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There's a mobile ball of winter wear menacing the Hound's Pit Pub. There's really no other way to describe it. Presumably, the future Empress is buried somewhere under it, because it sure didn't totter out into the yard on its own, but Samuel's probably seen stranger thing than self-moving wool before, so who's he to say. Then again, the bundle of wool is squeaking at him, so it's probably a safe bet that Emily is in fact somewhere in there. "Samuel, Samuel!"
Callista is hot on her heels, also covered head to toe in winter wear, but having escaped whatever woolly fate has befallen Emily. It's not good form to be smoking around kids, so Samuel flicks his cigarette to the ground, grinds it out under the heel of his boot, and pushes off so he's no longer leaning against the edge of Piero's workshop. "What's this then, have you eaten the Empress? We're going to need her, you know." The wool teeters to a stop before him, and Emily's reedy voice makes the brave trek from under mountains of cloth to the cool air. "No, Samuel, it's me! Corvo's worried I'm going to catch a cold." After a moment, she adds "I'd stamp my foot, but I'm scared I'd fall."
Nodding solemnly, Samuel makes a big show of looking around to see if anyone's watching, winking at Callista where she's hovering. Then, he leans forward. "How about," he suggests "I stamp my foot for you? What's the point of being Empress if you don't have people to do things like stamping feet." A bit of the wool bobs slightly, which Samuel takes for an answer, and--well, if he says that it's surprisingly satisfying to make a show of childish anger, he trusts it won't get very far. "But that's not why I'm here!" She says, after she's sure he's done. "Callista says Admiral Havelock would probably let me have a season party if I said I'd already invited people when I ask."
Samuel is, in a word, torn. On the one hand, the Loyalists are the ones who pay for his elixir, who keep him (for a given value) safe, and he definitely shouldn't do anything that might anger them. On the other hand--he's sure that somewhere under probably eleven different scarves Emily is giving him her best pleading look, and who is he to say no to an Empress? "All right," he says. "If you ask Lord Corvo and he says it's okay, then old Samuel will be there."
There's a vague whoosh of displaced air that means the former Lord Protector will be prowling around a corner soon, and sure enough Callista straightens, the ball of winter wear that is Emily Kaldwin gives an excited "Corvo!"
The man who has single-handedly brought the city to its knees goes down to his, and Emily flings herself into his arms with all disgust at the amount of layers she's been forced into forgotten. "Corvo, can I have a season party, Samuel says I can if you say yes, please, Corvo?" Rumor had it that the Lord Protector was never one for laughter, but some of the wrinkles on his face crease up to reveal that they are in fact smile lines at Emily's earnestness. "If Samuel thinks it's a good idea, then so do I." he says. "But let's get you back inside, where it isn't so cold."
Never mind that there's not even so much as frost on the ground; never mind that Corvo hasn't been back to his native oven of an island in decades--he's apparently never quite lost the idea that the moment the sun doesn't bead sweat on your brow is the moment it is possible to freeze to death. Emily sighs, but goes with good grace, towing Corvo along by the end of one of his sleeves, and Callista with the sheer force of her personality. The last Samuel hears, the little terror is babbling happily away about her party plans. Leaning back onto the wall of Piero's workshop, Samuel takes a moment to be happy that they--that Corvo--rescued the little Lady. For the sake of the place, as much as for hers. She brings a lightness to the pub, one it has desperately needed. And she brings that same lightness to Corvo.
She'll be a fantastic Empress, once they've put her on the throne. And Samuel is proud of the role he's played in their efforts, no matter how small it may be.