(Originally posted 2/18/2002)
Barlow hovered nervously at one end of the hall and debated what to do. His staff huddled in the inn’s entryway and whispered to one another as more crashes and thumps resounded from the chamber at the far end of the wing. More than one had advised the innkeeper to call the guards, but Barlow was hesistant to do so. The tenent in that particular room belonged to the Rose, and he would rather pick a fight with one of the pit gladiators than with the Society. Wringing his hands in his apron, he finally decided to let the noise go – it sounded like it was subsiding anyway. He turned and shooed his staff back to their work. Besides, he reasoned, the lass never failed to pay in good coin. And why risk making her even more angry when she sounded furious enough?
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Only twenty minutes before, Anne had burst back into the inn, startling Barlow and his maids as she stomped down the halls with a set jaw and outrage simmering in her gaze. She made straight for her room and slammed the door closed behind, and then slammed the bolt home to keep all visitors out. Hands clenched, she swung about and glared at the small room. She had tried to remain reasonablly calm with Thomas, and she had outright bitten her tongue with the lieutenant. She had even managed to be cheerful and cordial while introducing the new recruit Annah around. But that brief interlude had done little to diminish her anger. And now it was back to a full boil.
Snarling, Anne threw her helm across the room and took faint satisfaction in hearing the clay vase beside her bed shatter. Her pack was hurled onto the bed shortly after, and it thudded loudly into the wall (thankfully she kept her explosives in a newly contrived belt-pack). Stripping off her heavy gloves, she threw them with enough force to tip the dresser back and thump -it- against the wall as well. Cries of alarm were sounding from the hallway, so she refrained from throwing anything else. But that didn’t stop her from pacing the room with heavy feet, and she found herself swearing like a sailor as she stomped back and forth.
Pausing to pull her sash off, Anne glared down at the source of offense before crumpling it in her fist. She closed her eyes tightly as the anger boiled up again. “Damn it all!” she shouted, turning quickly and tossing the sash onto the dresser. Fuming, she dropped into a chair and leaned forward with elbows on knees. Her hands clasped as she rested her chin on them, her green gaze still livid as she looked up at the wadded cloth across the room.
What was the point of even having her wear the blasted thing? If they damned well didn’t think she was capable of holding the rank, why even grant it in the first place?? She let out a heated sigh that was more a grunt than an exhale. And the same for Thomas, she brooded. Why even bother? Lowering her hands, she bowed her head and tried to rein her emotions in. Thomas had explained everything – and Kenyon had assured her that the whole mess was temporary. But the impression of being slapped on the wrist for taking up the rank GIVEN to her kept her jaw tightly clenched. Had she been disrespectful? Had she ignored senior and superior officers? Not that she was aware.
“I am doing the blasted job they asked me to do!” she growled. “And now I am told that I am nothing but a glorified PFC to anyone outside the division?” She clenched her fists. “They say I am not experienced enough. Fine. I agree. I have no pretensions about questioning or overruling those who outrank me…” As if three quarters of this outfit do not outrank me STILL, her mind appended. She snorted softly. “But no, I will sit in my corner like a good little soldier and keep quiet. If they do not trust me yet, then I will earn it.” She relaxed her fists and sat up straight. “But until they strip that badge off my chest, by all that is holy, they better let me do the job for the recruits I am charged to do.”
A steely edge lingered in her eyes even as the tension in her body slowly released. She wanted to help Thomas shape the recruits; it was one thing she dared to think she might be good at if she had the chance. So if command had a problem with her being so “new”, she would have to show them just what mettle she had and hope that time would prove their doubts to be unfounded. But even as her mind focused on that resolve, the twinge of hurt in her gut twisted one more time.