This is set just after the events of chapter 21 of Deva Victrix (and also a year before that).
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Two days after the head-butting incident, Alasdair's face was still purpled with bruises, Mr Bondevik looked like he was gestating a large chicken egg under the skin of his forehead, and Michael had his first and last conversation with Emilía.
Alasdair had awoken that morning seemingly infused with great purpose – although, it later transpired, not a great deal of good sense – and had announced after breakfast that he was going to 'sort things out with Lukas once and for all'.
Dylan had agreed that yes, that was a fine idea, and, yes, it really was for the best, but, still, when Alasdair set out for Mr Bondvik's apothecary, he'd dragged Michael out to stand on the front step of their own so they could 'keep an eye' on their brother.
"I don't think this is going to end well," he said in-between nervous little nips at his thumb nail.
At first, it looked as though Dylan's pessimism was groundless, because when Mr Bondevik stepped out of his shop in answer to Alasdair's knock, they greeted each other with perfect civility. Mr Bondevik offered what looked to be a friendly smile of welcome, and Alasdair – whose badly split top lip had temporarily reduced his range of facial expressions down to slight variations around the theme of deadpan – returned a courteous nod.
And for the next few minutes that followed, they seemed to chat quite pleasantly, but then, all of a sudden, an ill wind seemingly began to blow. In response to some remark of Alasdair's– inaudible due to distance for the most part, but Michael hadn't needed to hear it clearly to know that it was insultingly blunt, nonetheless, because Alasdair had absolutely no sense of tact – Mr Bondevik's expression curdled, souring like days old milk.
He snapped back something equally indistinct, and jabbed one fingertip into the centre of Alasdair's chest.
Dylan bit clean through his nail with a loud click as his teeth clashed together. "Oh, dear," he said.
Both Dylan and Arthur had told Michael that Alasdair had had a nasty temper when they were younger, prone to random acts of violence, vicious teasing, and the throwing of completely undeserving people into ponds. The Alasdair who had, after a fashion, raised Michael had either calmed with age, or else worked out all of his aggression during his work hours, because he was mostly just prone to being grumpy and argumentative, with only very sporadic forays into being a rude, insensitive dick.
Thankfully, it appeared that the more mature Alasdair was in the coachman's seat of his mind that day, because he simply took gentle hold of Mr Bondevik's hand and eased it away.
Mr Bondevik's other hand was raised in an instant to assume jabbing duty in place of its fallen ally.
Alasdair's back, very slowly, started to straighten up out of its habitual slouch.
"Oh, shit," Dylan said, his own shoulders stiffening. "Someone should do something before one of them gets hurt."
Being that someone, of course, fell to Dylan. who could no more keep from bodily throwing himself between Alasdair and any punch that might be aimed his way than Alasdair could him on those very rare occasions that their positions were reversed.
Mr Bondevik glanced at him as he drew near, gave him a once-over, and then obviously dismissed him from his thoughts entirely, returning all of his attention to Alasdair.
Michael guessed it was a perfectly natural reaction, because Dylan was short, plump, and usually wore the faintly apologetic expression of a person who felt as though, wherever they might currently be standing, they were taking up a place in the world that someone else would probably make better use of.
But he could be vicious. Pushed in the right way, at the right time, and with the right force, he fought with all the ferocity of a bear protecting its cubs, and wasn't above using his teeth and nails in the same way as one, if it came to that. (Or utilising a well-timed knee to the bollocks, which Michael supposed bears didn't often resort to, but no simile was perfect.)
Apparently not content to be ignored, Dylan politely tapped Mr Bondevik on the shoulder. He wheeled around in response, and that brought his pointed finger out of contact with Alasdair's chest and into the hollow of Dylan's throat.
And then all the hells broke loose.
The doors that weren't cracked at Mr Bondevik's shout of, "He doesn't need you to fight his battles for him," were flung open with abandon when Alasdair bellowed, "Don't you fucking dare touch him," and their neighbours all poked their heads out with interest.
