Chapter One #2
Tanner, Sorcha and I swapped glances, the old man’s bushy brows disappearing into his bushier hair, and my cousin’s wide blue eyes rounding to comical proportions. I had to bite down on my lip to keep the awkward laughter from spilling out – not that the pair in the doorway would have noticed.
Neither of them moved; just stood there, little gusts of snow swirling around their legs, locked in the most intense eye contact I had ever witnessed.
It was almost obscene. For a moment I swore I could see sparks showering off the two of them like embers, and their breath came so heavily I could see the rise and fall of their too-close chests from across the room.
The three of us exchanged another glance, Sorcha pressing a hand to one cheek to cool a slight blush.
I leaned over the bar to catch their attention with a slightly brisk; “Hello.”
Nothing but more blistering eye contact.
“Will’ya close the bloody door,” Tanner called, impish and with all the subtlety of an axe. “You’re letting all the heat out!”
“Tanner!” Sorcha hissed.
I grabbed the nearest tea towel and flicked it at him, but the woman in the doorway had finally jolted away from her companion’s sultry stare and was blinking around like she’d just noticed us.
Sorcha offered an encouraging wave, and she stumbled further into the tavern with a vague, dazed nod in our direction.
The man did not take his eyes from her as he shut the door.
He watched her move toward us, still smirking at her back, his eyes drifting down like he could somehow see the sway of her hips through her thick winter cloak.
“Welcome to The Mage and Rose,” I said, smiling my warmest smile as she drew even with us. “I’m Rosaleen. How can I help?”
“I was - erm -”
She shook her head as if to clear it, and her hair went tumbling over her shoulders in shining waves of gold just a shade darker than my own.
She was barely older than Sorcha, and just as lovely.
Her cheeks were smooth and plump, flushed pink with either the cold or the attentions of the man at her back.
Her cloak was simple yet beautifully made, with fine spun wool and soft fur lining, held together by a delicate, swirling clasp of silver.
Everything about her spoke of a life well lived, of comfort and wealth, grace and poise.
We didn’t often see highborn ladies seeking shelter here.
Our usual overnight clientele, when we were lucky enough to have them, were adventurers – or roamers, as I once was.
The kind of people who travelled the kingdom, some greater purpose driving them through Stormsby on their way to the bustle and promise of Kingsborough.
Or Tanner and his ilk, when they’d had one scoop too many and couldn’t be trusted to ride home.
I couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing here; where she was off to with her rugged and admittedly rough-edged travel partner.
“A room,” she said finally. Her voice, now that she’d found it, was strong and lyrical. “I would like a room, please.”
Thank the gods.
Her towering companion chose that moment to come up behind her, having dropped the bags by a table in the corner, though he’d unstrapped the lute and now cradled it carefully in one arm like a sleeping child.
The young woman stiffened noticeably at his approach, but didn’t turn. And though he offered me a brief, charming smile, when he spoke his gaze drew almost magnetically back to her face. He watched her reaction in profile with a smirk playing around his lips.
“We would like a room,” he said.
She scoffed, refusing to look at him.
“We each would like a room of our own.”
Two rooms. I saw Sorcha perk up from the corner of my eye, and my Flame shimmered with delight; I could almost feel the familiar warmth it cast against my heart.
The first fee would cover that final instalment to repair the leak in the kitchen.
Would it be irresponsible to spend the second on a winter cloak?
No — a nice pair of gloves. I’d been meaning to replace the threadbare ones Sorcha had torn on a peg while hanging the washing.
I did worry she’d catch her death out there, handling wet laundry without a decent pair of gloves.
I smiled at the two travellers and tried not to look too excited by their obvious distaste for one another as I gestured at Sorcha to pass me the ledger we kept beneath the bar.
She heaved it onto the countertop, and when Tanner’s ale sloshed precariously he tutted at us and swiped the pint out of the way before taking a deep, possessive gulp.
“What’s the name?”
Before the young woman could answer, the man cut her off with a jaunty little strum of his lute.
“Merry,” he said, grinning broadly.
“It’s Margaret,” she hissed back, still staring resolutely ahead. She softened to a ladylike lilt and told me; “Margaret Whitstone.”
