“What do I need that for— Oh!” she exclaimed, taking it from his outstretched hand. Then, utterly oblivious to the smudges of ink across her face—and much to Ainsworth’s dismay—she blew her nose withit.
“Thanks.” She sniffed and scrunched the fabric into a ball in her hands. “Oh. Did you…want this back?”
“Er, that’s quite all right. I have more upstairs.”
They were thankfully interrupted by Quiddle arriving with breakfast—eggs, bread, some sliced meat, and what looked like small, pickled fish. Last night over dinner, Honey had explained that Quiddle and Bren handled the kitchens in the chef’s absence, while Honey picked up the housekeeping duties. “As for Ashe, she is our guard should anything come down from Mount Vengeance. She takes the role very seriously.”
Indeed. Out the window he could see a leather-clad shoulder beyond the frame, standing still and rigid by the door. He must set things right with the wildeshifter—or at the very least establish why she treated him with such disdain. “Does that— Does that happen often?”
Honey’s grin flashed with malice, and she tapped her claws atop the table. Even for a tyflan, they seemed particularly sharp. “Why? Does that scare you, scholar?”
“I should say it would scare most normal people, yes!”
She leaned back in her chair and laughed. “Well, at least you’re transparent about being cowardly. But not to worry—Ashe has things well in hand.”
He scowled and prepared his retort, but Quiddle cleared his throat.
“Tea, Mr. Gladsly?” Quiddle asked. Ainsworth nodded, and the delightful fragrance of ficklebell tea rose to meet him as it was poured into a verdant, chipped teacup. Ainsworth was pleasantly surprised. Ficklebell tea was not something that came cheap, and he wondered what Enach would say at the thought of a small, provincial place like this having a supply of such a sought-after drink.
Once they had finished eating, Quiddle and Bren rose to clear the remains of their meal. Ainsworth startled himself slightly by asking, “Shall we bring anything out to Ashe? And can I assist in any way?” He told himself he wasn’t being deceitful; he simply needed to start bonding with these people to document their accounts of the inn’s history.
Quiddle frowned, balancing two teacups on top of the piled breakfast dishes on one arm. “No offense, but your hands don’t look like they’ve spent much time scrubbin’ plates. And Ashe will let us know if she’s hungry. But thanks,” he added as if in afterthought before heading with Bren out of the room.
Ainsworth sighed. “Very well, then.”
Honey left the table and walked to the windowsill behind them to pick up a small, battered watering can. He watched for a few minutes as she pottered about, watering the ivy, whose roots lay in various large ceramic vases placed at the bottom of the gargantuan wooden beams they climbed. Once she finished, she looked up at him. “Oh, Ainsworth. I forgot. Shall I sign your paper so you can get your work started?”
“Ah! Yes, that would be most welcome,” he said, guilt lacing hiswords. He had not, in fact, been waiting on her permission to start. Rather, he was waiting for her assistance in findingwhereto start.
He hurried to his room and retrieved the permission form from his trunk, then took a moment to glance out the window. Looming in the distance were the unyielding crags of Mount Vengeance and its neighboring companions. The Dubhrach range reached far beyond Mount Vengeance’s slopes and peaks, well out of his sight. It would, according to estimates from military correspondence he had uncovered at the library before his departure, take many a moon’s turn to travel from one end of the mountain range to the other, depending on weather conditions. Summiting Mount Vengeance itself would most likely take the better part of a week. But, Ainsworth realized, he would conquer the mountain in a different way. It might take longer, but he need not navigate steep hills and uncertain weather, struggle to fight off fearsome creatures, or confront a dragon to complete his task. He would instead conquer the mountain by ensuring its properly recorded place in history. Enach would surely be unable to deny the impressive nature of such a feat. Yes, Ainsworth would prove himself, and their reunion, he told himself as he made his way back downstairs, would be much, much sweeter than their parting had been.
After Honey had given her signature (snatching Ainsworth’s quill and ink to do so, then commenting on their lovely quality in a way that had Ainsworth swelling with pride for the institution that supplied them), she led the way back to the second floor and into one of the larger, vacant bedrooms. Like his own room, it featured a modest fireplace freshly stocked with logs, with neatly stowed-away cooking equipment should someone wish to prepare their own meals or enchantments atop the flames. Unlike his own room, there were five beds, and along the windowsill sat an array of brightly colored clay models. But they were out of proportion. The kelpie stood almost as tall as the selkie perched on her rock, who in turn seemed to have shed a cloak that was a mere splotch of clay.
“Don’t touch those!” Honey called. Ainsworth withdrew his hand sheepishly. “They’re fragile. A guest left them a long time ago,and I’ve grown rather fond of them. Come here. I think you’ll find what you’re looking for in the attic.”
The innkeeper stood on her tiptoes—her tail also reaching up as if it could assist—to grab a latch on the ceiling. When she pulled it down, all manner of dust and debris showered them, and Ainsworth took a swift step back. His fine shirt! He inspected his sleeves thoroughly and frantically for any smudges and stains, despairing at each and every one he spotted.
Honey brushed some white wood chips out of her fringe. “Oops! Well then, after you.” She beckoned with one long arm toward the now unfolded steps.
Preparing himself for more dust and clutter, Ainsworth ascended, rolling up his sleeves as he didso.
“Watch the antlers, the roof is low up there!”
“Thanks for the warning,” Ainsworth said sincerely. He could not quite decide if he found Honey irritating, endearing, or…something else entirely.
They climbed up to reach a small landing. A hazy gray light from outside floated in from a little grime-coated window in the ceiling, dimly illuminating a door in front of them. “I believe this space used to be another guest room, but it must have been changed to storage at some point,” Honey said as she opened it. She beckoned Ainsworth inside, and he took a tentative step forward.
Absolute chaos awaited. The Misnich Inn’s attic spread atop what he assumed was the entirety of the second floor—perhaps as large as one of the smaller archives at the Skarrow Library. But no pristinely organized shelves adorned the walls here. Well, one shelf awaited on the northern side—but only strange, faded trinkets were perched precariously upon it. No books were neatly stacked in place, waiting tentatively for their secrets to be revealed. Manydidlie scattered across the floor, however—so thickly that Ainsworth had no idea how he was expected to make his way across the room. It was utterly overflowing with boxes and clutter, too. Ripped scrolls and stray parchment were littered everywhere, many showing evidence of being sampled by mice. Squinting, he could see somebound-manuscript-looking objects inside some of the boxes, but most seemed filled with old cloth and other junk. Empty glass bottles perhaps once containing potions were scattered erratically across the room. Worst of all, he noted with a sinking heart, the window worked into the slanting roof allowed for an ever-so-slight draft—and a smallplip, plip, plipof falling water.
Damp. The worst enemy of the archives, here to greet him!
He jumped as Honey put a hand on his shoulder. “I couldn’t tell you how many years it’s been since someone was last up here. But somewhere in this mess, you’ll find the oldest guest books and scrolls. Some adventurers might have left comments, and at the very least you should find a record of how many people stayed here.” She paused for a moment, as if contemplating whether she wanted to share the next piece of information. “You might also find journals up here from a long time ago. I suppose I did sign the permission slip, and it’s relevant to the history here, but…I’d appreciate it if you maybe ask me before you look at any?”
“Old family diaries, I presume?” Ainsworth asked, intrigued.
“Yes—the Misnich Inn is a family business.”
He swatted away a web of dust clinging to his antlers. “It’s unlikely that anything relevant—never mind irrelevant—truly survived this.” Ainsworth crouched down to touch the edge of a scroll. It crumbled away, the black smudges across it definitely mold and not, as he had hoped, ink.
