Briar winced. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean any—”
“Offense. Yes, you said as much. Look, sure, we invite witches each year so as they can practice their magic in the real world, give you free accommodation ’n that so’s you can help the folk here. Ask around town. Plenty of people desperate like for the odd potion or enchantment, but I’ll not help more than that after the slight. Apologize proper with your actions, then we’ll see.”
Thoroughly chastised, Briar nodded in understanding. He hadn’t meant to insult Maebh. His disappointment would have been of equal measurehad Niamh named any city but Pentawynn. That was the pinnacle. Every-thing else fell short. It didn’t excuse his attitude, though, and a mortified part of him wished he could turn back time, take back what he’d said.
But there was no such magic. He would have to make up for the insult, as Maebh said, with his actions. “I will,” he told her, and she left to converse with her regulars.
Briar exited the pub with Maebh’s words and all his future fears nipping at his heels. Gretchen, who’d remained silent throughout the exchange, whistled as if impressed.
“You really pissed in her cornflakes.”
“Yes, I gathered. Why don’t you get out the stocks and throw rotten fruit?”
She seemed to admire the idea.
They made their way back by another route. Gretchen pointed out landmarks—the weeping religious statue, the bell tower—but Briar only paid half a mind. He felt terrible and didn’t know who he could ask, beyond every stranger on the street, about a job.
His anxious inner monologue quieted as the smell of fresh bread wafted down the lane. A bakery with window decals of croissants and pies exuded delicious smells. He wasn’t the only one drawn in—people crammed inside, queuing to order.
Vatii said, “Something small wouldn’t hurt.”
“You just want me to share.”
“It’s your first day, and things haven’t gone well. Just a treat.”
Briar chewed his lip. “Oh, twist my arm, why don’t you?”
They joined the throng. Gretchen, grumbling about how she didn’t appreciate when people stood on—or in—her, decided her tour was complete and ventured off to see how much range Briar’s curtain-cloak gave her.
Briar waxed philosophical about which treat would be the best use of his money until Vatii pulled on his plait and pointed with her beak behind them. A familiar figure loomed in the bakery’s doorway.
Rowan should never have fit inside, with the crowds of people thick as they were, but they parted like a wake around him. He wore boots caked with mud, and when he spotted Briar waving at him, he waved mildly in return.
None of the other patrons said hello to him, even though he was the alderman. Briar gave up his place in the queue to join him.
“Morning,” Rowan said.
“Morning,” Briar returned, smiling. “Got any recommendations? I’m flirting with the cinnamon buns and the pain au chocolat, but I’d rather flirt with you, so tell me what you’re getting.”
Rowan cleared his throat, looking askance. Whether because of the flirting or the townsfolk staring, Briar didn’t know. “Ehm, can’t go wrong with a cherry bakewell.”
Briar tilted his head to the side. “If it’s disappointing, on your head be it.”
At the tills, Briar let Rowan go ahead of him.
“I think the townsfolk are scared of him, you know,” Vatii whispered. “They look at him like he might bite. I know the look. I get the same one plenty.”
Briar couldn’t mistake the way the other patrons stared. “But you do bite.”
“My point exactly.”
Rowan turned around holding two paper bags. Briar stepped forward to order but was met with one of Rowan’s fists holding him back by the chest. In his hand was one of the paper bags.
Briar looked at it, perplexed. “For me?”
Rowan nodded. Briar opened the bag to find the cherry bakewell, alongside a pain au chocolat and a cinnamon bun. In shock, he allowed Rowan to corral him out of the shop.
“Thank you, but you didn’t have to—”
