He was as much a rattle of nerves as his wife. “I think it would be best for you two to rest,” he warned the man as he pushed him out of the void.
Seonaid was already up and about the house, pacing off her emotions. Fearchar stared at Eoin, angry and confused. Eoin met the man’s gaze, not backing down. “Fecken shiter. Sold yer own barras,” Fearchar seethed. He got up, grabbed his waxed cloak, and stormed out the door. Eoin rose, aware that Seonaid watched him contemptuously.
He pulled together his clothes and his packs. With excessive care, he pulled on his English clothing, his breeches, stockings and spatterdashes. He buttoned himself into his vest and coat. “Feck ye da’in, Eoin?” Seonaid grumbled. Eoin turned to her angry stare. He pulled on his mask and buckled it. “Ye’ll freeze ta death if’n ye leave here.” She sounded worried for him for a moment. He ground his teeth. He pulled on his leather cloak and buckled his brooch. With quick work he had his apothecary packed back into it’s box. He turned to his duffel.
Seonaid rushed to the door and called out to Fearchar. “Fear! He’s packing. Come back in and talk some sense into him,” she demanded of her husband.
Fearchar had his arms full of logs as he came around the corner of the house to see his wife looking out the door. “What di’ya mean he’s pack’n?” he demanded, hurrying through the thick snow. “Nae sane eejit ‘ld stay in this mingin weather!” he declared as heavy flakes descended in swaths.
I need a shovel, Eoin told them as he stood at the door, ready to make his way out if Fearchar would only move. “What’a hell di’ya bloody well need a shovel for, ye bastart,” Fearchar dropped the wood inside the door, still blocking the entrance. Faster than Fearchar expected, Eoin gripped him about the back of his neck and yanked him into the house.
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