All of it is fake--everything he's been saying and doing this whole time, here and back when they first arrived. He turns that attitude of his on and off like there's a light switch hidden under his cuff. She should have known, should have seen it, but he's like a magician: the trick's only visible because he wants it to be. All of it's fake, so much so that she doesn't know whether the searching stare is real or one more layer of deception.

At some point, she's turned around to face him again, and God, she hopes everyone's too drunk to notice the fact that they're standing here, making a scene. She hates the way he looks at her, like he understands what's going through her head.

"Nobody's bothered me here," she answers tartly, her arms crossed in front of her, "except a drunk called Byerly."