Diar treats you like a kid brother too often. Maybe tonight has shown her what you can do.
There's the sound of running feet, and an usher comes pelting in, a young boy—or young person of some sort, it's hard to tell at the age when they're all best described as "urchins"—with disheveled hair. "Please, Master Osberht, you're wanted in the courtyard at once."
"Nichol says not to forget the flowers!" you tell Diar, thrusting the basket into her hands before you head for the courtyard at a pace just slightly more dignified than an all-out run.
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