These little things - these little nothings - compile and compress until Jane is sure something is wrong with her. She must be sick; ailing with some sort of unknown illness. Yet she can't quite pin it down. The pain isn't consistent, it comes and goes, varies in length and ache, and she's never quite sure what brings it on.
It isn't until the incident in the tavern Jane understands source of her discomfort.
Dragon is taking another one of his two-week naps; he claims it is a quirk of his lizard physiology, but Jane thinks he finds the hummingbird buzzing of his short-life family exhausting - and she cannot fault him for occasionally needing the space.
She and Gunther are sent out to deliver messages - invitations to the queen's yearly ball. It's a task usually reserved for the castle's couriers, but they are short handed so Jane and Gunther volunteer.
The weather is fine, the countryside pastoral, and their interactions with passing travelers an interesting diversion. They bicker and banter, trade insults and jests, and make merry camp out under the stars as they travel.
Gunther makes jealous grumbles because he thinks Black prefers Jane, and Jane consoles him by telling him she knows he's stolen away her Lucy's heart, and that they would make a very fine couple indeed. She giggles the face he pulls and offers - should he decide to make it official - to braid flowers into both of their hairs. This sets him laughing; he knows full well Jane has no skill for braiding, but he says he's more than happy to let her try.
It's the first time in a long time Jane hasn't felt that tightness in her chest or the churning in her stomach, and she's content; untroubled by whatever illness has been skulking at the edges of her awareness.
They are nearly finished with their deliveries and are looping back around the mountains when the summer rains begin. It's not a bother - at least not to Jane herself - she loves the smell, the sound, the turbulent grays of the sky, and how vibrantly green everything is.
Gunther is of a contrary opinion - contrariness is part of his nature - and spends his time scowling and grumbling his objections at the clouds, as if his opinion was enough to chase them away. He despairs over the wet, their slowed travel, the dreariness of the day. He's working himself up to a full grousing when Jane points out the low clouds are the same pretty colors as his eyes and that the weather is a match for his temperament.
If there ever was a natural embodiment of Gunther himself - it would be the pissing and moaning of a summer shower.
It stills his mouth, at least for the time being, and he spends the rest of the afternoon in relatively silent contemplation. He's not completely without complaint - that's not who he is, after all - but he doesn't grumble when Jane dismounts to stretch her back and splash in some puddles or tell her to hurry when she makes pleasant conversation with a fellow traveller and his four adult sons.
Instead he just scowls at her antics - her very own personal raincloud - and Jane feels lighter, freer, than she has in months.
However, by the third night spent sleeping in the rain, Jane is less enamoured of the summer's weather and proposes they find shelter. The novelty of leaky tarpaulin and damp blankets is wearing thin and Jane's muscles are reminding her it has been nearly two weeks since she has slept in a bed.
Gunther looks pathetically relieved at her suggestion - Jane almost feels a guilty for not having thought of it sooner - and they decide to overnight in a nearby town.
The place is a bustle of activity and is larger than Kippertown; dirty, busy, and well-used to visitors. Gunther has been here with Ivon, but Jane has not, and she can't help but gawk. He chooses an inn that is close to the gates; it's a short step from a tavern that serves what he deems is "passable stew". Jane is grateful for the short walk, here in town the rain makes a mess of the roads and everything seems to wear a coat of mud.
Coming in from the rain, the tavern is warm almost to the point of being steamy. The weather has kept most locals at home and there are a few patrons scattered about the common room enjoying their meat and mead, but it's not even half full.
It's second nature for Jane to immediately and thoroughly scan any new surroundings, to take in the lay of the land, ascertain that the situation is safe. So she is cognizant of the - not one, not two, but three - pretty serving girls whose heads swivel, almost in tandem despite the fact they are in different corners of the room, to fix on her and Gunther with instant and intense interest.
Well, Gunther at least. They give her no more than a precursory glance, noting her mannish clothing and frizzy hair before dismissing her as just another bedraggled customer - certainly no one who needs special attention of any sort.
The next second they are almost racing each other to be the first to reach him.
Jane is not at all certain she approves of Gunther's choice of establishment.
They converge on the two of them at nearly the same time, and Jane's eyes go momentarily wide when she sees one of the girls try to bump another out of the way with an exaggerated swing of her hips.
Then they're all over him, taking his wet cloak, drying his hair with a bar towel, taking him by the hand to lead him over to a table near the hearth. Jane might as well not to exist to them at all.
Gunther does nothing to invite or encourage their untoward attention; in fact he tries with some asperity to escape the towel in particular - lord knows what that has been used to clean - but they seem impervious to his lack of interest. If anything, his inattention only seems to spur them on to greater efforts.
They push him into a chair, flapping about him like so many desperate vultures, and he actually has to wave them off to stand again to collect Jane's cloak and hang it by the fire. He pulls out her chair and - with that secret smirk of his - offers to tackle the mess of her hair with the bar towel.
