“Why are you here, then?”
Ainsworth cleared his throat. He was uncertain of Spin’s age, but perhaps her memory was faltering. “As I mentioned earlier, Spin, I’m here to compile the historical account—”
“No, no, not all that,” she said wryly. “Despite your own family mystery, you do not seem particularly passionate about this inn, this mountain. It has me wondering why you’d come all this way.”
“Well.” He cleared his throat. Ainsworth took a few moments before answering, not wishing to misrepresent his intentions or purpose. “I may not have been passionate about this placespecifically…but Iampassionate about history, its preservation, and helping people realize the significance of their stories. And as I said, this is fresh ground indeed! Once my research is published—well, the things it could do for my career…!”
“Was the work you already did not enough that you have to trek all the way out here to discover something new?”
“The work I did before…” He hesitated, reflecting on the evenings spent long after the moon was up poring over old documents and manuscripts, or scribbling frantic drafts at a desk in the gently lit Skarrow Reading Room, the surrounding books crammed into the shelves the only audience to his dedication. It was where he had been developing his research proposal that would have sent him to Inisyr Academy’s archives to study the poetry written by the city’s famed healers in the centuries after the Great Sweep. Ainsworth would have been afforded the opportunity to travel to a new city, experience new culture, and make new networks.
And yet…
He shrugged. “I’m good at what I do, but I need to be better. I need to do something exceptional to further my career, you know?”
She gave a wide smile. “No, I don’t, really—but as long as you’re happy. You must be next in the ranks to rise, I imagine?”
Ainsworth gave a modest laugh. “Oh no, Enach will be next. He—”
He stopped suddenly. It was if the air had congealed in his chest, unwilling to come loose.
“Enach?” Spin pressed politely, in the manner of someone who was mildly irked at being given a name with no explanation.
“My, ah, friend. And colleague. Close friend.”
“Close?” She gave a knowing wink. “Oh, how exciting!”
“Exciting?”
“It sounds like you have someone waiting for you. Someone you’d like to hurry back home to. You must tell me everything.”
It was surely the wine that heated his face, Ainsworth thought. Surely the wine that quickened his pulse and caused the stab ofanxiety in his chest.Everything?That first sweet kiss, the taunting courtship that followed? The hazy afternoons rushing to finish their work so as to laze among the gardens together?
The insults hurled toward Ainsworth in the week prior to his departure? The shove that sent Ainsworth hurtling into a bookshelf, hiding the bruise along the back of his neck thereafter?
Ainsworth took a large sip of wine before summoning a smile. “Oh, perhaps I will—some other time.” No need to spoil the good mood by dwelling on the uncomfortable.
At that moment, an exhausted-looking figure walked through the door. His striking white hair was tied into a sprawling, messy tail that hung past his silver neck to reach the middle of his back. He momentarily busied himself with the removal of his cloak before turning toward the hearth and the table at which Spin and Ainsworth sat. “Bren said he’d unload the cheese, but perhaps—”
His eyes widened as he noticed Ainsworth, and his hands began trembling slightly.
“Good evening!” Ainsworth offered in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is—”
Before he had a chance to finish, the new arrival dropped the small sack he was carrying, sending apples and pink auldfruit spinning along the polished floors, then bolted past the table and through the staff doors. Ainsworth gaped after him as Spin laughed. “Don’t mind him, he’s a bit shy. You don’t meet many dunelfen like Ruraidh! Now tell me about this Enach.”
Chapter 8
The following day,Ainsworth considered the breakfast in front of him with a mild sense of awe and disbelief. A shallow bowl swam with delectably seasoned leeks and butter; there was fresh crusty bread, and a dollop of yogurt added a delightful dash of acid to cut through the mellow tones of the meal.
A breakfast by Alvea Kniach. Here. Inthisinn. A week’s journey from the closest populated area, and therefore providing the minimum number of customers to experience a meal from one of Hinslyth’s most revered chefs.
He shook his head. How could she decide to leave it all behind—for this?
The kitchen door opened and Alvea herself strolled in, carrying a tray with a steaming deep-blue teapot, a small cup, and a dainty jug of cream. “I just gave Quiddle a few days off, considering he ran everything single-handedly when I was gone. In my defense, I didn’t think we’d get so many guests in the weeks we were away!” She towered over Ainsworth as she placed the teapot in front of his plate. Alvea was on the shorter side for an orc, and she moved with graceful efficiency, placing the ceramic goods meticulously on the table. “Let that steep for a few minutes yet. It’s a smooth, sweet black tea I got delivered to Wenslykirk. We had to wait a few days for it to be delivered to the Post Server’s collection stacks, hence the delay. Do you need anything else?”
“I—” Ainsworth looked up at her. “The last time I ate one of your meals, my companion and I paid thirty-five gold. Each.”
Alvea pursed her lips before answering. “Yes, Gladsly. You said as much last night. And now you’re paying whatever Honey has added to your room fee. Life is swell, ain’t it?” She whisked herself away to the kitchen, gently brushing the trailing tendrils of ivy from the roof beams with her fingers, as they threatened to catch her hair.
