Chapter 8 Aisling
“What can I get you?” Aisling gratefully asked her first customer of the morning.
She’d nearly cut her own hand twice this morning, she’d been so distracted by the memory of Brook’s clever fingers and tongue, her grabbable waist, and the way her sweet moans of pleasure vibrated through Aisling’s body, each one a little earthquake.
The customer stared at her, eyebrows high.
Oh, goddess, had she just daydreamed through their answer? She rushed to say, “I’m so sorry—I’m a little distracted by the upcoming competition.”
“Didn’t you already win?”
“Oh, no, I mean the Innovation Awards.”
The elf frowned. “You don’t need to take all the awards, do you?”
Aisling narrowed her eyes. “Today’s special cake is pomegramon cream. What can I get you?”
“Uh, jewelberry cloud cake.”
“Mmm.” Aisling shot them a withering look as her tail whipped the cake off the rack, then handed it off to be unwrapped and popped into the oven by her hands. “Next!”
The lines were unrelenting, leaving no time at all to consider the upcoming competition, let alone get any work done ahead of time. She barely kept her head above water as the lunch rush came and went, and she was completely out of the pomegramon cream cloud cake special before dinner time.
The market was awash with rumor and innuendo—even more than usual, though perhaps it only seemed so because Aisling was seeing it from the inside this time instead of her old rickety stall in the Glaesflod.
Impossible engagements, animal-shaped purses, magical musical charms, matches exploding.
Aisling tried to focus on those and her work instead of her memories of last night.
Tried to tell herself it was just a dream.
One of the best nights of her life, and why couldn’t she just be happy with that?
Brook had given her so much, not just friendship, companionship, and several orgasms, but also the knowledge that Aisling didn’t have to do everything alone.
Maybe that was why it seemed so cruel that it couldn’t last. That Aisling would go back to Copperford, and Brook to Emberleigh, and it’d be as if it never happened.
As she closed the stall for the evening, Aisling promised herself that she would make the most of what she had learned.
She’d win the Innovation prize, prove to her family that her work was just as important as theirs, and almost certainly gain the capital—or at least the patronage she needed to continue development on her oven.
Maybe she could sell copies… or maybe she’d keep it a secret for a few decades, until she decided to settle down and stop traveling to the market to sell her wares. Then she could sell it to competitors.
She was making this promise to herself when Brook’s face appeared at the open back door of the stall. “Hello, pretty baker.”
Aisling flushed and looked away, trying to control her physical reaction to those big, brown eyes. Grateful. I’m grateful for the time we’ve had, for the things she’s shown me; I’m not afraid of losing her. “Hi. What’d you get up to today?”
“Slept, mostly. You kept me up, but that’s not a complaint. Want to come back to mine tonight?” Aisling opened the door further and leaned against the jamb with one hip, arms crossed beneath her chest.
“I better not. I only have a few hours to work tonight, and I need to be ready for business tomorrow and the awards the day after. I’ll have to close the stall then, but it can’t be helped if—”
“I could work it. I mean, I’d rather come see you win, but if you need me here—”
“No,” Aisling said too quickly.
When Brook didn’t immediately respond, Aisling glanced over her shoulder (and lashing tail). Brook stood in the doorway frowning, biting at the inside of her cheek.
“Sorry,” Aisling amended, turning back to her task of wiping down the counter. “I just mean—I’d better get back to doing it all myself.”
“Why?” Brook asked.
Aisling rolled her eyes. They stung a bit, though.
Footsteps behind her, just three. And then Brook demanded, “Why do you have to get used to doing it all yourself again? I’m offering.”
Aisling took a deep breath. “I’d rather not learn to depend on help.”
“But it goes so smoothly with me. You said so yourself. And if you want to get patronage—”
“I’ve gotten this far on my own,” Aisling interrupted. Her tail swiped from side to side, and she wrapped it around her own ankle just to keep it from betraying her feelings.
“I thought…” Brook took a long pause. “I could just give you what you need, you know. My family would be your patrons if we got married, so why not—?”
“Yes, but we’re not getting married, are we?
” Aisling stood up straight and threw down her rag in frustration.
Her tail squeezed her ankle so tight it almost hurt.
