“Matilda! Is that you?”

 

The old grey-haired woman looked up from her tea and squinted. “Beatrice? What are you doing in Solitude?”

 

“Ah, visiting an old friend.” Beatrice shuffled forward on arthritic legs and peered down. “What have you done with your hair?”

 

Matilda set an age-spotted hand on her coiled bun. “I decided to wear it up. This heat is beastly! Would you care to join me?”

 

“Well, but I shouldn’t stay long,” Beatrice replied, already pulling out a chair. “What have you been up to these last…how long has it been?”

 

“Oh, three or so months, I would think? Ever since the wedding for that nice couple in Whiterun.”

 

“Ah, yes. You were going to call upon them soon after, as I recall. How did that go?”

 

“Oh, very well. We had a splendid time! They own a chateau on a lovely lake, so we spent some pleasant evenings on their small boat just enjoying the water.”

 

“That does sound delightful! I’ve just been in Falkreath, myself. Have you ever been?”

 

“No, I don’t think I have.”

 

“Oh, you should go! It is lovely in the south this time of year. People are always out and about enjoying the fine weather. In fact, I’ve heard the Jarl himself has taken to strolling about town, although I did not witness such an event myself.”

 

“Goodness, that must cause a stir with his guards! You can’t be too careful in this time of war!”

 

“I thought the very same! But you know nobles.” Beatrice shook a disapproving head. “I suspect it won’t continue for too long, though. It will be Sun’s Dusk soon enough, when even the southern holds become too cold for outdoor frolicking.”

 

“Oh, so true! It even gets chilly during Frostfall, so I shouldn’t wonder that the town begins nestling in at that time.”

 

“Perhaps. The south is warmer, though, and the weather often stays fair enough to sustain outdoor frivolity until Evening Star.”

 

“I shall definitely have to take your suggestion – it does sound lovely and winter in the north causes my joints to ache something fierce.”

 

“You should do that! Oh, and when you do, make sure you pick up some good reading material. Even with the better weather, it's nice to have something to read on days when the weather is bad."

 

"True! I'll do that very thing!"

 

Beatrice seemed as if she was about to stand, but suddenly stopped and leaned forward. “Oh, by the way, did I ever tell you about my niece?”

 

Matilda blinked. “I know of her, though I do not believe we’ve met.”

 

“Well, she had an interesting summer. She always wanted to be a seamstress, so she started practicing at a very young age, making little things like children do. Kerchiefs and small dolls, you know the sorts of things.”

 

Matilda nodded as her hands grasped her tea cup on the table.

 

“As she grew older, she was able to improve and make bigger things. Then, a few months ago, the Jarl’s Steward put out a call – the Jarl’s palace needed new curtains and a contest was to be held. The winner of the contest would have their curtains hanging in the Jarl’s palace for all the world to see!

 

“Of course my niece was very excited about this and determined to enter the contest, though she knew she would be competing against seamstresses far more skilled and experienced. Still, she sat down and did her very best and on the day of the contest, do you know what happened?”

 

Matilda shook her head. “I don’t know. Did she win?”

 

“Of course not! Her curtains were the worst of the bunch. They were crooked and garish and unfit for a slave’s kennel, say nothing of a Jarl’s palace. The poor thing was the laughingstock of the town, all because she tried to do something that was far too big for her.”

 

Beatrice stood and gathered her shawl around her shoulders.

 

“She is beside herself with shame and has given up sewing altogether. Last I heard, she had taken a job in a tavern. I assured her there is no shame in such a life – some people just aren’t cut out for sewing.” She placed a wrinkled hand on Matilda’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Well, it has been lovely to catch up with you, dear. Do take care. I hope to see you again soon!”

 

Matilda smiled up at her. “Oh, that will be delightful! I’ll keep your niece in my prayers. Have a very pleasant evening.”

 

Beatrice nodded and turned and tottered toward the door. Matilda’s watery eyes stared in the direction her acquaintance had gone but her focus seemed elsewhere and when the serving girl stopped at the table and asked a question, Matilda gave a startled jump that caused her cup and the ceramic teapot to fly off the table and splinter with a jarring crash onto the stone tile floor.

 

The remaining tea leaked through the shards, winding its way along the tile and puddling under the table. Matilda stammered out apologies as she stood and tried to sop up the mess with the hem of her skirt, but the serving girl assured her all was fine and the embarrassed old woman left coins on the table and scuffled for the exit.

 

The tea probably hadn’t been poisoned, Sloan mused as she stepped out the tavern door and made her halting way toward the city gates (she wanted to move faster but she had to stay in the Matilda costume and persona for just a bit longer). Still, she had felt the air of enmity rolling off Mishi the moment the woman had stepped into the building. Better safe than sorry - the very first lesson she had been taught was never to trust anyone, after all.

 

Sloan allowed herself a small sigh. Getting her assignments while away from the Vixen always involved far too much preparation for her taste. And left her wide open for criticism. Such as Mishi feeling that Sloan had not styled her hair correctly (an unnecessary addition to the conversation, in Sloan’s opinion) but, then, Mishi always had some nitpick about her disguises. That wasn’t the cause of the anger – that was just normal Mishi.

 

The conversation had gone as usual – how did your last mission go; fine, the bodies are deep in a lake in the middle of nowhere  - until it came time for her next assignment. And that, Sloan was certain, was the cause of Mishi’s ire.

 

The Jarl of Falkreath. And not just an assassination, she was supposed to steal records of some sort. It was a big assignment, the kind of high-profile job that was usually only entrusted to the most experienced assassins. As one of the tong’s newest members – only Kis was newer, having joined only six months ago – Sloan was nowhere close to the top.

 

No wonder Mishi was mad – this should have been her job. What’s more, Mishi’s uncharacteristically rambling story at the end told its own tale.

 

Mishi didn’t think Sloan could handle the assignment. In fact, Mishi was very certain Sloan would fail. It was a short timeline – she would have to get all the way to Falkreath, do her scouting, create and implement her plan, and get back out, all in less than ninety days, which would be plenty of time for the normal jobs she had been doing but was frightfully short for a job that could conceivably take years to plan.

 

Sloan loosened fists she hadn’t realized she had clenched. One of her bad habits, a sure tell to an experienced eye. She berated herself for the slip – she had worked hard to break her habitual tics but sometimes they still snuck back. She could feel Mishi’s scornful sneer.

 

She wondered for a moment if the short timeline was a way for Mishi to ensure Sloan’s failure but she disregarded the thought almost immediately. This was too big an assignment – Sloan was certain Mishi would not jeopardize the outcome out of petty spite. No, someone wanted the Jarl dead as quickly as possible. And, for whatever reason, that job had fallen to her.

 

She shuffled through the gates and began the long walk down the slope toward the city's outer wall. This was her moment to shine, to show Mishi that Kira's faith in her hadn't been out of place. She nearly clenched her fist again, but caught herself just in time, but allowed herself a grim smile. She would succeed; she had to, if only to see the look on Mishi's face when she returned triumphant.