A few days later, the Blackthorn team strolls down the cobbled streets of the market square of Nettlehusk, the morning air thick with the smell of roasting chestnuts and fresh-cut flowers from the stalls lining every corner. Pip clanks along cheerfully, his chassis shining from his most recent buff-and-oil session, sunlight skating bright reflections off his wraith-glass frame.
Penelo and Lula flank him like personal security guards, if security guards were constantly giggling, swatting away admirers, and carrying shopping bags stacked as high as their heads.
"No, sorry! The Pleasure Prince's fully booked!" Penelo calls out for the third time in five minutes, hip-checking a red-faced shopkeeper who tries to shove a bag of gold into Pip's hands.
"We'll pass your... marriage proposal to him later," Lula adds to a blushing noblewoman, who promptly faints dead away into the arms of her handmaiden.
