Chapter Two
Dainley
Dainley would never describe himself as chatty, but he didn't usually turn so curt in the middle of a conversation.
He'd heard about the new bookshop in Potato Town and how it was easier for shorter people—dwarves, halflings, gnomes—to reach stuff.
He had not heard the minotaur lady running it was a knockout.
Warm brown eyes, a bright smile, and legs that went all the way up.
Her dress was fitted to every curve, and her breasts were hard to miss, being eye level for him.
And she was just so sweet. When she'd mistaken him for a baker, he might have laughed if he wasn't already flustered.
When he corrected her, the dimming of her face made him regret not using a little more tact.
Like maybe two syllables instead of one.
It was only when he left her shop and saw the posted hours that he realized he had kept her well past her posted closing time.
And he had forgotten to ask her name.
Days later, Dainley was still kicking himself for not asking for her name.
He knew he could go back into her shop, but couldn't settle on a way to bring it up without feeling foolish.
He felt even more foolish for fretting over it at all.
He wasn't some young buck just learning how to talk to someone he liked, and he was pretty sure Miss Minotaur wasn't either.
Still, he doubted she had opened up a shop just to have grown men come flirt with her—and not buy anything.
He looked over the black leather book again.
It wasn't the original binding; the pages were obviously aged, the corners worn like the rock in an underground river.
Although Dainley didn't know much about bookbinding, he knew plenty about working with leather.
This cover was made from scraps, but nice scraps.
The stitching was secure, sturdy. This cover would probably last long after the pages turned to dust.
Until then, it would stay with Windemere.
Windemere descended from a long line of bards pursuing people they shouldn't.
He had the slight point to his ears that meant he had an elf grandparent—maybe great-grandparent—symmetrical patches of scales that indicated draki, and the unmitigated gall that only humans had.
He was Dainley's best friend, though he couldn't quite remember how it happened.
One day he was adding noisy metal plates to a pair of shoes for him, and before Dainley knew it, they were getting dinner and drinks once a week after Dainley closed shop.
The Hurricane was a large, crooked building perched on a corner.
It appealed to all sorts, and Windemere insisted on coming here for his birthday dinner every year because the people watching was the best in the city.
Dainely had to agree, but Windemere talked so much, he didn't see how he actually did much people watching.
Once they were one beer in and had placed their food order, Dainley presented the book with some cord he'd tied around it in a bow.
Windemere's eyes glinted with mischief. "What's this?"
Dainley tilted his head pointedly. "For your next show."
The playwright wiggled his shoulders and started flipping the first few pages.
His eyes bulged, "The Port Florien Ripper?
Stop!" He slapped it closed, but Dainley knew by the wild gleam in Windemere's eyes that he wasn't offended.
"Can you imagine? Since they never caught the killer, we could cast, like, five or six different people to play them.
And make it so the audience can never be sure who did it!
" Windemere always said we as if Dainley was a producer or assistant director, and not just the guy who sometimes modified shoes for the actors and dancers.
"I'm glad you like it." Dainley grinned, his beard almost reaching his eyes.
He couldn't really help it if his attention wandered while Windemere immediately spitballed twenty ideas for how he might make the Ripper into a show.
Mostly Windemere was thinking out loud when he got like this, not exactly asking Dainley what he thought. And the people watching was good here.
Sitting at a table like this, his eye line was about ass-height for anyone taller than dwarves.
And if anyone walked by with something round, Dainley had a sly way of catching it.
He minded his own business, he would swear up and down.
He did not go around leering at people, but sometimes he couldn't help noticing.
"Anyway, then the whole theater caught fire and everyone died," Windemere's voice cut through like a hot blade ready to be quenched.
"What?" Dainley shook his head, trying to figure out what the hell he'd missed Windemere talking about.
The scales on Windemere's cheekbones caught the light as he squinted at Dainley. Busted. "I asked you where you found this," he smirked, "but now I wanna know who you were watching."
"Nobody, just generally…" Dainley shrugged, then deflected, "Uh, the book, I got in Potato Town. A bookshop opened a couple blocks away from my shop. The lady running it, she's got—" he described the shelving that moved with a crank and spinning columns of books, pantomiming how they worked.