It sets her to rights, this little jab at the outlandish, predacious, behavior of the serving girls, but the feeling doesn't last and it isn't long before that anxiety starts creeping in again.
They both receive a tankard of ale and their meals are delivered with astounding expediency, but that is where Jane's compliments of the service end.
The serving girls take every opportunity to check on them - well Gunther, to be precise - and seem to have a never-ending cache of little seductions in their respective repertoires. They run their palms over his shoulders and tangle their fingers in his hair. They place their hands on his arm or lean over to address him; a shameless but nevertheless effective means to present their cleavage as though it too, is on the menu. All three accidentally drop something and bend over at the waist to retrieve it, and one woman - she'd be pretty if her face wasn't twisted in an exaggerated pout - presses her breasts against Gunther's back when she refills his ale.
If the food is in fact good - as Gunther had promised - Jane will just have to take his word for it; to her everything tastes like sawdust. In fact, she gives up on eating after only a few bites and nurses her drink instead.
She distracts herself by staring into the fire, the heat feels good and the flames are hypnotizing, and Gunther asks if she is ailing. Jane reassures him she is fine and he has nothing to worry about, though she is tired and will probably make it an early night.
He gives her a look, searching for the source of her poorly-hidden malaise, but lets her be and goes back to eating his soup and drinking his ale and remaining oblivious to the women that all but sit in his lap.
Oh wait, no. There goes the brunette, right into his lap.
Jane chews her lip and looks away.
She's not the most self-aware of people, she can be stubborn, callous, and prideful at the most inopportune of times, but she is self-aware enough to understand she is not fine. Far from it in fact. She's overwarm and on edge, but despite her fidgeting nervousness her senses feel dulled and sluggish, and that feeling - the tightness, the twisting, the burning - is back in force. Jane wants nothing more than to be away from this place, anywhere would suffice, but she longs for the solitude of their leaky little camp.
They're there for an hour, Jane is still nursing her first ale, when Gunther excuses himself to the privy. Before he leaves he asks again if she is alright, and she assures him she is; even if she knew what was bothering her, she's unlikely to share it with him, anyway - especially not in a venue such as this.
The girls see his movement and zero in; a wake of vultures fighting over fresh meat - squawking, cawing, pecking at one another. He assures them - flashing that captivating smile of his - that he is not in need of any further service before turning to leave. Gunther hardly makes it a step before he yelps and gives a little half-jump, then scurries off.
Pouty girl grins triumphantly at the others; it takes Jane a full minute to realize she'd given Gunther a pinch, probably where he least expected it.
The door is still swinging shut when the serving girls descend on her table. She's actually taken aback for a moment - it's the first time they've acknowledged her existence, let alone addressed her directly - and Jane wonders just what kind of establishment Sir Ivon frequents when out on patrol.
With his students, no less.
The brunette slides into Gunther's vacated seat and leans forward; it's not the same invitation she'd presented Gunther - he had been in real danger of suffocation, she'd been so close - it's an intimidation, an unspoken threat.
"Is he yours then?" She asks, cocking her head to study Jane with one large, emotionless eye.
"Wh- what?" Under the table, Jane worries the edge of her tunic.
It's not as if Jane hadn't heard her, the brunette is practically on top of her with anticipation, after all. But her mind is still moving sluggishly, dragging along behind the thumpthump of her heart and her mouth answers before she's even thought about it at all.
"The bloke - you and him a thing?" There's a fine sheen of sweat on her brow and upper lip, and Jane is reminded just how warm and stifling the tavern is.
Jane gives her head a sharp shake, "No. We are not together," because it is true.
They are not together, not in the sense that these women mean, and it is something Jane has never actually considered before this moment. She and Gunther are not a couple, never have been, and are likely never will become one. It isn't something Jane needs or even wants - at least, she doesn't think so.
Does she?
Gunther has certainly never made any overtures which could be considered remotely romantic - they've only ever had a constant sense of camaraderie, and sometimes-friendship, and holy hell she feels sick again - needs to lay down or press a damp cloth to her brow - or maybe just escape from the scrutiny of the women before her -
The woman sees right through her jumbled emotions; the black of her pupil narrows as she pinpoints the source of Jane's distress. "But you want to be."
It's so surprising, Jane almost laughs. Because of course she doesn't -
That feeling churns, roils fresh; disrupting the familiar pattern of her thoughts.
She doesn't -
Does she? Does she?
Holy sarding shite, she does.
Realization doesn't so much slam into her as pour over her in a viscous, soupy wash.
It's a quagmire of unease, anxiety, worry, and discomfort which floods in all at once - but this time the familiar emotions are followed by the newly-identified feelings of envy, insecurity, and unwarranted possessiveness. They surge through her in a slow, nightmarish wave; her stomach churns and her hands tingle, and the sounds of the tavern are drowned out by the sharp intake of her too-short breaths.
