I didn't starve, so you don't ask."
Murtagh slowly unwrapped the scrap of sack cloth to reveal a soft steamed bun. The smell of warm bread should have been appetizing, but his insides were still tied in knots after what happened in the tavern.
Casimir had to have figured out who he was after that. Yet he still treated him with the same kindness and friendship as before. If he knew, it hadn't changed anything. That nearly made him more nervous.
Slowly and gently, in an attempt to do so unnoticed, he felt Thorn retreat from his mind. He reached back and grabbed at the dragon's mind.
"What do you think you're..."
"You no longer need me, so I'm letting you enjoy an evening with a handsome young man in privacy!" the dragon said.
"That's not what's...get your mind out of the..." It took a very concerted effort on his part not to turn the same shade as his partner.
"Let me go you prude..." The dragon mentally slapped at him to get him to let go.
"There's no reason to..." He held tighter and picked at the steamed bun, trying to look outwardly normal.
"The whole time in the tavern, he was staring at you dance! Gods! If I let you, you'd have me hold your hand whilst you..."
"Mind a light?" Casimir's voice broke his focus just enough for the dragon to slip away. He held out a hastily rolled cigarette. For a moment too long to be truly proper, Murtagh stared transfixed at the constellation of freckles on his wrist.