There was little better to liven up the dull, crawling early hours of a workday than a bit of impromptu street theatre.
Alasdair pushed Mr Bondevik back a step; one fist raised, but only in warning. Then Mr Bondevik called Alasdair a 'eunuch' at the top of his lungs, and Dylan didn't even give him chance to take another breath before he punched him.
The resulting scuffle very quickly drew in extra participants on either side from amongst the gathering crowd, and as a result was so loud that Michael wasn't aware that Emilía had approached him until she said, "I can't believe they're doing this."
She didn't sound scared or even anxious, but spoke in the tones of someone mortified that their father was making a complete spectacle of himself in front of practically everyone they knew.
Michael, who was experiencing a very similar feeling in duplicate, replied with a heartfelt, "Neither can I."
Emilía nodded, but didn't seem inclined to add more, and Michael, in that moment, could bring to mind nothing to add. (Beyond perhaps remarking that his brothers looked to have the best fighting form of anyone in the fracas, anyway, and that didn't exactly seem appropriate given the circumstances.)
Michael liked to think, though, that that silent moment of shared embarrassment over having relatives – that common sentiment – might just help to draw them a tiny bit closer, and he promised himself that next time they talked, he'd build on that small foundation and manage to get out two sentences instead of just one.
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Michael would also like to think that he and Emilía are like the heroes and heroines in some of the more dramatic of Dylan's romance novels. The kind who aren't kept apart by the lack of the penultimate chapter's convenient windfall or their inexplicable failure to sit down and have an actual honest conversation with each other, but by blood debts, and anguish, and, most importantly, their feuding families.
In those books, the final act's resolution was generally brought about by a brave stand by the hero and/or heroine – with optional sword in hand – in which the strength of their love thawed the cold hearts of the respective families' matriarchs and/or patriarchs. Centuries' old grudges were thereafter forgotten, permission for courtship granted all round, and everyone held hands and skipped happily off towards the wedding on the final page.
He doubts a single one of even those courageous souls would have ever got their happy ending if they'd had to deal instead with Alasdair, because his heart isn't made of ice, but fucking stone.
"No," Alasdair says, scowling at nothing in particular, "I'm not going to try and apologise to Lukas again. The first twenty times were humiliating enough."
"But you're keeping me and Emilía apart!"
Michael means it to be an impassioned cry, but to his own humiliation, it sounds more like a whine, which doubtless justifies the slightly horrified look Alasdair gives him in response.
It also explains his brother's sighed, "Gods above," and the frustrated-looking pinch he gives to the bridge of his nose, but probably not the shuffling little dance of shifting weight he performs in his chair afterwards.
That, he's sure, is due to whatever fresh injury he'd managed to inflict on his back during his afternoon's visit to the governor's palace. The one that, by a mutual accord reached over many years of growling annoyance on Alasdair's part and anguished fretting on Dylan's, they'll all pretend never happened unless Alasdair happens to fall to the floor and beg for the succour of arnica liniment and willowbark tea.
In retrospect, it probably wasn't the best time for Michael to have brought up the ever vexatious subject of Mr Bondevik.
"Look, Mikey, have I ever told you can't be friends with Emilía?" Alasdair says eventually, sounding very weary.
Michael shakes his head.
"And, leaving aside what happened between him and me, Lukas is a reasonable man, so I'm sure he's never told Emilía that she can't be friends with you, either," Alasdair says. "Maybe she... Maybe she just doesn't want to be."
Maybe, but Michael's sure it's something more than that. She always smiles when she sees him, and she always seems happy to join in the silent conversations they take part in over their brooms. Her father might not be stopping them from talking, but maybe she might just be as shy as Michael himself.
The only way he's going to find out, though, is if he's brave in his own way. He might not have to pick up a sword, but he will have to learn how to wield his words well enough that he can be the one to approach her and see if she wants to have another conversation out loud.