Chapter One
The Fox and the Lark
“They say you’re never more than a few strides from a nest of rodents,” said the old man at the bar.
It was at this point that I realised my list of regrets was now quite as long as the tavern’s list of repairs.
I’d made some stupid choices in my thirty years, but this one?
This one quite literally kept me up at night.
Because as of last week, The Mage and Rose had introduced a new policy; we’d remain open until the last customer drained their last drop.
And Old Man Tanner had a full pint cradled in his gnarled hands.
I was in no position to turn down the coin, though Dagda knew I could do with the early night; it was the end of a long day, at the end of a long week, at the end of a long three months.
Three months of too few patrons, and yet far too much back-breaking work just to keep the doors open.
Still, it had to be done if I wanted to keep my parent’s legacy alive — which, of course, I did. I had to.
I was the only one left.
“Just a few strides?”
Across from Tanner, Sorcha had dragged a stool behind the bar and settled in for his monologue.
It was one of his favourite topics, and she made a convincing show of pretending she’d never heard it before.
She leaned into the counter on both elbows and tucked her long black hair behind her ears, round blue eyes bright with horrified interest.
“Aye, rodents everywhere. The city’s run by them at this point.” Tanner gave a snort like a large and rather amused boar. “And I don’t just mean the ones on the throne. Isn’t that so, Miss Roz?”
I swayed as I turned toward him, one hand wrapped in a tea towel and jammed inside a large glass tankard.
I offered up a bleary smile, already having forgotten what he’d asked.
To be fair, it was well after midnight and I’d been on my feet since dawn.
Even on the best of days my magic was a shadow of what it had been.
A matchstick compared to a hearth — and right now it had waned right down to the barest flicker.
“I think that one’s clean now, Roz,” said Sorcha. “You’ve been polishing it for fifteen minutes.”
My cousin hopped up and patted the seat of her barstool, and on any other night I might have refused; I’d been wary of putting too much on her shoulders, of pushing her youthful goodwill beyond any reasonable limits.
She was, after all, committing an enormous act of charity by being here at all.
I had nothing to offer for these weeks of her time and energy but a leaky roof over her head and three square meals a day, both of which she could find back home with the coven.
Probably without the leaks.
I was already pushing it, I knew that. But gods, it felt good – to have someone who cared.
To have family around again to worry whether I was tired, or working myself to the wick.
It felt good when I sank gratefully into the stool, and better when Sorcha rewarded me with a warm arm slung over my shoulders and her soft round chin propped atop my head.
Just this once, I swore to myself; and together, we waited for Tanner to release us from his graphic rant on the rat colonies ruling Kingsborough.
“Wouldn’t catch me within an acre,” he went on, as though there’d been no interruption.
“Rats as big as a three year old, so my brother says. Sure wasn’t his neighbour nearly made homeless?
Bloody rats in his cellar called a mutiny, so they did.
Tried to drag his missus out of her bed by the hem of her nightgown! ”
Sorcha made a soft sound of disgust that hummed through my scalp, and Tanner went on, encouraged.
“Aye, I couldn’t be puttin’ up with that now, not for all the gold in Kingsborough. I’m a Stormsby man through and through. No finer town in all the world.”
With my defences down, it was harder to suppress the reflexive snort that rose up.
I loved the village that reared me, I did.
But to call Stormsby a sleepy little town would be taking poetic liberty.
In truth, it barely had a pulse. We sat cradled in the arsecrack of nowhere; there was farmland, a market of about five stalls, and my family’s tavern.
Stormsby might have been a busy little suburb when my parent’s first opened The Mage and Rose, but that was before they built the King’s Road.
Now, the most exciting thing about this place was the well-travelled route to Kingsborough, where barely a day’s journey could find you absolutely everything Stormsby lacked. Including mutinous rats, apparently.
I didn’t say any of this to Tanner, of course. Even with my Flame raging at its brightest height, it was never in my nature to be outright mean. Especially not to a harmless old man whose loneliness had kept me fed.
“Less bloody rats, anyway,” I said instead, my voice muffled by the press of the wood against one cheek. I must have slumped over the counter at some stage, but I made no move to get up. Gods, my eyes ached and itched.
