Chapter 22 The Inn
The Inn
The rest of the ride to Blackwood Inn is fraught with undeniable tension.
My thighs remain curved around Brynn in the saddle—the places our bodies touch electric from our teasing.
But I heed his request, keeping my hands to myself.
To distract himself—his words—Brynn asks me random questions about life at the castle as a waiting maid.
He asks about the politics of the Kingdom of Clouds, what I know of the courts.
Which, again, is very little. He asks about the King, too.
My heart stutters when he even asks about the princess and what I think of her.
I hope that he doesn’t notice. If he does, he does not say.
Perhaps he thinks it more from our foolish games than anything else.
Blackwood Inn is nothing short of whimsical.
I might have described it perfectly in my mind’s eye, had someone asked me to imagine a picturesque lodge for storybook faeries in the middle of the woods.
The building itself is weathered and whitewashed, with pretty, twisting vines creeping up its cracking sides.
Sanctuarians of all kinds mill about outside in the courtyard—pixies, sprite, satyrs, finfolk, elves.
However, this crowd seems rather subdued, especially in comparison to last night’s rest area.
We lead Moon and Shadow to a stall at the edge of the clearing near the trees.
The groom is a skinny man with serpentine features—slits for pupils surrounded by yellow irises, greenish, scaly skin, and when he greets us with a raspy good day, I note a forked tongue.
He offers me a hand and, rather afraid to be rude, I take it.
The coldness of his touch reminds me of Simon.
I try to curb the shiver that runs over my skin and fail.
He doesn’t seem to notice as his gaze falls on Brynn.
The reptilian groom passes over Brynn and instead helps Jasmeen and Glo dismount.
Brynn slides from Shadow unassisted, saying something offhanded to the groom in yet another language I do not comprehend.
It’s hard to tell with the groom’s shrewd features, but his lips seem to curl in loathing.
If Brynn notices or cares, he does not show it.
We bid goodbye to our veilmane and head toward the inn.
When I pass Brynn, he leans into my ear.
“Serpenites,” he whispers.
The unfamiliar word should not cause the pebbling of my skin and yet—I stare up at him in a daze, trying to push down the baseless warmth.
He throws a pointed glance over his shoulder at the groom, and I realize: he continues our game from Mayhem, teaching me the proper names of the fae.
Brynn holds the door of Blackwood Inn and ushers us in, studying my face.
I step over the threshold and freeze in wonder.
The main floor houses a massive tavern, with a stage, two bars on opposite sides of the cavernous room, and many wooden tables spread between.
A small area for dancing sits in front of the stage.
My eyes are drawn upwards, and it’s obvious that the building has been magicked—there’s no other explanation.
It rises at least ten stories, when from the outside the structure was three at best. Each level has a balcony overlooking the rowdy tavern below.
My head shakes in disbelief, like the movement will dissolve the mirage. It doesn’t.
The juxtaposition between the atmosphere outside and inside is laughable. The Sanctuarians crowding the bar tables are boisterous, to say the least. It’s not quite dusk yet, but these revelers have no doubt been partying for hours. This place is loud—and the live music has yet to begin.
“I’ll get our rooms,” Glo shouts over the hubbub, disappearing into the crowd at once. I turn to Jasmeen. She doesn’t appear as stunned as me, but her eyes dart around as though searching for someone.
“Have you stayed here before?” I ask. She nods.
“Oh, yes! This is a popular meetup spot,” she says, looking past me. “I don’t think you can say you’ve lived among the fae unless you’ve stayed at Blackwood Inn. It’s kind of like a rite of passage in Sanctuary.”
She forfeits her search and finally meets my gaze. There’s an edginess in her eyes, but I do not press. It’s too noisy to discuss anything important here anyway.
I turn my attention to Brynn, and he too appears distracted, but he grins at my dumbstruck expression nonetheless.
Something shifted between us earlier today.
He must know it, too. His golden eyes flicker over my chest as though he hears my heart throwing itself into my ribcage even over the clamor.
I wonder if he’s as scared of it as I am.
Maybe whatever we’re doing isn’t just a foolish game.
It’s one thing to make genuine friends for the first time in my adult life, but I know nothing of relationships.
Brynn teases, but how does one tell the difference between flirting and actual fondness?
