“Oh, Ainsworth! I am not— You do not have to concern yourself with a curse that may or may not have befallen me!” She covered her mouth as she laughed, but she stopped abruptly, as though registering something. “You want to show me your city? Even though I am extremely mean to you and poke fun at your snobbery behind your back?”
“Even then,” he said, laughing. He imagined taking her to the little cake shop he favored and walking over the main bridge across the River Etivon at sunset. All the places that were special to him, he suddenly realized: He wished her to see them, too, so that he could have the joy of seeing them again through her eyes and with her company.
He did not think about introducing her to Enach. He would not want Honey to be on the receiving end of his remarks, but most likely Enach wouldn’t mind or even notice. He never really took an interest in Ainsworth’s friends anyway—and their number had certainly dwindled, he realized with alarm, after so many years immersed in Enach’s social circle.
“Fine, you can have the diaries. But let me skim them first? I’d maybe like to remove some personal or sensitive stuff of Beatrice’s.”
“That’s fair. Er, while we’re on the subject, I do have one more ask…”
“Oh?” She lifted a brow.
This was it. He steeled himself to make his largest request yet. “I’ve decided that if we are to get any adventurers actually willing to go to Mount Vengeance, then we need more guests to increase the odds. And I have a plan as to how to bring them here.”
Chapter 12
Even after the day’s evening meal—which had been, Ainsworth reflected with glee, a wonderful, warm occasion, with even Ashe giving him a tight-lipped smile from across the table—the kitchen was a hub of activity. He had hoped to catch Alvea at a quiet time, not unlike when he had cornered Quiddle for his interview, assisting with some dishes in return for an informative chat.
But the dishes were well underway, with Quiddle already scrubbing mercilessly through the collected pile. Alvea was preparing bread for the next day and appeared to be taking mental stock of what supplies they had in their pantry when she turned to find Ainsworth in the doorway. “If you’re still hungry, you’ll need to wait a bit. I’ve got a stew simmering on the hearth that would make for a nice supper,” she said with a slight frown on her face.
“Oh—no!” Ainsworth replied, flustered by the sudden attention. He had been lingering by the door, marveling at the efficiency with which the pair worked and wondering how he might fare himself if he had the kind of job that required so much constant running around on his feet and working with his hands. He supposed he did work with his hands—writing, sorting, reading—but it did not feel quite the same as putting them to use in a practical way that had immediate results. “It’s not supper I seek. I suppose I just wondered if we could…chat?”
Alvea rolled her eyes and turned to the pantry at the back of the room. She didn’t exactly beckon him to follow, but neither did she refuse him when he fell into step behind her.
They stooped into the small, cool room, and Ainsworth took care not to brush his antlers against the ropes of hanging sausages by the door. “If you want to talk about my days at Staran, then I’m not really in the mood, Gladsly.”
“It isn’t that!” Ainsworth replied quickly, although he was truly burning to know why the chef had up and left her establishment. “Well, not really. I thought perhaps you’d like to chat over a bottle of Chevrayn white wine?”
She tore her gaze away from the shelves that were home to wheels of cheese, the parchment in her hand with notes of the supplies slipping slightly as her grip on it loosened. “You don’t say. You brought that all the way here?”
He had, in fact, been saving it for what he imagined to be his final night at the Misnich Inn—his research largely completed and finally able to return to Hinslyth, where he belonged. It was one of the purchases he had hurriedly made for the journey as he departed the city. But now, he thought, it would serve a better use. And considering it had once been one of the favored bottles on offer at Alvea’s old tavern…
He gave what he presumed to be a dazzling smile. “I do not intend to ask about your past—much—but I do have a proposition for you. You see, I have a plan to bring more business to the inn, and I need your help.”
She reached back to tie her light blond hair into a tighter bun. “Fine, but let us drink outside since it is a calm night. I’ll hear your proposition for a glass or two—as long as you acknowledge that you’re condemning Quiddle to extra chores tonight.”
“I’ll be sure to give him a generous tip tomorrow.”
Alvea chuckled. “You’re all right, I suppose.”
Well, he had received higher praise before, but it was good enough.
In Spin’s garden, a small, iron table that twisted and turned in afloral, spiral pattern was the perfect size for two occupants. The garden was transformed by the darkening evening and the small oil-lit lanterns Ainsworth retrieved from the cupboard by the back door. Spin’s produce was no stranger to competing against low light and dark skies, and usually it seemed to Ainsworth a bright blossom of welcome, such vivid color on those overcast days. But in the fading light and the gentle touch of the lanterns, it was as though the leaves, the blossoming petals, could finally rest, their muted colors a pivotal complement to the restful space.
Chairs with intricately designed backs—matching the wooden ones inside, Ainsworth realized—were placed at either side of the table. Ruraidh was sweeping the back step, but he declined Ainsworth’s invitation to join them. “I don’t really drink. Makes me anxious,” he said before scurrying off. Ainsworth rather thought a drink or two might do him good, then berated himself for thinking he knew better than Ruraidh.
Enach used to tell him—frequently—what was best for him. Even when the food Enach chose gave Ainsworth cramps, or the way Enach spoke to people made his head and heart hurt, Ainsworth had always gone along with it. Enach knew best, after all, and Enach was cut from the same cloth as those who occupied the elite circles of the Skarrow Institution. It was only recently, only after some time away, that Ainsworth realized…he did not like that. Living his life waiting for Enach’s approval, for his guidance.
But why did he stillmissEnach? Why did the aroma of sweet fruit from the bottle in front of him make him ache for Enach’s arms around him? Enach had made his feelings on that last night quite clear, and yet—
Alvea gave a low whistle of approval as she approached. “Now,thatis a bottle of wine I haven’t sampled in a long time.”
“Could you not put an order in, and import it here?”
Alvea settled in the seat across from him, shuffling slightly on the small chair to find a comfortable position. She moved with the kind of nimble efficiency that seemed necessary for someone who workedin a large, busy kitchen. Once settled, she took a moment to sniff the glass, savor it, swirl it briefly, and then sniff it again. “Remarkable. Really. But…not remarkable enough, I think, to spend more coin than sense to get a case of it up here. And we’d probably have to charge the patrons extra to justify it.” She took a delicate sip and closed her eyes. “Damn if it isn’t delightful, though.”
“It is that,” he agreed, and he decided to let a companionable silence wash over them. Only the sound of the light breeze rustling the leaves and the gentle tinkering of piled-up dishes from the kitchen accompanied them.
“What is this proposition, then, Gladsly? You feel we need more business? Honey mentioned it earlier.”