Tanner smacked one hand against the bar in agreement, setting his pint to sloshing – much like my brain in my head.
“Less bloody rats is the thing, Miss Roz. You wouldn’t have another bowl of crackers there, Sorcha, would’ya love?”
I turned my face into the bar to suppress a dry sob — and finding some comfort in the cool dark wood against my forehead, I stayed there.
This is nice. Just a little rest.
As though in agreement, my Flame curled up in my chest with the gentle glow that usually preceded sleep.
I felt, more than heard, the dull tap of Sorcha setting down the crackers before the warmth of her palm settled between my shoulders, rubbing soft, soothing circles while Tanner’s chatter rumbled on, low and croaking and familiar and bloody endless.
I didn’t doze off. Of that I am certain.
But somehow time skipped, and it was a mere moment later that the soothing circle of Sorcha’s hand became a death grip, and the gentle drone of Tanner’s voice had given way to the sound of angry, raised voices on the path outside.
The barstool beneath me toppled and clattered as I jolted to my feet and the fireplace across the room suddenly burst into flame. It danced in time to the thrum of my pulse, and my leap into consciousness sent a flare of heat surging through my blood.
I clapped a hand over my chest, where the Flame of my magic had reared its fiery head and was now galloping alongside my heart.
Sorcha and I exchanged quick, panicked looks.
But my skin did not come ablaze, and Tanner, peering through the netting of a window to the path outside, had not noticed the sudden roar of the hearth behind him.
I inhaled, breath searing my lungs just a touch but coaxing my anxious magic down all the same.
The voices outside had lowered to an irate hiss, weaving back and forth over one another like bees in a hive.
Tanner turned from the window and hobbled back to his seat. While I was not-quite asleep, his pint had somehow been replaced with a fresh one, full to the brim and fogged with condensation.
“There’s a pair of young’uns out there, a man and a woman,” he said, jabbing a calloused thumb at the window. “Few bags between them.”
Sorcha grabbed my arm and squealed.
“They’re here for a room!”
A room.
Gods knew we could do with renting a room.
I perked at the thought, the adrenaline that had lit my Flame changing course to clear the cobwebs from my aching head as I spun on the spot to take a quick catalogue.
Sorcha’s idle tidying had done wonders for the tired old tavern; it was clean and warm, lanterns scattering glided light into the high wooden rafters and bright handwoven rugs softening the cold flagstone.
The hearth was now crackling merrily thanks to the burst of magic from my waking panic.
Little though it mattered, I twisted to catch a glimpse of myself in the stained and age-warped mirror behind the rows of bottles – and grimaced.
Stained and age-warped was a fair assessment, with dark circles beneath dark eyes piling on a few extra decades.
Nothing that could be helped on this side of a good night’s sleep and a dress that wasn’t misted with stale alcohol, but I reached beneath the bar for my pot of lipstain all the same.
It was the one Sorcha had mixed for me and proudly dubbed Ravage Me Raspberry.
She caught my eye with a grin, watching me slick on a quick coat and tuck loose golden wisps beneath my kerchief.
“Beautiful as ever,” she said sweetly.
I shot her a wink, then turned to the door and waited.
And waited. A moment passed. Another.
I frowned.
“What in the world are they doing out there?”
Tanner scoffed into his pint. “Bickering, from the sounds of it.”
The door finally swung open, and Sorcha and I tensed in unison.
The man framed on the threshold was tall and broad, the handle of a lute jutting over one wide shoulder, strapped to his back beneath a thick but slightly threadbare cloak.
Two large leather packs hung off his elbow, his thick bicep straining under their weight.
With his free hand, he reached up to hold the door open, so that the woman behind him had little choice but to duck under his arm and squeeze past his broad, hulking body.
She paused midway to glare up at him, and he smirked as though he’d been waiting for it.
“I can manage to open a bloody door, you know.”
“Just like you can manage to carry your own pack?
She scowled, but her expression stuttered as he leaned over and brought their lips close enough to share breath.
“Admit it, little lark. You might not need me to look after you, but you sure as hell like it when I do.”
Oh my.