“Your parents are off your back. I got to awe and amaze my parents with my pretty noble fake-fiancée. We got what we wanted. Let’s not make it more than it has to be. ”
“We got what we wanted?” Brook’s voice rose in disbelief. “Aisling, I could’ve asked Sunny to fake it if I just needed someone. I picked you because…”
Slowly, Aisling turned. She slid her gaze slowly up Brook’s lithe body, tantalizing in its soft leathers. “Because why?”
“Because I want you. We talked about it. I thought you knew.”
Aisling flushed. “Well, you’ve had that, too.”
Brook’s dark brows drew down and together. “Is that what you think? That I was helping you so I could fuck you?”
“Weren’t you?”
“Well—” Brook sputtered a moment. “Well, yes, but isn’t that why you kept me around, too? You wanted to fuck me?”
“I did,” Aisling said. I do, her mind screamed.
“So it’s only bad when I do things to get closer to you, not when you do the same things,” Brook reasoned, voice dripping with irony.
“Don’t act like you’re the one being insulted,” Aisling snapped.
“I am literally the one you’re insulting!” Brook all but stamped her foot. Then she frowned again. “Wait. Is this—is that what you wanted?”
“What?”
“What, we fucked, now you’re done with me? Really?”
“No! That’s not me, that’s you!”
“Then why are you the one saying it? Oh, goddess, I think I’m going mad.”
Aisling huffed. “Could you go and do it somewhere else, then? Because I have a lot to get done tonight.”
Brook turned on her heel, hair flying behind her, and stomped away.
Aisling stood there for a long time, watching the empty doorway, and wondering what in Everend was wrong with her.
It took hours longer than usual to chop the fruits and vegetables for tomorrow’s ingredients.
The sugar-to-egg ratio was off in the custard cream, and the mushrooms for the fougasse topping kept crumbling so they were far too small to stand up to the heat of the oven.
Aisling spent the whole evening swearing to herself in her lonely little stall, until finally she put the last of tomorrow’s crusts into the oven.
It was already dark, and she still hadn’t had a chance to start tinkering with the oven…
Her stomach rumbled loudly. She hadn’t eaten today, and she was exhausted and cranky and should probably do that.
But she emerged from her shut-up stall only to find the other food vendors equally shut-up—everyone who wanted dinner had gotten it already or would take it back at the inn after whatever event was happening tonight. Or would it be an event with food?
She turned northward, and sure enough, the Ceremonial Pavilion was lit up and glittering in the dark, swarming with elves.
False stars gave the impression of the night sky beneath its roof—that’s right, the Dun Steorra Cultural Dance was tonight.
And if it was anything like the Gearwick one, plenty of food and drink would be on offer.
Actually, a drink sounded even better than a meal, now she thought about it. Aisling stalked through a few groups of elves and directly toward the drinks table. Pointedly not looking around to see if Brook and her noble Emberleigh family were present. Because of course they were.
The moment Aisling had the thought, she couldn’t stop having it.
She rushed the drinks table to try and drown it out, tail lashing, not caring that she was in her plain work clothes and covered in flour and charcoal.
The table spread out before her, carafes and jugs of ale and tapped barrels of wine, plus ewers of water and nectar of all sorts.
Had she even had anything to drink yet, today? Aisling couldn’t remember, so—
She drew up short as she noticed a solidly built elf with ginger hair—lighter than hers—staring into his mug morosely just behind the table. She looked at the ale—which was the closest thing to him—and then the mug again. Then finally asked, “Is something wrong with it?”
The ginger elf looked up suddenly, as if he’d forgotten where he was. “What?”
“The ale. Or is it cider? Is something wrong with it?”
His face screwed up into some expression she didn’t recognize. “Uh, no. I’m– it’s just.”
Well, that wasn’t much to go on. Still, if there was nothing wrong with the ale, “Oh! Good. Because I need a drink.” She started pouring herself one. “Badly.”
The ginger elf watched her blankly; she vaguely recognized him from previous years, possibly from the games?
She hadn’t gotten to any of them this year, she’d been so busy vending and baking and chasing after beautiful elves who made her feel helpless and stupid and lonely and lovely all at once.
But she was aware enough to know that he looked as badly in need of a drink as she, so when she finished her own pour, she stepped nearer and held out the carafe to pour him some too.
“Sorry, what were you saying? It’s just–what? ”
“Um. Thanks.” He hesitated but then offered his mug.