“I am just…sorely disappointed,” he said at last. “They were supposed to be my first lead. My first steps toward completing this task. And they were destined for such greatness! How could they truly be happy without even trying? Without seeing how far they could soar? Andwhowalks away from a chance to make history like this?”
Honey folded her arms. “I told you on your very first day here that guests always turn from the mountain. Why did you not believe me?”
“I…” Ainsworth started, and felt a flush of shame heat his face.
“Besides,” Honey swept on, “you’ve already started sorting the documents in the attic, and I thought you wished to document us and the inn, not just the people who conquer Mount Vengeance. There are four of us here to interview, should you wish to begin your recording of our history and experiences to get your project thoroughly started.”
“That…is true,” he said, referring to her latter point. Could he perhaps salvage this disastrous morning? And regarding the matter of the retreating guests—he needed more evidence, he decided, before he would make any moves to incorporate it into his research. “Well then, how about it? Shall we get started, or is the afternoon more convenient for you?”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Her eyes were steel, as was her resolve. “I said no. I do not feel like talking to you today. You have not offered even a hint of an apology for your accusations, and your petulant dismay at Fern and Fig’s departure has left me feeling sour. Go bother Bren or Quiddle with your questions, as long as you do not distract them from their work.”
Ainsworth’s mouth dropped open as she turned and stalked away down the hall to the staff quarters, her tail twitching behind her. How dare she! How could she possibly comprehend the magnitude of what he had just lost? She who had spent her whole life confined to this lonely, miserable, isolated place? She who could not comprehend the significance, the honor, of a Skarrow scholar residing in her establishment?
He stopped those thoughts before they could go any further, placing a hand on his chest as he took a deep breath. The fury that had risen in him was not just about Fig and Fern, nor even about Honey. It was about everything. Why he was here in the first place. His parting words with Enach. The average life he might continue to lead without being able to advance to brilliance unless he saw this project through. Because although it was not the project he would have picked to propel his career, he was here now.One foot’s already in the muck,his father would say.So you may as well keep walking onward.
Sighing, he smoothed his shirt like a preening bird sorting its feathers. His finger briefly lingered on the small rip Fern had made. Ah well. It wasn’t like anyone here cared about what anyone else was wearing.
Despite the fact he technically had Honey’s permission, Ainsworth still approached the heavy oaken doors of the kitchen with apprehension. Beyond, he could hear the frantic, flustered curses of young Quiddle as he juggled the momentous task of clearing breakfast and starting lunch. It would be selfish to bother the lad while he was so immersed in his work, and yet…Ainsworth thought of the cluttered, chaotic attic with renewed dread. The heavy blow of losing his first lead had him feeling less than gracious toward the Misnich Inn, and less inclined to put any effort into uncovering its history. That sentiment, plus the rumbling of his empty, wine-battered stomach, had him firmly pushing the door open.
He walked straight into Quiddle, sending his pile of pots and pans clattering to the floor with an almighty crash.
“Watch it!” Quiddle yelped, staring in dismay at the mess.
“I— My apologies, Quiddle! Let me help, please,” Ainsworth said, stooping to pick up one of the pots. Yes, this day was going spectacularly indeed.
The boy sighed and pointed to a large arched window overlooking an enormous copper barrel, filled to the brim with steaming-hot water. “It’s all right. Just load them into the washbasin by the window there; ta.”
The kitchen was larger than Ainsworth anticipated. A massive stone oven loomed against the back wall, the logs that fed the fire piled neatly beside it. A delightful scent of bread wafted across the spacious center of the room, where a large counter stood covered in flour and a scattering of herbs. Dried meat and sausages hung from a nearby rack, and a gentle warmth radiated from much of the space. Even the stone beneath his feet was warmed by the light spilling in from the windows, past bunches of dried herbs that hung suspended from the ceiling in front of the glass. Ainsworth helped deposit the washing-up into the basin, briefly enjoying the gentle splash of the (currently) clean water that hit him in the dishes’ wake.
“Can I help with anything else, Quiddle?” he asked, his academic purpose somewhat mollified.
“Aye. Give them a scrubbin’ then put ’em away; that would be grand. I need to make a few more loaves. Alvea will tan my hide if she thinks I let things slip in her absence!”
Ainsworth considered the washbasin, now full of flickering specks of porridge floating to the surface of the water. He rolled up his sleeves with a grimace. “Very well, then, Quiddle. I do owe you. But I wonder if you could do me a favor, too, perhaps as we work?” He thought longingly of the quills and scrolls in his room, the calm that would usually descend as he began his meticulous note-taking when he interviewed someone for a historical account.
Yet the lad needed a hand, and Ainsworth was already in his debt.
“Depends,” Quiddle said, voice muffled as he spoke around a mouthful of something.
Ah. Perhaps Ainsworth should ask for some breakfast instead.
But no—there was work to be done.
“Could I ask you a few questions about how you came to be at the inn? And maybe a bit about yourself, too? It would help greatly for when I piece together the history of this place.”
“Oh.” The boy gave a loud sniff. “I prefer to sing while I work the loaves, but…all right. I’ve only been here for about two years, though, so I’m not sure how much help I can be.”
“Well, recent history is important, too. Where do you comefrom?” Ainsworth asked as he picked up a cloth and plunged his hands into the hot water, trying to ignore the floating remnants of other people’s leftovers.
“Cawle.”
“All the way from the Cairndui region?” Cawle was one of the largest coastal cities in the kingdom. “But you are so young! And how did you even hear about a place like this, so far from your home?”
Ainsworth heard Quiddle momentarily pause in the kneading of dough and give a small, breathless sigh. “I’m seventeen actually, sir,” he said as if rebuked. Ainsworth endured a brief awkward silence before the boy continued. “But I hated it there. Oh, the coast was sparkling enough if you had plenty of coin to live there, yet my da didn’t, and so I didn’t, either.”