“Ah, but Merry suits your sunny disposition so well.”
When she ignored him, I took her cue and began to flick through the ledger, but it seemed he wasn’t quite done.
“Be sure to find Her Highness a nice suite, now won’t you?
” The man was saying – apparently determined to make her snap.
My gaze flicked between them and I offered a polite, dismissive smile, but of course he remained locked on Miss Whitsone, with mischief dancing in his eyes.
Mischief – and something softer. At my side, Sorcha nudged a tentative elbow into my ribs, and I nudged her back.
Yes, I told her silently. I can see.
“And she’ll need a silver spoonful of honey delivered to her door before bed,” the man grinned. “Silver, mind, not steel. Wouldn’t want to risk those prized lungs, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
She finally whirled on him, and Dagda damn me, I heard it. As much as I wished I hadn’t, I heard how her breath seized when she spun to face him and saw the way he was watching her. He was caught off guard, too slow to hide the soft look in his eye.
For all the gods sake.
These two would not be sleeping apart tonight.
The question now was how long it would take for them to realise it so I could get Tanner out of here and finally go to bed.
Miss Whitstone recovered herself and pulled her shoulders back, a sneer souring her lovely voice.
“My companion needs a room too. Mr Thomas Fox,” she said, calling over her shoulder to me.
I could just make out the deep red of her cheek when she turned her head, but her words were admirably steady.
“Perhaps you have something in the stables? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind rolling around in the mud with the rest of the pigs. ”
Sorcha sniggered, then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. I bit down on my rising laughter so hard I swore tasted blood.
But Mr Fox was unphased as he took a swaggering step forward, backing Miss Whitstone into the bar.
“Didn’t seem to mind rolling around in the mud with me last night.”
“I slipped.”
His voice dropped; “And landed on my mouth?”
Dadga’s sagging arse, were these two serious? My laughter died in my throat and I reached blindly for Sorcha, gently pushing her towards the end of the bar. If I didn’t do something they were either going to tear each other to shreds or rut atop my counter.
“Sorcha go - go, erm - make up the rooms. Please.”
My cousin grumbled in her soft way, plainly wanting to stay and watch the tension unfold, but after a moment she ducked under the bar and disappeared through the door to the inn’s stairwell.
Tanner, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the whole squabble, suddenly threw his head back and drained the last of his pint. He slapped his hands on his knees in that way that usually meant: Well, I’m off.
“Might have to be the stable, eh Miss Roz?”
I stared blankly at him, but he winked as he wiped his ale soaked beard on the back of his hand and stood up.
“Sure aren’t you nearly booked out for the night?”
Booked out? I frowned down at the blank ledger.
You could nearly count the days since Magnus left by the number of empty pages.
How had he done it, I wondered? How would he have dealt with this?
I glanced up at Tanner, who had now ambled over to the door; he winked one ale glazed eye at me before he disappeared into the cold night – and I suddenly understood exactly how Magnus would have handled this.
Exactly how my parents would have handled it before him.
These were not the first so-called enemies to pass through The Mage and Rose in the middle of the night.
It was practically a proprietor’s rite of passage.
Miss Whitstone was watching me with round, worried eyes.
“You’re booked out?”
“Almost,” I said smoothly, barely missing a beat before affecting a bright smile. “But you’re in luck! We’ve still got one room left.”
For the first time, Mr Fox’s smile faltered. Miss Whitstone’s face was flaming so viciously that the magic in my chest stirred with mild interest, perhaps recognising kinship in the heating of her skin.
“Is there -” Miss Whitstone began, then leaned closer, cheeks practically glowing. “Is there at least a bed for each of us?”
I winced, and flattered myself it was rather convincing. Regretful; apologetic.
“Just the one bed, I’m afraid.”
???
Sorcha sat atop my beaten old desk, her arms folded and an inscrutable look on her face as she watched me guide the travellers into the lobby.
The lobby was perhaps less of a lobby and more of a boxy hall with a fireplace and a narrow stairway tucked into the corner – but it served its purpose.
I ignored the weight of Sorcha’s eyes and edged around her to retrieve the keys from the shelves behind my desk.
“Here we are! Room three, first floor.”