Jolthar lifted one eyebrow, slowly, like a man examining a menu that offered only soup.
"No."
The word dropped into the silence like a stone into a well.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said no. I will not, and I do not intend to."
Jolthar tilted his head toward the boy in green, who had begun to look pleased again.
"If anyone in this lane owes an apology, it is your cousin. To an old craftsman for waving a gold coin in his face. To a stranger whose family he had no business mocking. And, I think, to the fox."
Andrion made a small sound like a kettle coming to the boil.
"Jolthar," Milan said under his breath.
"Perhaps we can settle this quietly."
"I am being very quiet," Jolthar said.
"I have not even raised my voice."
Cedric's face finally slipped. The control went out of it, and what lay beneath was an ugly, swollen thing, the pride of a man who had not heard the word no in so long he had assumed it was out of print.
