5700 words. It's pretty much all I did, writing it then typing it. *cross-eyed icon here*
‘Yes, whoever he is,’ Cook says weightily over her shoulder towards me.
I spooned up the last of my stew and consoled myself by thinking of him, that fine creature. If I could not have that soldier back, I would settle for such a man as the highwayman, sheathed in leather and velvet, and trimmed with lace and spurs and a spray of dark feathers in that debonair hat of his. Or unsheathed, untrimmed, kissing or abusing me in the forest, sighing soft or growling filth into my ear.
Well, she should not have him, at least. Miserably, I pushed my bowl away and sat composing myself to leave. She will be lucky to have him so much as touch a tip of her hair again.
And yes, that is Tom the Ostler speaking.