[This time, the mention of her father doesn't raise more than a hint of a grimace. It's clear he's going to keep prodding at that wound, and she'd better quit rising to it. She tells herself it doesn't matter, that he never knew her father and it's only empty mockery, that there's no harm he can do to Pat Delgado's memory so long as she remembers him well. That doesn't stop it stinging, but it'll have to do.]

[He steps forward again, and it takes real effort not to flinch; by now he's close enough that the coarse cloth of his tunic brushes her folded arms, and she might be stubborn, but she's not entirely stupid, and she hasn't forgotten how easily he bested her just a few minutes ago. Nor has she forgotten the violence other men have done to her of late, even if her face may no longer be swelled and bloodied.]

[But the trouble is, give an inch, and he'll take a mile. Then again, give nothing, and he'll likely take the inch and the mile anyway. It's a tough corner to be in, with no way out.]

[She bites down on the inside of her cheek, aware of how she has to tilt her head just to look at him. One more step, she tells herself. If he takes one step closer, you can back up.]

If ye don't, I'd imagine we'll be at this a while. And I'm bored of it, and I can't imagine it'll stay sport for 'ee all that long, either.

Not to mention, if ye'll keep standin' so close, we'll both have cricks in our necks ere long.