Her pulse skipped a beat. They were talking about the hammer—the clan's most sacred relic, forged by Tavish's forebears to bash her own ancestors. (In fairness, both sides had displayed admirable enthusiasm for the pastime.)
Wanton pressed a trembling hand to her chest. Breathe. Remain scientific. This is anthropology in motion.
The taller thief nudged the other. "Careful with it. The laird'll nae ken till morning."
They lifted the Hammer of Ancestry from its stand. It was enormous, brutal, magnificent—the very image of cultural overcompensation.
Wanton's fingers twitched. Her moral fiber creaked.
"No interference," she whispered through gritted teeth. "You are an observer. An enlightened, serene observer."
Then the shorter thief chuckled. "Once it's gone, we'll see the mighty MacTease crawl to the English on his knees."
That did it. Her restraint collapsed like a poorly tested bridge.
“Excellent performance, Observational Self,” she muttered. “Forty-two seconds before interference—new data point achieved.”
She erupted from behind the chair like a morally indignant jack-in-the-box, struck her head on the wall sconce, ricocheted off a shield, and stumbled forward in a trajectory best described as unplanned momentum. She popped into the thieves' line of sight with all the grace of an escaped laboratory specimen who had definitely failed containment.
"Unhand that cultural metaphor, you ruffians!"
While the culprits gaped at her, she exhaled, centered herself, and assumed position.
To the untrained eye, it resembled a ram attempting to lick its own posterior—one arm lifted in aggressive enlightenment, the other shielding what remained of her virtue, spleen, and theoretical frameworks.
"Miss Thistlethorpe, guide my knees," she whispered—words that had preceded many a shriek, one accidental concussion, and the permanent banning of her from the British Museum's winter gala.
Then, to the thieves, she declared with solemn menace:
"Prepare yourselves… for Wallflower-Fu."
The first thief blinked. "...What?"
The second frowned. "Is that contagious?"
They exchanged a nod—the universal Highland signal for Aye, let's rush the tiny woman.
Wanton flipped her bonnet back like a general lowering her visor. "A coordinated attack. How thoughtful."
The first lunged, sword raised. Wanton pivoted on Morag's oversized boots, swung her reticule in a windmill arc, and redirected his momentum with a weaponized eye roll, a perfect Patriarchal Pendulum™.
He flew sideways into Tavish's display of antlers.
CRACK!
Antlers, thief, and fragile male pride rained to the floor in a unified chorus of:
"—OOF—"
"—ACH—"
Field Note 31.1: Defensive redirection successful. Antler integrity: compromised. Dignity: non-existent.
The second thief barreled toward her—but Wanton's blood was up now.
"You'll no' be tellin' me how to think, lass!" he snarled, reaching for her arm.
"Excellent trigger phrase," she said—and unleashed The Torque of Morality Twist™.
