The Greenwood Inn was the only place within miles that would hire me for the kind of work I needed.
There were other ways to make coin as a woman, but the ones who took those jobs rarely came back home.
The inn was small, just two private rooms and a shared sleeping space with straw mats scattered across the floor. Even with Griffin gone most days, drunk or off visiting some gambling house, I could still manage the steady flow of guests. Most were travelers or merchants, staying only a night or two.
I finished scrubbing the plate as best I could, dried my hands on my apron, then rounded the corner and used my hip to swing open the door between the kitchen and the bar.
Still drying my hands, I said, “We’ve got private rooms for five coppers a night, or a shared one for three. Both come with breakfast in the morning. Lunch and supper are an extra half-penny each. How long do you plan to stay?”
“I’ll take a private room,” the voice replied. “Not sure for how long. At least until the summer’s end.”
“Summer’s end?” I repeated, surprised, finally glancing up. “That’s nearly three months away…”
My words faded the moment my eyes landed on him. He looked like a young lord, though I wouldn’t know how to tell one from the next. Most who passed through these woods were skirtsfolk or merchants peddling goods only skirtsfolk could afford. But this man, he wore a fine blue cloak, a tunic that clearly wasn’t from around here, and boots that gleamed like they were brand new.
“Three and a half months, to be exact,” he said with a grin. “How should I settle up?”
“Uh… I’m not really sure,” I admitted, caught off guard. “The innkeeper’s not around to handle a payment that large. I guess I’ll just collect from you nightly until then.”
“Great,” he said. “My mare’s tied up at the trough out back. Hope that’s alright. Bellona’s a gentle one, so she shouldn’t cause any trouble.”
“Good to know.” I nodded. “Since you’ll be staying a while, what name should I put down for the account?”
“Cazimir.” He gave me a smile that made my stomach flutter. “But folk call me Caz.”
Cazimir had golden hair and green eyes to match. His jaw was strong, but his cheeks still held some life to them. His skin was fair, like he wasn’t used to being in the sun.
“Caz,” I repeated, making a mental note to tell Griffin when I saw him. “Got it.”
“And yours?”
“Odessa,” I said, clearing my throat as I smoothed out my apron. “I’ll show you to your room. Got all your things with you?”
“I do.” He nodded to the rucksack slung over his shoulder and raised a leather-bound book in his right hand. “Everything’s right here.”
“You sure packed light for a three-and-a-half-month stay,” I said, eyeing his things. Grabbing the ring of keys, I turned toward the hallway opposite the bar. “Follow me.”
We reached the end of the hall, where two rooms sat side by side. Typically, merchants or well-off travelers could afford the private rooms, while the shared spaces saw the most traffic. With spring just around the corner, occupancy had started to pick up, though the single rooms had remained empty since winter.
“It’s your lucky day. Both of these are available,” I said, gesturing to the doors. “The choice is yours.”
“I’ll take the one on the right,” he said. “Looks like a good enough room for me.”
I handed him an iron key from the ring. “You never mentioned whether you wanted lunch and supper during your stay. If you still do, supper will be served in a little over two chimes.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” He gave me another smile before stepping inside, offering one last nod as the door shut behindhim.
Supper wasa hearty chicken stew with potatoes and carrots, served alongside a warm loaf of bread and a tankard of ale. I had just finished serving two guests when Caz emerged from his room and took a seat at the bar. He placed five coppers and a half-penny on the counter, sliding them toward me.
“Tonight’s payment,” he said, setting a few of his belongings on the counter. “And I’ll take a bowl of that stew. It smells fantastic.”
I slipped the coppers into my apron, planning to drop them into Griffin’s coin pouch at the end of my shift. “I’ll have it ready for you shortly. Do you have a preference for ale?” I grabbed a tankard and nodded toward the barrels behind me.
“Whatever you have is fine. Ale’s ale to me.”
I shrugged and poured the amber liquid, placing it in front of him. He seemed distracted now, flipping through the pages of the leatherbound book he carried. Beside it sat a journal, nearly identical in design, along with a quill and inkpot. He murmured a quiet “thanks” without looking up, his focus never leaving the pages.
A few minutes later, I returned with a tray of stew and bread, setting it down beside him. He was lost in his work, papers spread across the bar, with strange tools, compasses and maps, scattered between them. His journal was filled with neat rows of figures and symbols. I tried to make sense of the pages, but they looked like a tangle of marks and measurements.
