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Unlike Cyprian, who has ordered round after round of his own ale, I'm slow to finish my first glass.
Around us, townsfolk come and go as they order drinks and food, chatting to one another and occasionally nodding to us.
"When I was six, he took me out to the woodshed," Cyprian tells me, drawing my attention back to him, a fond smile on his face. "He handed me an axe that was nearly half my size and taught me how to chop wood. Of course, later, Mother gave him an earful for allowing me to do servant's work and getting my hands callused from the rough wood."
"I don't think I've ever seen Amadeus so much as glance at an axe."
Cyprian laughs, shaking his head.
"I doubt he's ever touched one either. He'd probably break his dainty little fingers if he tried. "
I have to stifle a snort at this, coughing as a bit of wine catches in my throat. Cyprian pats me on the back before we share a laugh together.
I don't know how long we've been here, the drawn windows letting little outside light in, but I've enjoyed getting to know Cyprian as we've shared stories of our fathers and the happier days of our childhoods.
I was wary at first when he led me here, and then again when he handed me the goblet of wine that's long since gone warm in my hands. But now, listening to him talk and watching the way his eyes soften as he looks at me, I almost feel relaxed.
My gaze slips past Cyprian as a middle-aged couple approach the table, and I straighten in my seat, wary of them as their eyes land on me. Vaguely, as if pulled through a hazy wall of memories, I realize I recognize the man. A merchant, he'd once commissioned an illustrated book of fairytales for his wife for the birth of their firstborn child.
"Excuse us for interrupting," the man says nervously, worrying the rings on his hand. "We've just heard the news of your father falling ill. He's a fine man, a good man, if ever there was one. We just wanted to let you know that we're all praying that death won't steal him away from us just yet."
At my side, Cyprian goes still at this, his fingers whitening around his mug. Carefully, I set my own goblet down, unsure of how best to respond to them.
Father was, is, a well-respected and loved man in our town, in most towns, in fact. Nearly everyone here has some book or work in their possession that came from him. As much as it pains me to be reminded of it, it warms my heart to see my own grief reflected back in this man's face.
"Thank you," I finally manage.
With a nod, the couple leave.
Silence stretches between Cyprian and me. I watch as he downs the rest of his current ale before glancing at me. The pain I see in his eyes is almost too much to bear.
"They're right, you know."
"What?"
"About your father," he clarifies. "He's a good man. Far better than I or my family deserve."
"Oh."
I'm not sure what else to say to this, having thought this very thing myself many times over the years. Instead, I take another sip of my wine.
"In some ways, your father has been more of a parent to me than my own was," Cyprian says as I continue to drink from my goblet, my thoughts growing hazier. "I'd heard whispers that there was a man in town who dealt in tricks and magic, and I was desperate to see it for myself. Of course, my mother refused to go into the city, and my father had already left on business for the day. So, naturally, I decided to go by myself."
"Just to see a street performer?" I ask.
"I know it sounds ridiculous, but I didn't know that's what they meant at the time," he answers. "Mind you, I was just seven. Slipping from the house was easy, I've always had a knack for it, but as I wandered further and further into the city, I suddenly realized I had no idea where to go ... let alone how to get home. I stood, overwhelmed, in the city square crying for help as people bustled by without so much as a glance my way."
I reach out to place a comforting hand on Cyprian's arm at this, my own heart breaking for the lost little boy.
"I thought I'd be lost forever, until one man stopped," he continues, his thumb running absentmindedly over the handle of his mug. "He had kind eyes and colorful, ink-stained fingertips. I remember thinking he was some kind of magical being. In many ways, he was. Crouching so that we could see eye to eye, he asked me why I was crying. I told him I was lost and couldn't find my way back home."
"You must of been terrified."
"I was, and thinking back on it now, I was lucky I wasn't kidnapped," Cyprian admits. "I could tell he was busy on his own business, his arms full of parcels, but still, without a second thought he dropped what he was doing to help me. He bought me lunch and held my hand tight in his own. It took all day before I finally recognized the way home. When my mother answered the front door, she hadn't even realized I was gone."
"Oh," I breathe, knowing all to well the feeling.
"Of course, she acted the part of a bereaved mother the second she was told what happened. My own father was still away on business, but she insisted he come in and have some of her special tea, despite him trying to refuse. As my mother was preparing the tea, he asked me if I liked books. I shook my head, and he told me that was about to change. I still remember the sparkle in his eyes as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small parcel tied neatly with a red ribbon."
