I pulled my hood lower, concealing my features, then leaned closer to Sainte.
“Oi, well there! First to the cup is first to the fun!” a buxom tavern wench called, her laughter echoing through the space as she sauntered our way. A confident grin lifted her cheeks as she propped her large hip against our table. “What will it be, then? A meal for weary travelers? An ale to start the party?”
“Bane’s Tonic.”
“Oh, you mean our Baneberry Tonic? Few ask for that. Cost ye a pretty coin, it will.”
“Wolfsbane.”
“‘Tis the same, so it is.” She placed her clean hands on the table’s worn wooden surface. “I’ll have to pop in back to see if we have any, though. Might not be in yet.”
“Check. We’ll be here,” Sainte rumbled, sliding a gold coin her way.
My lips pressed tight. That was more wealth than I could’ve hoped to steal over a year’s time in Landing’s End.
She raised an eyebrow, her gaze shifting between us and the coin. “We don’t just give that out to stranger folk,” she remarked, her tone cautious yet curious. “‘Tis a secret recipe. The master keeps a close eye on who be partakin’ of it. Give me yer names and I’ll be passin’ them along to him.”
“Nytestorm,” Sainte said.
“And yer friend? Suppose they want the tonic too?”
“Aye.”
“Well, who are ye? Speak up, now.”
She leaned forward, attempting to peer beneath my hood, but Sainte intervened, wrapping his arm around me, pressing my body against his side. I curled into his embrace, burying my face into his shoulder.
“She’s my lass,” he said, “under my protection. That’s all your master needs to know.”
“Hmm. Well, we’ll see. I’ll check if we have it in stock. Just wait here a minute.” With that, she walked off.
Sainte released his grip, and I glanced around the table, realizing the wench had taken the coin.
“Are we meeting–”
“Shh.” He quieted me with a finger to his lips, his arm settling at my waist.
I cleared my throat and adjusted my hood, pulling it back slightly to get a better view of the room. The tavern, with its narrow windows, allowed glimpses of the dusky evening outside, where the overcast sky bloomed with soft hues of lavender and gray. Inside, the space carried the scent of aged wood and faint traces of herbs from the kitchen, mingling with the murmured conversation of the two patrons.
The wench leaned over the counter, speaking to the barkeep, who turned our way with a skeptical squint. He shook his head and said something, jerking his chin. At that, she slipped into the back room, shutting it behind her.
Sainte shifted, dropping his hand across his body to rest on the hilt of his sword. He nudged his thigh against mine as we waited, and I smiled to myself at the warm contact. I wondered if ‘lass’ meant I was playing as his daughter or something more exciting.
Moments later, the wench returned, leaning against our table. “We’ll have a delivery soon, if ye don’t mind waitin’. The master says he’s heard ‘bout ye ‘round these parts. Ye’r trustworthy enough. Not goin’ to steal his recipe.”
“We will wait,” Sainte agreed.
“Would ye like a bite? Midday meal came and went—by the looks of ye, doubt ye had anythin’ where ye came from.”
Her judgemental words hardly fazed me. My years on the streets thickened my skin to such assumptions.
“Bread, if you have it.”
“Coming up!” she said, then sauntered off.
When she was a safe distance away, I gave Sainte a nervous glance. He arched a brow, amused, but kept his features void of expression. I wasn’t a fan of being left in the dark, but if her comment didn’t bother him, maybe I could relax. Learning to rule meant learning to trust—a lesson I still struggled with.
She brought over steaming bread and a small pat of butter. The aroma had my mouth watering in seconds. It wasn’t castle fare, but it reminded me of my childhood. Simple fresh loaves were as fancy as the meals at Landing’s End got. It was my comfort food. When Sainte and I reached for the last portion, I realized I’d eaten more than my share.
