Emrys frowned at the dark purple pants on the nearby hanger. They had the right aesthetic, but they were silk, which meant two things: first, they were exceptionally hard to clean, even with magic; second, they weren't particularly warm. Emrys didn't know what a hilltop at dawn in Ireland would be like, weather-wise, but if it had even a little wind he'd freeze his bollocks off in silk pants.

The comment about Greengrass was interesting, and in any other context Emrys might have pursued it, because he liked gossip. They had much more serious matters at hand, however, then whatever state of mind Reuben Crouch had been in before the Bartonburg fight. If he had challenged half a dozen men to duels, that was his business; Emrys was only concerned with one, and would very much have liked to reduce that number to none.

"Of course he'll back down," he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "His terms couldn't be simpler. Stop talking to or about his sister. And we've already established that you'll have to stop talking to her anyway, if you go through with this duel."

Emrys pulled out a pair of burgundy pants with thicker fabric than the purple ones and contemplated them. "Oh, you know," he added, as a thought occurred to him. "If you do want to keep things up with this lady — she seems far more trouble than she's worth, but if you do — ending the duel might be the best way to go about it. Then you could tell her how much of a brute her brother is, and how reasonable and accommodating you are by comparison."