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“The location serves my purpose,” I pointed out.
She considered this for a moment before nodding in return. Stacking the dirty dishes, she began clearing the tabletop. “Do you intend to eat?”
“Is the food any good?”
“I hear it is.”
“Don’t you eat it?”
She shook her head as she scraped the crumbs from the tabletop into a bowl in the stack the previous patron had left. “The food is for paying customers.”
My stomach growled. “Then, yes, I will eat.”
“I will send Misha over after I wash the table.” She muscled the stack of dishes into her arms and set off toward the door at the back, which I assumed led to the kitchen.
The blonde, who I assumed was named Misha, finished flirting with a boisterous patron and then sashayed over to me with a seductive expression. “Did I overhear correctly, stranger? You wish to order something?”
Thankfully, I hadn’t shed my cloak. I tugged the edge of my hood lower and frowned at her. “What is available?”
“Cottage pie, venison stew, or roast chicken are on the menu. Each comes with bread baked this morning and a mug of water, cider, or mead. Your choice.” She settled her hip against the edge of the table and leaned toward me with an overly warm smile.
“Venison stew and cider,” I informed her in a flat tone. “And I wish to speak with your employer.”
Her smile dropped as she frowned at me in confusion. “To complain?”
“I need to speak with the tavern keeper.”
She pouted. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Never said you did.” I stared her down.
The green-eyed woman approached us with a cloth and a crock of water. “Master Hobb will be out in a moment.” She kept her head down as she addressed the other woman. “The cook says you are taking too long.”
Misha rounded on the younger woman with an angry hiss. “There is more to good service than talking. Customers want some personal attention.”
“And a meal,” the cleaning woman added meekly.
Misha huffed and stalked off toward the kitchen door.
The young woman started scrubbing the surface of the table without a word, almost as though nothing had happened between her and Misha.
“How did you know I was here to speak to the tavern keeper?” I asked.
She froze and hunched her shoulders.
“I didn’t mention it until a moment ago.”
“I guessed.” She resumed cleaning.
“You must be a very good guesser.”
Some of the tension in her narrow shoulders eased, probably because she thought I had accepted her explanation.
Opening my magical senses, I detected a slight sensation of power around her. It felt soft and nebulous. She probably had traces of fae mixed blood a few generations old. Such wasn’t uncommon. There were quite a few humans of mixed blood among the humans living right outside the fae realm.
Premonitions were common, which were really just unrealized magical awarenesses passed down through the generations. Hereditary magic could manifest in an affinity for animals, plants, or trees. I once encountered a man who could tell with perfect accuracy where to dig for a reliable well, which was clearly a latent naiad magic that had survived many generations of pure human matches.
“People call me Kent.”
