Chapter 10
Ten
The heavy scent of sizzling meats, roasting vegetables, and spilled ale was overwhelming, and Oaklin’s stomach turned with the vague need to perform some nervous dry heaving.
The Singing Goat Tavern was packed with the post-market crowd, farmers and customers alike, all with heads bent in conversation or thrown back in laughter.
The word inquisitor floated above the general din more than once, freezing Oaklin in their tracks just inside the doorway.
And yet, there were no pitchforks or angry shouts, no zealous prayers or calls to action.
A few people openly stared at them, but the words “new farmer” were on their lips, not “filthy traitor to humanity.”
After a quick once-over, Ryn guided Oaklin to an empty table near the stage with four chairs.
He pulled one out with a flourish, shooting Oaklin a delighted grin.
They managed a weak smile in return, which hopefully covered the fact that their feet refused to move for a beat too long.
Ryn disappeared for a moment, which thankfully gave Oaklin time to take a few deep breaths and convince themself the Inquisitor was not about to burst through the door.
The table under their fingers was smooth with both good workmanship and age, solid and heavy like the broad oak bar where Ryn waited for their drinks.
Every free space on the walls hung with paintings of all sizes, all on only two topics: Mossley’s Rest and food.
In fact, it seemed as though the Goat’s menu was delivered in paint rather than chalk on slate, generous bowls of stew and crispy roasted chicken thighs lovingly rendered in whorls of vivid pigment.
If they were designed to make customers hungry, then they were well executed and effective indeed.
Oaklin’s stomach growled, but they shushed it.
They’d stay for one drink and then go, no matter how much the sound of sizzling pans and a crackling oven tried to convince them otherwise.
Oaklin had almost started to relax when a young woman two tables over caught Oaklin’s eye and smiled, and gave a little wave. Oaklin’s pulse spiked in alarm at being noticed and, unsure of what to do, they gave an awkward wave back, hoping that would be the end of it.
It was the wrong choice. She stood and began to approach the table, and Oaklin’s eyes went wide…just as Ryn came back from the bar, shooting the woman a dirty glare.
“Remember,” he warned.
The woman held her hands up and backed away, smirking all the while.
“Sorry, Ryn,” she said. “Can’t blame me for trying.”
“Sure can,” he shot back. The woman only giggled, returning to her friends with a rueful grin.
“Lior really wasn’t kidding,” Oaklin said faintly.
Ryn shrugged, setting down two pint glasses of something brown and malt-smelling.
“She really wasn’t. But hey, I’m so glad you came! Thanks for joining me,” he said, sliding one of the pints across the table and raising his in salute, kindly not mentioning that he’d had to practically drag them to the tavern.
“I’m glad you caught me before I got too far,” Oaklin lied.
Ryn tipped his head with a knowing look. “Yes, well… You have been known to be a bit flighty. I thought it best to check on you.”
Oaklin winced and took a sip of their drink—a smooth, rich brown ale topped with creamy foam—to cover the reaction. Had they been acting that weird? Had everyone noticed? They shifted in their seat, sneaking paranoid glances from their peripheral vision every few seconds.
Ryn, seeming to sense the anxious turn of Oaklin’s thoughts, waved them away. “Hey, don’t overthink it! I wouldn’t have judged you if you’d told me you wanted to skip tonight. I’m just glad you didn’t.”
His smile was so sweet and sincere that it made Oaklin want to give a little of themself in return. Words came falling out of their mouth before they could stop them.
“I don’t remember anything from the last six years,” they blurted.
Ryn’s eyes went wide, and Oaklin instantly wished they could take it back as the pause between them stretched, filled with the clatter of dishes and the braying laughter of the man at the next table.
Of the eight million small, vulnerable things they could have revealed, they had chosen the most suspicious option possible.
But they couldn’t exactly leave it out there like that, so they continued.
“I know everyone has issues from the Enchantrix’s reign, but I… ”
They trailed off, unsure how to convey the depth of what happened to them without revealing it. There was nothing that quite encompassed the extremely specific horror of having one’s mind and body taken over and used for six straight years. In the hesitant silence that followed, Ryn spoke.
“Have I told you yet how I ended up in Mossley’s Rest?”
