“…You deserve so much more than simple kindness…”
A watery smile lifted her lips up.
“…You deserve to have the bloody world laid at your feet and the damned stars and moon sprinkled in for extra measure…”
Farmer Armstrong banged the bottom of his pewter mug; ale spilled over the sides. “But kin is, and…” Sloppy from three too many pints, Farmer Armstrong swept his pint, gesturing broadly to the patrons. “The guest o’ today is the friend o’ the morn.”
The patrons set their tankards clanging in toast to strangers. “The guest o’ today is the friend o’ the morn.”
What a night and day opinion on strangers these men had from the one she’d fallen in love with, and had her heart broken by.
Lucy didn’t even bother to try and tamp down her bitterness. Good. Anger was safer. She bent her head and mopped up the mess made by Farmer Armstrong and his fellow Scots.
As usual, her prayers were of no avail.
“…You are nothing to me. You are even less than nothing…”
She wanted to scream until her voice drowned out the echo of Arran’s hate-filled voice.
He hated her.
“Over ’ere, lass. Fill ’er up.”
Lucy returned to wiping down tables.
She wanted to work. She needed to keep moving because the moment she stopped—
Lucy jumped at Nettie’s sudden appearance. “Lass, go find yer bed.” Her aunt clucked like a mother hen. “Yer uncle and I have this.”
“Nettie I’ve been gone almost three days,” she said gratefully. “Living like a princess. I’ve had enough rest to last me—”
The old woman laid her rough, heavily wrinkled hand atop Lucy’s. “Lass, ye deserve to live like a princess,” she murmured. “I dinnae ken what happened—?”
Oh, God. Not this. To distract herself from one agony, she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood.
Nearly half a foot shorter than Lucy but as strong as most young women Lucy’s age, Aunt Nettie pulled Lucy in for a big hug. Lucy closed her eyes and hung on.
The storyteller saved Lucy from having to answer. “My drink, lass?”
“’Tis too much to talk about now,” Lucy said, releasing her aunt. “Tomorrow.” Lucy fed Nettie an outright lie. Lucy wasn’t going to be able to talk about Arran any time soon, not without letting grief break her completely this time.
Lucy went blindly to pour a pint for the bear of a rover at the hearth. The fellow with his animated accounts of roving had built and maintained an audience through the night. With guests having started to leave, his numbers had shrunk some.
But then there were new ones to take their place.
Lucy returned to her spot behind the counter. She continued to refill drinks and distribute plates Nettie and Tasgall helped prepare in the kitchens.
Joseph came in from the back, carrying an armload of kindling and wood for the fire. The always effusive stablemaster had an unnaturally grim set to his freckled features. “Wanted to apologize, Luce—”
“Och, don’t you finish that, Joseph. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Lucy gave him the only smile she could, and…it appeared enough.
His big Adam’s apple bobbed.
The rest of the night continued in its usual, predictable patterns of when The Spotted Elk was at the height of its success, until patrons began trickling out, and less than a handful remained. Nearly all the guest suites were rented.
The day could only be deemed a categorical success.
Lucy rested her tired elbows on the counter.
