She squared her shoulders, taking stock of her dire variables. The fire sputtered, her bonnet had entered its afterlife, and the ratio of Wanton-to-thieves was bleak. Very well then. Time for absurd, irresponsible heroics. (because until now, the dear reader would have to agree that she had behaved with near-monastic restraint.)
Her gaze fell on the Hammer of Ancestry, glinting in the firelight like destiny's paperweight.
"Right," she whispered, eyes bright. "New approach: divine retribution."
She raced across the hall, skirts flying, seized the handle, and braced her feet.
"This is it," she told herself breathlessly. "The moment I transcend history. I will lift it—smite them—stand triumphant, an avenging Boudica of torque and justice!"
The hammer did not move.
She frowned, readjusted her grip, and tried again, summoning all the fervor of a woman about to enter legend.
The thieves were halfway to her now.
"You might wish to pause," she called over her shoulder. "Just a moment! I am attempting something—quite impressive, actually—if it would only—"
She pulled.
The hammer remained unmoved.
Her spine made a noise like a polite objection.
The thieves advanced another step.
She gave them a shaky smile. "Patience is a virtue! I'm nearly—oh heavens—"
She heaved again, and with an ominous crack, her back locked, and she emitted a noise previously undocumented in scientific literature.
Pain zinged down her spine like insulted lightning.
"Oh," she gasped, frozen mid-smite. "Field Note 25.7: weapon resistant to feminist appropriation."
The thieves broke into a run.
Wanton whimpered, "Could one of you perhaps pause until I regain mobility? It's terribly unsporting to attack during spinal rebellion!"
Just when she was about to face the enemy in a position better suited to childbirth, the doors exploded open.
Tavish strode in, his forearms bare, his countenance furious, the kind that suggested someone had insulted both his clan and his kilt.
The thieves froze. One dropped his dagger. The other crossed himself. Both chose the only sensible tactic in the face of Highland rage: immediate flight.
Once they had escaped via the opened windows, Tavish's gaze swept the hall—the toppled tables, the ripped tapestry, the wounded pride. Then his eyes found her.
Wanton panted in the center of it all—bonnet gone, soot-streaked, clutching the hammer as if she’d personally forged Scottish independence. She tried to look less dreadful, whichwas deuced difficult while folded at a right angle and emitting small noises of spinal betrayal.
He blinked once. "What in the bloody name o' Bannockburn happened here?"
"Attempted theft!" she declared. "Also—partial property damage, but in defense of cultural integrity!"
A chair crackled in the fire. A single ember had the audacity to pop.
Tavish exhaled through his nose, a sound that could have bent steel.
"I can fix it," she offered hastily. "The table, the tapestry, and… whatever that was." She pointed with her tongue at a melted, unidentifiable object. (The reader must understand that her hands refused to relinquish the hammer at this point.) "Though I fear there's no saving that."
He crossed to her. His frown was so deep that future natural philosophers might debate whether it was a canyon or simply Tavish MacTease reacting to her existence.
