It was difficult to make himself comfortable with all of the screaming, so Fletcher opted to stand beside the fire, hands clasped behind his back in his best imitation of a man from politer circles. Moments later, what little peace was in that room evaporated into thin air as the woman barged in and flapped about like a shrieking harpy. It was clear that she was the lady of the house, and Fletch did his very best not to crack a smirk at her dramatics. But fuck, it was an uphill battle not to. He bowed his head under the pretense of a greeting, stifling a snort.
"Ma'am," he said as he finally got it under control. "Sir. If you'll tell me more about the situation, I'll be happy to — "
Someone familiar trailed in quietly behind the baron and his wife: a timid mouse of a man, all leg and arm. Had he been in the same cloak, Fletcher would have recognized him instantly. Now, all bandaged up and in fresh clothes, it took him a moment to realize that it was the man he'd barreled into not a few hours earlier. He narrowly caught his jaw from dropping. Fuck, he thought. There goes that job. He could only hope that the man had some sense not to —
"Hello sir. My apologies for earlier. Are you quite well? I did not mean to cause you trouble before."
No. There it went: his hope of some income, up in smoke. In the ensuing commotion, with the nobles' backs turned, Fletch shot him a truly withering look. "You fucking serious?" he mouthed, and then slipped back into aloof neutrality as the lady of the house addressed him. "Erm...I'm afraid I'm not following," he replied, coolly as you please. "I assure you we don't, Ma'am. Your son might be mistaken. We don't move in the same circles, as I'm sure you know. Perhaps someone else with an eyepatch?"
Fletch glanced between the two parents, hoping to all hell that he could salvage this for the sake of his empty wallet, dwindling supply of tobacco...and hungry dog. "Sir. Ma'am. As I was saying. If you'll tell me a bit more about what's been going on, I'll tell you how I'll address it."
He learned, in the next half hour, exactly what had been going on. He could have laughed then, too, but he kept up his poker face and nodded along. The "filthy savage" of the day that the baroness had referred to was, of course, him. But she'd become convinced that her son — hardly a prize worth bothering with, if he knew them well enough — was being targeted for abduction by I'kanans. Fletcher didn't blame her for paling at the thought. He knew firsthand how ballsy they could get. He cleared his throat.
"Alright," he nodded. "You already have rotating guard shifts, if I saw it right on my way in. You may want to extend that to a perimeter patrol — pairs of guards. No man posted alone. I'kanans will think it's child's play otherwise. As for me: I can keep a constant watch on your son during the day. Check the doors and windows at night. Make sure everyone in the house is who they say they are. You'll want another man or two to take over during odd shifts." He ran through his mental checklist for anything he'd missed. "I'm happy to demonstrate my skill if you have a willing man to spar with, though...that might not be proper for you or your son to see, Ma'am. Oh, and, er...I would scrutinize your household staff and replace any of them who might be fond enough to allow an heir to slip through cracks in security." He cast a hard, pointed look over at the man again. "Just a hunch."
