Ambrosia had turned away from him. If Trystan had been less flabbergasted and more alert, he would have known to be watching her with all the intentness of his Auror days, waiting for the coming strike.
He had expected the scream, and the fury in her gaze when she looked back at him, gorgon-like, but the pitcher flying at him caught him off-guard. He was still sitting on the side of the bed; he was still fully nude; he didn’t have his wand in hand in time to stop it coming. He managed to duck away from it, just about – the ceramic pitcher hit his shoulder, hard, and rolled onto the floor where it cracked to pieces.
Trystan sprang up – and as he glanced around, he was looking for the discarded clothes he’d left his wand in, to have a shield charm ready next time – but any sense apparently fled him as he stood. Because, rather than try and talk his wife down, or restrain her before she attempted his murder with the washbowl next, he gave her an odd look. “No, love,” he said, almost callous or triumphant in his amusement, shaking his head, “I’m not the bastard.” They are. Don’t you see? Is it so hard to grasp?
He had expected the scream, and the fury in her gaze when she looked back at him, gorgon-like, but the pitcher flying at him caught him off-guard. He was still sitting on the side of the bed; he was still fully nude; he didn’t have his wand in hand in time to stop it coming. He managed to duck away from it, just about – the ceramic pitcher hit his shoulder, hard, and rolled onto the floor where it cracked to pieces.
Trystan sprang up – and as he glanced around, he was looking for the discarded clothes he’d left his wand in, to have a shield charm ready next time – but any sense apparently fled him as he stood. Because, rather than try and talk his wife down, or restrain her before she attempted his murder with the washbowl next, he gave her an odd look. “No, love,” he said, almost callous or triumphant in his amusement, shaking his head, “I’m not the bastard.” They are. Don’t you see? Is it so hard to grasp?
