“Oh, just…thinking about how encouraging this all is, and my project’s progress,” he lied, waving his hand to gesture at the guest-filled room.
“Mmhmm,” Honey replied.
There was something tight-lipped about her answer that prompted him to ask: “What’s wrong? You do not think it is going well?”
“Oh! I do! And I do enjoy having so many new faces around. It’s just…” She trailed off and cleared her throat. “Even if things go well, it will still take…such a long time for you to find people willing to take on the mountain. Then they need the weeks to conquer the mountain and correspond with you. I…We’re talking months, maybe a year or more, aren’t we?”
“Well, yes,” said Ainsworth, leaning back in his chair. “But many scholars need such time to produce their books. This cannot be rushed, and it will not be rushed.”
But he was, he had to admit, now starting to enjoy the leisurely pace of the project, which once he had railed against. Perhaps it was because of the finished archive in the attic. Each wall of the room was now lined with bookshelves, and Ainsworth had devised a section for the inn’s various documents—finance accounts, guest logs—slotting rows of Honey’s precarious scrolls into place with small markers on the shelves to indicate their corresponding dates. The room finally had no dampness about it, and Spin had uncovered a rolled-up, threadbare rug with a charming checked pattern that brought a splash of color to the place. Honey had taken to spending mornings or afternoons up there with him while he worked, sittingcross-legged beside him and knitting, of all things, as he sprawled across the rug poring over scrolls.
“But how long can you stay here? I mean, after a certain point, it makes no sense for you to stay. I could pass on your details to guests who stay in the future and send you word of any correspondence you might expect from these potential research subjects.” Honey turned to look out the window after she spoke, as though she had seen something that immediately demanded her attention. She gave a small shrug. “Your grant surely cannot last forever, so you will have to leave eventually, right?”
“I…” He opened his mouth to continue, then closed it. Of course he had dwelled on this. If things looked to be going well, he could probably leave after a week or so, and perhaps check in periodically over the course of the year—something made even more likely if the Misnich Inn’s Transportation Circle was approved.
Such conduct was also probably expected by his superiors at the Skarrow Library, once his grant extension from Lyria had run out.
But in reality, that was still some months away.
“Well, I won’t think that far ahead yet. I also still hope to see at least one adventurer on their way to Mount Vengeance before I leave!”
Honey stared at him incredulously. “You’ll be here forever. I can’t remember when I last saw someone actually embark upon their quest—if ever.”
Ainsworth grinned. “Forever it is, then.”
Chapter 17
While Ainsworth felta tad guilty about his contentment—because at least four of the inn’s staff were rushed off their feet because of him—he had to admit that the lively, jovial evenings in the tavern, now that there was more life about the place, were a highlight of his day.
Over the following week, the visitors continued to stream in. Each night, there were no less than six people wishing to experience the delights of the Misnich Inn, which Honey usually supplemented by acting as bard for the evening. Alvea ensured that fine food was provided in abundance alongside whatever drink Bren put in front of guests. Some guests liked to explore Spin’s wondrous garden, with the gardener herself anxiously waiting by the gate to be sure no one swiped anything. (They had not so far, thankfully.)
Honey did seem to be enjoying the coins thrown her way. As did Quiddle, who was thrilled with his new income and became extra charming and affable, eager to earn more to send to his father back home. Ruraidh, too, was benefiting financially, although he frantically complained to Honey when the first coins were left in a room overnight, with a note for him to receive it. “I—I already get paid! Honey, please can I catch up with these people on their journey home and return it?”
“I’ll have it if you don’t want it!” Quiddle had cried in outrage,and after Honey had recovered from laughing, she said that Ruraidh had earned it, and that if he insisted on not wanting it for himself, then the next time he visited Wenslykirk he could make some purchases for all of them.
“Like…the scented candles? The lavender ones? We would all benefit from that, right?” Ruraidh had asked, eyes aglow. Honey had assured him it was a purchase they would all love, but Ainsworth knew she would encourage him to keep them in his room for his own use.
That evening, after finishing a particularly lengthy song about the first king and queen of Saltquart (to help with Quiddle’s newfound interest in the subject), Honey sat down on the chair opposite Ainsworth with a sigh of exhaustion. “I am quite finished singing for tonight, I think!” She wiped sweat from her brow. “I forget how hot it gets in here with so many people! But Ashe will not allow us to leave the door open at night, and Bren refuses to have a room with no fire, so…” She gave a good-natured shrug. Ainsworth refrained from reminding her that this was her inn and she could organize it how she saw fit, because Honey was not like that, and the Misnich Inn was not some sort of hierarchically ordered institution like the Skarrow Library. Before, the impulse to make comments such as those would have been pressing, but it now took little effort to hold his tongue. What good did comments like that do to anyone anyway?
“You were wonderful, as always,” Ainsworth said truthfully. Honey only sang when guests were here, and it was one of the main reasons he enjoyed the evenings so much. “You sing the tale of the victorious battle against the last of the Great Sweep dragons beautifully.”
“Oh my, I did not realize you were a scholar of the arts, too,” she teased. “It would most likely take an expert ear to truly understand my brilliance and talent.”
He did not object to her jest. Shewasbrilliant and talented. More people deserved to know. The inn should be bursting with guestsevery night, he thought, and people should return to their homes and their travels full of tales about Honey’s hospitality and magnificence.
To that end, Ainsworth hoped to hear about the Transportation Circle application soon. Frustratingly, the only way they would find out if it were successful would be if a sorcerer came strolling down the hill to provide them with the license coordinates.
“I am just going to grab wine from the bar. Would you like some?” Honey asked.
Ainsworth shook his head. “No thanks, I still have some ale left.”
“Great,” said Honey, standing. She glanced over to the floor where Ashe was now setting up with her lute and Bren was perched on a stool, warming up his fiddle. “Would you…? Ah—I’ll be back in a moment, then!”
“All right,” Ainsworth replied, somewhat puzzled by her demeanor. Perhaps she truly was exhausted from singing all night.
Almost as soon as Honey left, one of the guests approached him. “Excuse me, Ainsworth?” she said as Ashe and Bren jumped into the rhythm of a rather upbeat song. The ale was getting to him; he started tapping his foot in time with vigor.
“Good evening, Tryll!” Ainsworth beamed in response. She had arrived that morning with two others, and Ainsworth understood they were one of the families who ran a store in Wenslykirk. They must have given in to curiosity to see the inn whose needs they always supplied. “Are you enjoying your evening?”
