[ Bastien's been in the middle of dozens of arguments. Many of them he was paid to cause. And nearly all of them were funny, because he didn't care about the outcome, and because when they were done he'd take his five or twenty crowns and leave.
This isn't funny. This is humiliating.
His pride wants him to buckle back into his boots. Square his shoulders and lift his chin. Refuse to be a silent, largely invisible plot device in whatever story is being told over his head, for the time it takes for him to escape with all his dignity on. As much of it as he can salvage, anyway, given that he can feel himself flushing pink like some sort of amateur. But he looks again at Byerly. He hasn't yet had a moment to ask if he's all right, to touch his hand or kiss his forehead and try to brush any lingering sense of dread or isolation off his shoulders. So Bastien can't bring himself to move, and he stays quiet and still—and lopsided, one foot still in one low-heeled boot. ]
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This isn't funny. This is humiliating.
His pride wants him to buckle back into his boots. Square his shoulders and lift his chin. Refuse to be a silent, largely invisible plot device in whatever story is being told over his head, for the time it takes for him to escape with all his dignity on. As much of it as he can salvage, anyway, given that he can feel himself flushing pink like some sort of amateur. But he looks again at Byerly. He hasn't yet had a moment to ask if he's all right, to touch his hand or kiss his forehead and try to brush any lingering sense of dread or isolation off his shoulders. So Bastien can't bring himself to move, and he stays quiet and still—and lopsided, one foot still in one low-heeled boot. ]