"Interesting…" Windemere followed with a squintier squint. "And what else does she have?" He ran his hands in an hourglass shape, then pantomimed breasts of a few different sizes on his own chest. He raised his eyebrows pointedly, expecting Dainley to tell him when he'd guessed the right size.
"Settle down, Win." Dainley frowned with hot cheeks.
Windemere fanned his fingers over his chest, feigning innocence. "What? I know that look in your eye! You like her, and she's pretty, isn't she?" Before Dainley could protest, Windemere added, "Don't try to fight me on it! You're blushing!"
"I'm not!" Dainley turned, trying to obscure at least some of his face from Windemere.
As he did, long legs walked past him on cloven hooves, swishing in an orange skirt, full hips, and a long tail ending in a fluffy tuft.
He looked up and saw the distinct long horns with bright ribbons and bells tied to the ends.
Dainley's jaw fell open. He rumbled to Windemere, "Shattered hammers, that's her."
Mercifully, Windemere shut his mouth. They both watched Miss Minotaur until she folded herself into a round booth, backing herself into the deepest part of the seat. She settled with her drink and dinner, opened a large book, and started writing.
Part of him wanted to go say…something. But the last thing he wanted to do was bother someone in the middle of dinner and handling business. He turned back to Windemere and the grin of absolute mischief filled Dainley with dread.
"She has the biggest horns I have ever seen," Windemere stage-whispered. "Let's go say hello."
Despite Dainley's protests, the playwright dodged servers and other patrons as he wove through tables to reach Miss Minotaur. Dainley followed, determined that if he couldn't stop Windemere from bothering her, he'd at least pull him away after a few seconds.
"Hi there! Windemere Retton, playwright and producer; lovely to meet you." He wasn't even trying to be loud, but his theatre lungs had a way of filling up a space.
Miss Minotaur, sweet thing she was, only looked startled for a second before she lit up with the same warm smile that greeted him in her shop.
"We're sorry to bother you, Miss," Dainley nudged Windemere. "I happened to see you, and Windemere had to come—"
"I had to come say how excited I am about your recommendation!" He brandished the book. "Just brilliant! What's your name, dear?"
"Oh—thank you! Ah," she chuckled and laid down her fork.
"I'm Lucy. Lucy Bevo." She turned her warm brown eyes to Dainley.
"It's nice to see you again! Dainley, right?
" When Dainley nodded, she gave Windemere a sheepish shrug.
"That book was almost kindling when I found it.
The old cover fell off, so I rebound it.
" Dainley caught the smooth movement of her closing what was definitely a ledger.
"You did this yourself?" Windemere slouched backward, exaggerating his astonishment. "A woman of many talents!"
"It comes in handy." Lucy inclined her head. She was being modest in a way Dainley recognized in himself.
Windemere leaned toward Lucy. "I'll have to come see what else you have!"
"Oh, please do!" Lucy stretched even taller in her seat, then retreated.
"I mean, you'd be very welcome. I have all kinds of things you would probably like.
Books on gardening, painting, low level illusion magic, even some on dressmaking—" she stopped as if catching herself before saying too much.
"And that's just the nonfiction." She laced her fingers and rested her chin on them in a way that looked youthful.
Dainley followed the lines of her hands to her forearms where her sleeves ended at the elbow.
Compared to the blocky paws he called his hands, hers looked long and elegant.
Though the calluses on her fingers didn't escape his notice.
She looked strong, and no stranger to hard work.
Dainley idly thought if she was hauling boxes of books on the regular, of course she'd be strong.
Dainley caught her eye and realized she'd caught him staring.
Windemere was still chatting and Dainley blew out a breath.
"Come on, Win. Miss Lucy's trying to eat her dinner and we're making it get cold, poor lady.
" He bowed his head to her, hoping she wouldn't see the flush on his cheeks, and dragged Windemere away even as he was still chattering about theatre things that Miss Lucy doubtless didn't need to hear about.