Fall back she decided for him.
"Come on Yarn, this saber-kitten needs some dinner."
Cyréne eased Vilkas backward out of the doors and onto the porch. He sat down on the nearest chair, the same stunned look still plastered on his face.
"Vilkas, come on!" She clapped her hands. "Let's go! You've got money, right?"
Finally she threw her hands up in exasperation. "Oh for Talos' sake, wait here."
Cyréne eased back into Jorrvaskr and slipped down to the main living quarters, unnoticed. She stopped in the room she shared with Ria and Njada, grabbed a small bag of coins off of her nightstand, and began to rifle through the chest at the foot of her bed. She shoved the coins, a small sack, and some clean clothes into a leather satchel, and then slipped down the hall toward Vilkas's room to repeat the process.
She opened the door to find a drop-dead gorgeous woman sitting on Vilkas's bed. Her mouth dropped open slightly as her thoughts began to race.
This woman is beautiful! What is she? Half Nord, half Brenton, maybe . . . are her eyes . . . purple? That is unfair. No one's hair can really be that shiny – it looks like ebony, and perfect adorable curls everywhere? Wait, this cannot be the person Farkas was yelling at.
Cyréne realized she was staring and put on a friendly smile. "Um, hi there." Brilliant, Genius! "I'm sorry to interrupt . . . whatever this is. I'm just grabbing some clothes, and I'll be out of your way."
"Is Vilkas with you?"
Cyréne looked around. "Nope, doesn't look like it."
She rummaged quickly through the dresser, pulling out some brown leather trousers and a white tunic. When she turned to find the Dark-Haired-Dibella-Come-to-Life standing right behind her, she nearly jumped out of her own skin. Whoa!
"Where is my husband?"
Ooooooh . . . . shit!. "Um sorry, can't help you there."
Cyréne grabbed a pair of leather boots and hurried down the hall. "Bye" she called over her shoulder.
"Come back here," the woman yelled.
What in Oblivion!? Cyréne sped up, exited the living quarters and leaned against the door. "Wow."
She nearly yelped our loud when it began rattling behind her.
"Where is my husband!?" the woman screamed. "Tell me, right now!"
Probably hiding from his bat-shit-crazy wife. Or . . . possibly, waiting for me to take him to dinner.
Tilma, who was halfway down the stairs, stopped and looked at Cyréne, brow furrowed. "What is it, dear?"
Cyréne grabbed Tilma's broom and shoved it through both handles of the double doors. More muffled screaming came from the other side of the door. "Let me out!"
Cyréne laughed nervously. "Well you see, Tilma . . . the thing is . . ."
Tilma reached out a time-worn hand and patted Cyréne's cheek. "Oh don't you worry about a thing, dear. I never liked that woman anyway. Besides, no one can fault an old woman for being a little hard of hearing."
Cyréne grinned and dropped a quick kiss on the elderly servant's cheek as she darted up the stairs. "Tilma, you're a peach!"
The maid smiled fondly at Cyréne's back and then leaned towards the double doors. 'What's that, dear? You'll have to speak up, I'm afraid I'm a bit hard of hearing."