Silver's smile widens at that, watching the other and his gaze carefully and laughing as they head out. He takes Benedict's arm, too, silently grateful for not having to appear like he doesn't need any help.

Strange, he thinks how it doesn't bother him. It really ought to.

The inn is one of the cheapest in the harbour, and far from poor artists' lodgings: it's a shithole, the smell of stale ale and tabacco lingering, the entire place incredibly loud. Someone's playing a fiddle, and there's a couple making out inn the corner, and he can see Anne scowling from a corner in the room behind her hat and hair. Silver nods and raises his brows. Anne glares and drinks her drink.

Everyone is eyeing Benedict--most want to fleece him, all are curious, but he's with Silver, so they stay a polite distance--as distant as you can in a place like this.

"Upstairs, or somewhere more private?" Silver asks, leaning on his crutch.