Elayra snorted at Ghent’s comment about her being ‘something else.’ “For your sake, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
	She frowned when Ghent called Drust their uncle. “We already told you he’s not blood related to either of us,” she said through an impatient sigh as she turned left, a finger still rubbing over one of the feathers on her arrows.
	Her frown deepened when he reiterated her statement about coffee. “That’s what I just said, isn't it?” She looked to him with a raised eyebrow.
	[b]“What about tea?”[/b]
	“Tea?” she interrupted before Ghent continued. Her brows rose. “I… wouldn’t know. He’s known for many things, but a tea obsession isn’t one of them,” she said slowly, wondering where [i]that[/i] odd question had come from. “But yes, tea is easy enough to make when you can find herbs to do so.”
	She blinked at his hope, realizing that neither she nor Drust had fully explained the situation with Hatter. But he would need to know, sooner or later. [i]Deserved[/i] to know. But her eyes narrowed at him when he continued.
	“I would hope you’re not referring to Drust and me,” she growled dangerously as they turned the corner. "[i]We[/i] aren't the crazy ones." She eyed the slouching man further down the sidewalk suspiciously, her grip on her bow tightening, but he did not seem to notice them immediately.
	“Wait, [i]what?[/i]” she snapped at Ghent’s suggestion of taking the scenic route. “Like [i]you[/i] just said, we shouldn’t keep Drust waiting any longer!” She scowled and took an irate breath as she finally left her arrows alone and gripped the bridge of her nose. [i]One thing at a time,[/i] she ordered herself. “Look, Ghent,” she began, unsure how to tell him about Hatter. “Your ‘old man,’ he—”
	 Before she could get more than that out, her attention snapped to the man when he called Ghent’s name. In an instant, she gauged the distance between him and them, decided an arrow would be sufficient at that range, and cocked and drew back her bow, her feet shifting expertly with the motion. Though ever ready to fire with the arrow aimed toward the man’s chest, she held it, unsure whether the man was friend or foe.
	Elayra snarled when Ghent called her ‘your highness,’ her grip on the bow unwavering. “Shut. Up!” she bit. When he finished, she glared at him for a short moment, then slowly released her bow, preventing the arrow from firing. “Fine,” she growled grudgingly, returning the arrow to its quiver, “but don’t [i]ever[/i] call me that, especially where enemy ears might hear!”
	As the man approached, she rested her hand on the hilt of her dagger hanging beside the quiver, trying to make the action look as leisurely as possible, ever ready to draw it or her sword should the need arise.