&
LATTES
She’d never been more terrified in her life.
Well, that wasn’tentirelytrue. A harrowing night a lifetime ago at the mercy of a certain necromancer still held pride of place as far as raw fear went.
But eight hells, this was a close second.
The two-story building’s plaster was freshly whitewashed, with heavy corner posts and the half timbering stained dark. Light and color shifted behind leaded-glass windows. A pleasant murmur issued from within, like the whisper of a distant river, while rich scents of cinnamon and butter laced the air. The shop’s front door was closed against the chill breath of a late spring evening.
And beyond that door?
“Just a friend you last saw when your fur was still brown, and neither of us knew our ass from an abacus,” she muttered. “Hardly the stuff of nightmares.”
A friend I knew for a single summer, and me with nothing to scamper back to if the friendship doesn’t hold,she thought, but did not say.
The journey on foot through Thune’s streets was already a misty memory. Navigating with the directions Viv had provided, Fern hadn’t noted much more than the smell of the river, the twisty lanes, and the hodgepodge of buildings. If the city hadn’t contrasted so starkly with Murk’s salty air, sand, and regimented streets, even those details might not have registered.
Potroast wheezed at the level of her knees as he settled onto the cobbles beside her valise, letting his great golden eyes drift half closed.
She frowned at him. “Can’t have you napping in the street, can we?”
In the end, that was what got her moving again. As folk had done since time immemorial, she got on with things, because otherwise . . . who would feed the dog?
“Come on then, old man.” Fern gently nudged the gryphet with her toes.
As her red cloak fluttered in another gust, she hoisted the valise, hitched up the ancient satchel, and reached for the iron pull.
The door swung wide before her paw could touch it, and at the appearance of a familiar orcish face on the other side, Fern’s own traveled through wild geographies of expression.
It arrived somewhere hopeful, but with cheeks wetter than when the journey began.
“So, what do you think?” asked Viv, nodding to the mug in Fern’s paws and crossing her forearms on the table between them. Still impressive forearms. Still the same face, too, but fuller, less hungry somehow. And definitely expectant. A face Fern really knew . . . ? She thought so.Hopedso. She’d bet everything on that assumption.
Behind Viv, steam hissed from the gleaming machine on the counter, flanked by an enormous slab of slate on the wall. A menu was printed across it with colored chalk in a tidy hand, ornate flourishes decorating the corners. Neat rows of polished mugs hung on pegs, and baked goods sparkled with glaze under fine glass domes. Customers bustled to and fro with drinks and nibbles.
Fern carefully set down her mug. She contemplated the unfamiliar bitterness on the sides of her tongue, the earthy heat in her belly.
She became aware that her answer was increasingly tardy.
“It’s . . .nice,” she ventured.
Except it wasn’t.
Her claws tapped the side of the mug nervously.
Viv’s still-the-same-but-less-hungry face fell, and it was so much like her disappointment when Fern first offered her a book those many years gone, that the rattkin almost laughed aloud in delighted recognition.
The laugh got lost somewhere under the guilt though.
Fucking hells, I’ve rejected her happily-ever-after.
“Well, it’s maybe an acquired taste,” said Viv. “You don’thaveto like it, of course!” She leaned back on the bench so her crossed forearms rested against her chest.
“Oh, yes, I mean, I’m sure with time I’ll . . .” Fern trailed off as the rest of her thoughts decamped for other territory.
All the fear she’d left on the doorstep came back in a tidal swell, and she thought she might heave her guts—including a single mouthful of coffee—all over the table at the following wave of nausea.
