Chapter 16 #3
Ainsworth, on the other hand, had taken great pains to keep the fact that he worked in a small warehouse—taking stock of deliveries from farms beyond the city before they were dispersed to local taverns—during his own studies a secret, despite being a recipient of one of the few scholarships available, which funded his tuition and residence.
It did not fund his other living costs, so he had worked tirelessly to try to keep up a lifestyle similar to the others’ in order to fit in.
Nor was such a lifestyle just for show, he quickly realized.
Networking was key to career progression, and so he had to bite his tongue and shell over more money than his family had made in a year to attend dances, the theater, and fine establishments like Alvea’s dining room.
After the completion of his degree, he had landed a full-time job as a researcher with a healthy salary and generous access to grants for research.
It was then, he suspected, that he must have disassociated from the eye-watering costs of maintaining such a career and a lifestyle, as it had become normal for him.
It all seemed so far away now. He recalled how he and Enach collected names like children collected shells on the beach—always on display, at hand for whenever the perfect moment to show them off presented itself.
It all seemed so inconsequential as he sat enjoying the pleasant morning, company, and bustle of the tavern.
An empty tray slammed on the table beside him, startling him out of his contemplation. “Done?” barked Bren, his voice low and gruff.
“I— Yes, thank you, Bren,” Ainsworth replied. He was met with a stony look before the teacups and pot were clattered onto the tray and Bren stormed away.
“Bren isn’t…quite so happy at the abundance of visitors,” said Honey, watching him stomp off.
Ainsworth grimaced. “I understand why, but it’s not as if he didn’t have ample warning as to what we were doing…”
“I don’t think he expected it to work. I mean, we have been a quiet, sleepy inn for…well, decades now!”
Ainsworth nodded. He wondered if he might start finding other diaries up in the attic from innkeepers later than Beatrice that could help him pinpoint when guests started to fizzle out and turn away.
He had guest logs and accounts from Honey’s mother’s time as innkeeper, but as of yet had found no other personal writing that might shed light on the situation.
It was something he could not quite bring himself to ask about; Honey never really mentioned her mother, and Ainsworth was loath to bring her up.
There was something difficult there, he sensed.
He suspected that the pages she had ripped from Beatrice’s diaries held familial matters and stories she was not willing to share with him.
“What’s that look for?” Honey asked, and Ainsworth realized he had been frowning, lost in thought.
“Oh, just…thinking about how encouraging this all is, and my project’s progress,” he lied, waving his hand to gesture at the guest-filled room.
“Mmhmm,” Honey replied.
There was something tight-lipped about her answer that prompted him to ask: “What’s wrong? You do not think it is going well?”
“Oh! I do! And I do enjoy having so many new faces around. It’s just…
” She trailed off and cleared her throat.
“Even if things go well, it will still take…such a long time for you to find people willing to take on the mountain. Then they need the weeks to conquer the mountain and correspond with you. I…We’re talking months, maybe a year or more, aren’t we? ”
“Well, yes,” said Ainsworth, leaning back in his chair. “But many scholars need such time to produce their books. This cannot be rushed, and it will not be rushed.”
But he was, he had to admit, now starting to enjoy the leisurely pace of the project, which once he had railed against. Perhaps it was because of the finished archive in the attic.
Each wall of the room was now lined with bookshelves, and Ainsworth had devised a section for the inn’s various documents—finance accounts, guest logs—slotting rows of Honey’s precarious scrolls into place with small markers on the shelves to indicate their corresponding dates.
The room finally had no dampness about it, and Spin had uncovered a rolled-up, threadbare rug with a charming checked pattern that brought a splash of color to the place.
Honey had taken to spending mornings or afternoons up there with him while he worked, sitting cross-legged beside him and knitting, of all things, as he sprawled across the rug poring over scrolls.
“But how long can you stay here? I mean, after a certain point, it makes no sense for you to stay. I could pass on your details to guests who stay in the future and send you word of any correspondence you might expect from these potential research subjects.” Honey turned to look out the window after she spoke, as though she had seen something that immediately demanded her attention.
She gave a small shrug. “Your grant surely cannot last forever, so you will have to leave eventually, right?”
“I…” He opened his mouth to continue, then closed it.
Of course he had dwelled on this. If things looked to be going well, he could probably leave after a week or so, and perhaps check in periodically over the course of the year—something made even more likely if the Misnich Inn’s Transportation Circle was approved.
Such conduct was also probably expected by his superiors at the Skarrow Library, once his grant extension from Lyria had run out.
But in reality, that was still some months away.
“Well, I won’t think that far ahead yet. I also still hope to see at least one adventurer on their way to Mount Vengeance before I leave!”
Honey stared at him incredulously. “You’ll be here forever. I can’t remember when I last saw someone actually embark upon their quest—if ever.”
Ainsworth grinned. “Forever it is, then.”