"Yes, I'd like to check out." Mary said cooly, gripping her bag securely in her hand.
"But madam! It's the middle of the night!" The clerk stuttered in confusion.
Mary inwardly rolled her eyes. "I am aware of the fact. I would like to check out."
The clerk's mouth opened again, as if to continue his protest, but was interrupted by a man's approach to the desk.
"What seems to be the problem?" A deep, clearly Irish voice inquired casually from behind Mary.
"Tom!" She whirled around, face paling slightly. What would he be doing here? A vague feeling of something akin to embarrassment itched though her. "I didn't know you were going to travel this week."
He smiled at her, but his eyes ran over her worriedly, studying her bedraggled hair and wrinkled dress. "I didn't either. I needed to talk to a man about a new breed of sheep, but Lady Portsmith rang and said I ought to come here instead." He intoned shrewdly.
"Did she?" Mary raised an eyebrow. Does this mean he knows, then? It was over now though, she had moved on. But Mary was still in a state of chilly emptiness. After the disappointing realization she had just suffered, she found the need to tell someone, and Tom had arrived most opportunely. Perhaps…
"Why don't we go have tea somewhere." She said imperatively.
He nodded. "Why don't we? Then we can talk." His gaze searched her face, and she opened her expression of annoyance and disappointment to him for a moment before icing over again. "Is there anything open this time of night?" He directed at the bewildered clerk.
"Only a pub down the street, sir. Does madam still wish to check out?" He glanced between the pair.
Tom answered for her. "Yes, she does. We'll be leaving now, thank you." Taking Mary by the arm, he escorted her out of the hotel, each grasping their own bag, and each with a slight hint of relieved concern tucked away behind expressionless masks.
