The Knidian Lady was always at its busiest on Saturday nights. The booths were packed— a rowdy bachelor party; a group of women dressed in brightly-coloured clothes who laughed loudly and spoke in a foreign language; a few young couples who nervously surveyed the scene, perhaps wondering if they had come to the right place. Chris's girls flitted amongst the patrons like butterflies, letting men pull them on to their laps in exchange for a few cenz slipped into the necklines of their dresses—or better, secrets whispered in their ears. Despite all of the chaos, Roy sat at the bar, dutifully doing his homework. Chris slid a double whiskey to the man she was serving, and crossed over to where Roy was, squashed at the end of a group of drunk old men passionately discussing the game the Central City baseball team had won that afternoon.
"I don't know how you can concentrate in this hubbub," she said gruffly. He raised his head jerkily, as if she had startled him, and the flop of his fringe fell into his eyes. He'd turned seventeen the month before, but his tousled hair made him look younger.
"It's not homework," he insisted, and Chris fought the urge to roll her eyes. "I'm reading a book on alchemic theory. The mind must always keep moving, or else it will fall into atrophy and collapse in on itself."
"That's a pretty thing to say," she said dryly. "Where'd you hear it?"
Roy flushed. "It's what Master Hawkeye told me before I came back for the summer."
Roy's eyes were alert and keen, but even by the dim bar lighting Chris could see the purple bruises underneath. He'd been home for three weeks, but he'd barely even rested. She imagined running her hands through his ink-black hair the way a mother might, but she knew from experience that the gesture would have them both feeling awkward for days.
"Hmm," she said instead. "But a mind that never rests is doomed to exhaust itself and die."
"Who said that?"
"I did. Close the books, kiddo, you're on break."
He sighed but shut the book. Chris couldn't help but smile—it really didn't take much for Roy to listen to her. He looked up with a mischievous sparkle in his dark eyes. "Since I'm relaxing, can I have a drink?"
Chris raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, as if she were pretending to think about it. "You can have one glass of wine. And don't go asking your sisters to slide you more. I always find out."
He raised his hands in mock surrender, and she poured him a small glass of Riesling. He took a sip and set it back carefully on the sticky bar. "I think you missed me."
She snorted. "Careful, boy, your head's big enough already."
One of the old men flagged her over for a refill, and she left Roy without another word. When she looked back at him, he had pushed his glass to the side, his head buried in his book again. Chris grinned. He was absolutely incorrigible —which was exactly the way she raised him to be.