Oaklin looked up, eyes wide. “No, actually. I’m sorry I never asked.”
“Eh, you’ve been busy. And it’s not like it’s a particularly unique story.
I did the unwise thing we all do at least once and moved here to follow someone I was courting.
We were from the same hometown, and the Enchantrix’s forces were moving through the area, so she decided it was time to leave.
I went with her, and we landed in Mossley’s Rest.” He gave a rueful smile.
“That relationship ended two years ago—rather bitterly, in fact. But the shop had taken off and I was happy to stay. I like it here.”
His last words were spoken with a quiet sweetness, his gaze drifting to the empty stage at the front of the room. His story was familiar, but not only because so many had fled their hometowns—because Oaklin had heard something just like it recently.
“Lior said something similar a few days ago,” Oaklin began, then clammed up. They had no right to pry into the lives of these people they’d only just met. Ryn blinked for a moment, confused, then burst out laughing.
“Oh, gods above, no. Lior and I never—” He cut off for more wheezing laughter. “Just…no. That would never work, even if Lior were into men. Not that Lior isn’t a catch, you know. Just not what I’m looking for right now.”
He stared up at the empty stage, dragging a fingertip along the rim of his drink while he lost himself in thought, then visibly shook himself and glanced back up at Oaklin.
“There is one thing I miss about my ex, though. She was an incredible help in the bakery. The shop has always been my project, but she had the perfect touch of magic to keep things running when I needed a break.”
“When was the last time you took a break?” Oaklin asked, genuinely curious.
Ryn scowled. “Have you been talking to Jules? Did he put you up to this?”
“No,” Oaklin said, drawing the word out in hesitation. “Does he bug you about it?”
“Constantly,” Ryn said with a gust of a sigh. “‘Ryn, you should close the bakery two days each week, not just one. Ryn, it’s okay to take time off. Ryn, you need a vacation.’ Agh!”
He threaded his fingers through his hair, the muscles of his tattooed forearms flexing as he yanked at the roots.
“I appreciate his concern, but I can’t do those things until I find a reliable assistant with magical talent, and—I say this with absolutely no pressure on you—we don’t get new people in Moss very often, so who exactly am I supposed to hire? ”
Oaklin chewed their lip; they didn’t want to grill Ryn, and Ryn clearly didn’t want to be grilled, but there was an obvious solution. “I assume there’s a reason you can’t just hire someone non-magical to work the counter and market stall for you, so you can focus on the baking?”
Ryn stopped strangling his own hair and let his arms flop back into his lap.
“My own stubbornness, I guess,” he admitted.
“I just don’t want to give up that part of the job.
I love to bake and develop new magical recipes, but I could stand to do less of it.
Greeting people over the counter and checking in with my market regulars is what makes me feel alive, though.
This community is what makes me love the business, not just the baking.
If I gave that part up to someone else and just locked myself in the back to knead bread, it would go poorly.
The Bread Mage would be closed by the end of the year. ”
Ryn seemed to sag in on himself, tipping his head back to stare at the heavy wooden beams of the ceiling and the lanterns that hung there at irregular intervals.
Oaklin studied him for a moment; would advice be welcome or annoying?
But now that they knew to look for it, they could see: The glow of the hearth fire and sunlight streaming in from outside illuminated the dark circles under Ryn’s eyes, the way he massaged his hands with a wince every few minutes, the way he rolled his right shoulder constantly.
He was exhausted and overworked, and Jules was right. He needed rest.
“Have you considered putting up an ad for an assistant baker in the surrounding towns and villages?” Oaklin ventured tentatively.
They should let it go. Ryn had made his position clear, but there was a stubborn, aching part of Oaklin that wanted to make some small difference before they disappeared without apology or goodbye.
Something to make a mark, to prove that they had existed in this place, however briefly, and had left it just a tiny bit better.
Ryn recited a clearly well-rehearsed line in reply. “Mossley’s Rest is a really special place, and a small one. I don’t want someone to come here just for a job. I want them to be part of the community. I want them to want to be here, not just to want a job.”
“But how will they even know to give Mossley’s Rest a try?” Oaklin pressed. “What if this place and your bakery are a perfect fit for someone, but it would never even occur to them to look?”