If Robin weren't so palpably hurt by the whole thing, Chance would be strongly tempted to laugh at this mystery woman's expense. Now, how's Chance going to explain romance novels to someone who lived in a very religious society before the advent of the printing press?
"Robin, honey, I think she was probably making a pass at you," she says. "Your legend makes you a romantic hero. Faint heart never won fair lady, et cetera. Let me guess -- she was really attentive? Hung on your every word? I have to say I'm impressed you aren't falling for it. Most men would be taking advantage of the unexpected fame, and the female interest that comes with it. But of course you wouldn't want that." She knows he's pretty sensitive.
Sighing and shaking her head, she looks out into the trees. "You won't want to make things more awkward than they already are. Go to dinner with her, meet her friends. It won't be fun, I'm sure. It's a social obligation at this point." Shouldn't be worse than your average wine-and-cheese reception, at least. Something to slog through. "Who knows, her friends might have something interesting to say. I've had surprisingly good conversations at what I thought would be your typical dull awards dinner. Something related to my job," she clarifies. "Sad to say, this is the job literature has fashioned for you. Legendary hero, cardboard cutout. The good news is," she says with a crooked grin, "you can quit anytime you want."
He chuckled dryly. "I am not so naive as you think, Chance. There were village girls..." Robin promptly contradicted his assertion by blushing fiercely. "What I mean is, I was aware of the lady's interest." He rubbed the back of his neck.
Chance is undaunted. "Yeah, village girls. Who were your contemporaries." Who didn't have Harlequin-cover visions dancing in their heads. "I have no illusions that the Middle Ages didn't have its equivalent of one-night stands. That's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is that the legend is going to be a turn-on for people like this woman you're talking about -- and that was who, exactly? I don't think you mentioned a name." She doesn't necessarily plan to give the poor woman a talking-to. She'd just like to know at whom she should be snickering behind her hand next time there's a Sorting or other major gathering.
"And yes. You can quit anytime you want. Look at Simon's brother-in-law. He's some kind of nineteenth-century ship's surgeon and he goes wandering around in school robes. Or in a grubby old sweatshirt and jeans. And by the time people actually start talking to him and find out where he's really from, they've already developed their first impressions."
Robin looked at her. "You will not - no, of course you will not. She is the lady Toshiko Sato." He gave her another look, but did not say anything else. This was Chance - he trusted her. Mostly.
He looked down at himself. "So it is my style of dress? What shall I change to? I do not think I will be comfortable in robes, and I could not shoot well in them either."
"I won't say anything," Chance assures him. "It'd be just plain awkward. Anyway I'm not in the business of rubbing people's noses in their gaucherie. Much."
She considers his attire. "I'm not much of a fashion consultant, I expect. Just something modern." She grins. "Your modern-day woodsman generally goes for flannel shirts."
"Robin, honey, I think she was probably making a pass at you," she says. "Your legend makes you a romantic hero. Faint heart never won fair lady, et cetera. Let me guess -- she was really attentive? Hung on your every word? I have to say I'm impressed you aren't falling for it. Most men would be taking advantage of the unexpected fame, and the female interest that comes with it. But of course you wouldn't want that." She knows he's pretty sensitive.
Sighing and shaking her head, she looks out into the trees. "You won't want to make things more awkward than they already are. Go to dinner with her, meet her friends. It won't be fun, I'm sure. It's a social obligation at this point." Shouldn't be worse than your average wine-and-cheese reception, at least. Something to slog through. "Who knows, her friends might have something interesting to say. I've had surprisingly good conversations at what I thought would be your typical dull awards dinner. Something related to my job," she clarifies. "Sad to say, this is the job literature has fashioned for you. Legendary hero, cardboard cutout. The good news is," she says with a crooked grin, "you can quit anytime you want."
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Quit? "How?"
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"And yes. You can quit anytime you want. Look at Simon's brother-in-law. He's some kind of nineteenth-century ship's surgeon and he goes wandering around in school robes. Or in a grubby old sweatshirt and jeans. And by the time people actually start talking to him and find out where he's really from, they've already developed their first impressions."
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He looked down at himself. "So it is my style of dress? What shall I change to? I do not think I will be comfortable in robes, and I could not shoot well in them either."
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She considers his attire. "I'm not much of a fashion consultant, I expect. Just something modern." She grins. "Your modern-day woodsman generally goes for flannel shirts."
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