At breakfast, Connor was choosing people to come with him on a trading run. Davy volunteered for the last spot on the team before Connor could leave him behind again. It didn't help. Connor passed him over anyway.

"Na, na," Connor murmured, scarcely looking at him, and chose Arven instead.

Davy felt wounded. He tried very hard to keep his expression neutral, but he really felt as if he'd been stabbed. He couldn't even pick up his mug, afraid it would tremble in his hand. He just wanted to be with Connor and he had no idea why Connor was so cold.

Connor was telling his chosen ones what to wear, what to bring, when to report. The young scarecrow Arven stuffed a biscuit into his mouth and scrambled off the bench to collect his gear.

Davy's ears felt full of cotton wool. He wasn't imagining this. Connor really was snubbing him. When Connor rose from the table and went outside, Davy followed him out. Connor did not look back.

Davy caught up with Connor's long strides. He had been rehearsing speeches, trying out different openings. Nothing worked. He ended up just shouting at Connor's back, "What? What is it? Am I not good enough for you!"

Connor stopped, tilted his head as if hearing an odd sound. He turned and made as if surprised to find anyone there. "Ah. Our highborn."

"Is that it?"

"Your words, laddie, not mine."

"And I ate them. I'll thank you not to cast them back at me."

"Very well then, your lordship." Connor inclined his head in a small bow.

Something broke inside. Probably his heart, but it was easier to pretend it was his pride.

"Oh that is it!" Davy drew his pistol.

Connor, utterly fearless before a loaded weapon, batted the pistol out of Davy's hand with a hard, swift slap. It went flying. He seized Davy's wrist, hauled him in close and grabbed him by the scruff of his hair. He radiated a depth of anger Davy had only ever seen in the wounded. The heat he felt from him was more than anger. And the tremor he felt inside himself was more than fear and indignity.

"Draw on me?" Connor roared at him so close Davy felt the breaths of his angry words pelt his lips. "You dog. You cur."

Still holding Davys hair in his fist and dragging him with him, Connor stalked over to the pistol, picked it out of the dirt. Davy felt the barrel atop his head--not aimed into his skull, but a threat all the same.

"Have I not told you, you dont know how to use this? Here, Davy, how do ye fancy the view?"

Too heartbroken and furious to feel the terror he ought, Davy cried, "I will not stand to be insulted!"

"And so you shan't," Connor conceded and let go of him. His wrath vanished as quickly as it had blazed. The fight was over. Connor pushed the pistol grip into Davy's hand and walked away.

Davy was not sure what he'd been thinking. Clearly he had not been thinking at all. He would never have shot Connor, so what made him draw the pistol?

Connor left Davy trembling. And it wasn't in anger.