I cannot deny my budding attraction to him—he is beautiful, after all.
And intelligent. And kind. And witty. But perhaps I am misreading everything.
Maybe this is how friends of the opposite sex are.
I don’t have a clue. Edwin is my only gauge and he is well…
Edwin. His flirtations have never been discreet.
Glo reappears with two green, shiny rocks—much like the magicked stone Brynn used to unlock his apartment—and motions for us to follow her.
Brynn walks behind me, his hand hovering over the small of my back, much like it had in the bazaar when he attempted to coax me away from the minotaur.
He does not touch me, yet the security of the gesture stirs that heat deep within my core.
Despite the veilmane providing a smooth ride, my legs ache as we climb several flights of rickety stairs.
We step onto the fourth floor’s landing.
I glance curiously over the railing at the tavern below, observing how much quieter it is up here, as though a sound-warding spell has been cast. Glo gestures toward two rooms side by side—rooms 43 and 44, as the shimmery silver paint reads.
Jasmeen plucks a rock from Glo’s outstretched hand to wave in front of the door to room 44.
It cracks open, and Jasmeen pushes it with her foot.
To my immense relief, she beckons me forward.
I feared her day riding with Glo went so well that she may ask me to change our sleeping arrangements, too.
Brynn mentions getting settled and meeting downstairs for dinner later and we all agree. Jasmeen closes the door with a wave.
Inside the room is an impressive silence.
Two plush beds rest against the wall opposite the door.
A writing desk and a wardrobe sit in the corner.
There are no windows, I assume due to the magicking of the added stories, but there are sconces filled with small, radiant flames.
Jasmeen surveys me as I poke at the nearest one, which dances away from my finger.
“Faerielight,” she says. I nod. I know of faerielight because it lights parts of Mavick’s cottage as well—it’s a cold-to-the-touch, semi-sentient magical light source that can illuminate even the darkest of places. These seem more concentrated. More reactive.
The washroom is fairly large, with a beautiful bathtub.
My heart sings at the sight of it. With very little modesty, I begin to strip.
I take off my satchel, stuff the dagger inside, and throw it atop one of the beds.
I am so accustomed to having a lady-in-waiting or maid to assist me with bathing and dressing that I do not think twice about my naked body.
“I am in desperate need of a bath,” I explain, pulling my shirt and bandeau over my head and tossing them to the side. Jasmeen snickers, blushing slightly, and I realize I should have given warning. “Sorry—I probably should have asked first—”
“No, no,” Jasmeen says, though she does not dare look away from my face. “It’s quite all right. Bodies are just that—bags of flesh. Mere vessels.”
I bark out a laugh and Jasmeen grins. I say, “I do hope you take it as a compliment. I am comfortable with you. Like sisters.”
“I am not as free-spirited as you, but… I do not mind it. I’m happy you are comfortable with me.”
My boots go next before I saunter to the bathroom and slip out of my pants and underwear.
Leaving the door cracked so that we may talk, I run the water.
I pour half the bottle of inn soap—which has a flowery scent I can’t place—into the tub for good measure.
As the room seems magically impervious to outside sounds, I assume even Brynn and Glo’s superior ears cannot pry from the neighboring room.
“How was your ride with Glo today?” I ask after turning off the taps. I step into the water and release an uninhibited moan. It is the perfect temperature. Jasmeen laughs knowingly from the room.
“I learned a lot! I can’t wait to put it to practical use,” she replies. “Glo described the emotion required for successful conjuring. It sounds like it will take practice, but I think I could tap into that. Control it. Wield it.”
“So it’s possible? Even as a mortal?” I ask.
“Yes, she said she knows several mortal conjurers.”
“Vir said mortals can possess gifts like seeing—that they’re not fae-exclusive,” I offer.
“True. It’s been documented,” Jasmeen says, less muffled, as though hesitating at the door. “Speaking of Vir… You were quite cozy on your ride today.”
I hear the smirk on her lips.
“Come in if you want,” I say with a chuckle. “I do not mind the company.”
Jasmeen lets herself in and perches on the edge of the tub with her back to me, as if it’s the polite thing to do. The water is so bubbly that nothing can be seen anyway. She stretches out, crossing her ankles in front of her, and waits for me to speak.