“I said I was going. What did you have to go and do that for?” She ducked as her backpack sailed too close over her head. It landed with a soft thud in the snow-drift near the wall, its contents spilling out. Her shoulders drooped. The bastards had been through it. What little coin she'd managed to scrounge would be gone, she knew. Big Harry would be mad, and that meant bruises in the morning.
“I told you before, gypo,” the innkeeper yelled from the warm yellow glow of the doorway, “Your thieving kind aren't welcome here. Now sod off before I set the dogs on you.”
The girl made the sign of the evil eye and shuffled over to her backpack.
“A pox upon you.” She jabbed a skinny finger towards the doorway. “From this day forth your ale will taste like frog's piss.”
The door swung shut.