“Uh, no, this is a, um, letter opener,” stammered Fern.
Breadlee vibrated with indignation under her fingers.
“Ah, yes. Obviously. For the letters,” replied the woman, with no detectable sarcasm.
Then she settled on the bench opposite Fern and laced her fingers together in front of herself.
“Thank you,” said Fern with real sincerity, while fervently hoping the rattkin across from her hadn’t heard the bit about an abbeyful of credulous idiots. She wondered if the . . . sister? nun?—Did you call a lady monk a nun?—sitting across from her was going to watch her eat the whole meal. She didn’t appear in a hurry to leave. “Er, Rhubarb mentioned the abbess would want to speak with me?”
She shoveled in a hot chunk of parsnip and then huffed around it as it scorched the roof of her mouth. Her eyes watered, but not so much she didn’t notice the amusement of the other rattkin.
“She does,” replied the monk-or-nun. “But I’m sure I can wait until you’re done incinerating your tongue.”
Chewing carefully with her mouth open, Fern gulped down the hot ingot of vegetable before actually registering what the woman had said.
“You’re the abbess?” she wheezed.
“Abbess Bluebriar,” replied the abbess. “But I don’t stand on honorifics much. Or extra syllables. Blue is fine.”
Fern didn’t foresee ever calling her that.
“Fern. And again, I’mverygrateful.We’revery grateful.”
A gracious nod. “You’re most welcome. And for what it’s worth, only Brother Trestle is particularly credulous, but he nearly drowned when he was eighteen and hasn’t really been the same since, so we don’t hold it against him.”
Fern chased the burning in her cheeks and stomach with a solid glug of the mulled wine, which wasalsoquite hot, and nearly blew it out her nose.
“There, there,” soothed Abbess Bluebriar, who was somehow behind her and pounding on her back as she spluttered spiced wine all over the table and Breadlee both. His sounds of disgust were mostly lost amidst Fern’s hacking coughs.
While Fern mopped her whiskers, able to breathe once more, Bluebriar resettled herself across the table again. She withdrew a pair of spectacles and a small book from her habit and commenced quietly reading.
Fern eyed the volume for a moment, but there was no title on the cover, and besides, it was probably just Tarimite nonsense. Although she felt a touch uncharitable at that thought, given said Tarimiteswerecurrently feeding her beside a roaring fire.
She returned to her meal—more carefully—and in hardly any time was scouring the gravy from the bowl with the last rind of sourdough. The wine had been the first to go.
The instant Fern slumped back, replete, the abbess tucked away her book, peering over the top of her spectacles at her guest. “Better? Excellent. Now, Brother Rhubarb relayed some very upsetting information about our bridge, as well as those responsible for your friend’s bloody circumstances, but he was rather vague when it came to the particulars. I’m hoping you can shed a little more light on events, since yourothercompanion is currently emptying the kitchen of tableware, and pretending she doesn’t understand a word anybody says to her.”
Fern began to speak, but Abbess Bluebriar extended one paw and rested it deliberately on Breadlee, who emitted a muffled chirp of startlement. She smiled. “There’s no need to be concise. The nights are long and dull, and I so enjoy a good story.”
Her smile appeared genuine enough, but there was something stern and unyielding beneath it. Something that might not hesitate to tie you down to a cold altar against your wishes.
Uncomfortably aware of exactly how hidden away the abbey was, and howdefinitivelycut off from civilization or communication, Fern swallowed, organized her thoughts, and began.
“. . . and then Rhubarb found us,” finished Fern, gazing forlornly at her empty wine cup. She dearly wished she’d had the foresight to save some of it for the long retelling Bluebriar had demanded. She’d omitted a few details she thought she could get away with—no sense recounting her time with Quillin, or how velvety his ears looked—but the abbess had managed to extract the complete and embarrassing beginning of her adventure, brandy and all. Anytime the narrative got a bit thin, Bluebriar keenly prodded her to thicken it back up.
Now, the abbess regarded her in the waning light of the hearthfire, which was gnawing on a few blackened nubs. She reached over and plucked Breadlee up to examine him.
“Uh, hi,” he said.
“And this wee fellow was enough to shatter our bridge?”
“Hey, it’s not the sword, it’s the wielder!” protested Breadlee. He seemed to consider for a moment. “Although that was pretty dramatic. Do you think Astryx was too wounded to notice? I am really conflicted about whether this is a credit or blame situation. I need to think about it some more.”
“You might want to think about it quietly,” observed Fern. Then, to the abbess, “How bad is this for you, exactly?”
The abbess sighed and placed the knife back on the table. “We’re fortunate to have solid stores for the coming winter, since all our relationships of supply lie on the other side of that bridge. We’ve pilgrims who will certainly find their return difficult. We aren’t trapped, thank the Eight, but we’ll have to make do with harder roads. I’ll send a few of our masons to investigate when the weather clears, although given it took a decade to build the thing, I hesitate to be optimistic.”
Fern was about to offer another awkward apology when Rhubarb shuffled in and approached the table. After a pained smile at Fern, he whispered in the abbess’s ear for several seconds.