Suddenly her illness - the thing which has plagued her for months now, makes sense.
She is jealous.
Jealous. JEALOUS.
Jane Turnkey is jealous of how other women throw themselves at - oh bloody hell, this is hard to admit - Gunther Breech.
Why should she be jealous, as she has so newly realized? Why should she care?
Because she does care.
She cares far more than she would like to admit.
It's too much to think about, but she can't run away or deny - the waves have solidified into so much quicksand - but she can't - can't - process this now, here. Not with these vultures looking at her like a small morsel of prey that isn't quite dead enough.
Jane plucks at the shirt of her uniform. An unnecessary deflection. "We're partners, from the castle."
The woman narrows her eyes and sucks her teeth, but says nothing in response. It's clear the three don't believe her, but they don't really care, either.
The woman snorts in disbelief and collects Jane's neglected, congealing stew. As one they turn away - they've already forgotten she's here - and make their way back to the rough partition which serves as the bar, arguing over who gets to top him first.
Left alone with her feelings, with her jealousy, it is too much.
Too much.
She's moving on instinct, not thinking at all, and is up and out the tavern doors into the rain. She's neglected to collect her cloak but the rain is cool against her overwarm skin and she doesn't care - she just needs to go.
She isn't running away. She isn't.
It's a strategic retreat, a perfectly acceptable battle tactic. Sir Theodore would approve - no he would not, of course he would not - Jane's sure of it. After all, her armor is gone, her defenses are down; she's completely exposed and she's been compromised.
So, so compromised.
Jane makes her way across the muddied street and into the stables of their inn. It's dark in here, but the stable boy has left a small lantern burning and it's just enough light for Jane to see the contents of her stomach splatter into the hay of the first stall.
She hates to vomit; she'd rather be nauseous than experience the complete lack control, the irregular ictus of the cramps, the wetness which flows from her eyes and nose.
Tears force their way out of the corners of her eyes with each convulsion. It probably wouldn't be so bad - the spasms wouldn't be so painful, at least - if Jane could let herself retch until her body is done.
But she can't, she won't.
She fights desperately against each pull until her sides and middle feel like they are being pierced by daggers; a punishment for some unknown sin.
The heaving goes on forever, or at least, it seems like it does.
When it finishes, Jane leans against the post, bent over and panting. She wonders how long she's been gone and if Gunther has returned. Wonders, in a detached and slow-minded sort of way, if now that she is spent, if she can return to their table for what is left of the evening. Logic tells her the episode couldn't have lasted terribly long - there hadn't been much in her stomach to begin with - and despite her perception otherwise, she'd probably been gone a few minutes, at most.
When the last of the nausea recedes Jane wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her sodden shirt. She straightens, less steady than she would like but steady enough, to meet the baleful, judgemental eye of Black. It's his stall she's messed in, and he snorts his displeasure with a great gust of air. His breath blows the sodden ringlets back from her face, a not-so-subtle rebuke, and she is just about to tell him what she really thinks of his pretty-boy, haughty, spoiled ways -
- when Gunther comes tearing into the stables, slamming the door open with a loud BANG! that startles the horses. He has both of their cloaks draped over his arm and his hair is dripping into the collar of his shirt.
Jane opens her mouth to scold him; he should have put his own cloak on before coming to seek her out. He hates the rain, despises the wet, and now they'll both be damp and miserable and her completely unable to deal with his whining - when he demands to know what is wrong.
Jane's lips press together in annoyance - she's too wrung out to generate anything close to real anger - but it bothers her to think he has a right to know, to demand some sort of answer. Especially when she herself cannot put words to her feelings.
Hasn't been able to for months.
Hell, she hadn't even fully finished falling apart when he came crashing in.
So she avoids his question, dodges it like she would one of his sloppy attacks, and distracts him with an answer to avoid voicing the reason. The truth is too much, too raw, so she tells him that she's had too much to drink and gestures to the vomit in the hay as flimsy proof.
He scowls and she can see him trying to remember, trying to count the times the maids had refilled her cup; but he'd been distracted - nay, assaulted, if she's being fair - by pretty faces and ample bosoms. No doubt the state of her cup had gone unnoticed under the continual onslaught of so much soft flesh.
Whether or not he believes her, Jane cannot say, but he seems to reach some sort of conclusion, at any rate. He hands her his handkerchief and bids her to sit by the door while he hunts for a shovel in the darkened building. Jane uses rainwater to wash the tears from her face and Gunther scrapes up of the mess she's made in Black's stall.
The horse makes a sound which can only be described as disgust, stamps his hooves in distaste, but Gunther voices no complaint. He replaces the shovel, settles her cloak about her shoulders, then leads her back to their rooms where Jane falls into a deep, troubled sleep.
If he notices her red-rimmed eyes or obvious lack of hangover the next morning, he is smart enough not to comment.