For a moment, Imelda could only stare at him. And then she came to herself and turned toward the troubadour.
“I’ll give you a golden shoe if youneversing that song again.”
Imelda heard Ambrose’s cloak rustling loudly before asking:Does she really have a golden shoe?Imelda grinned a little.
Ambrose looked at her, as if to sayWell? Do you?
Obviously, thought Imelda. The witch hadn’t just given them a magic road to follow. She’d also included some trinkets—a plump walnut held two pairs out of Imelda’s massive shoe collection, which she insisted would come in handy at some point; three dresses; and a handful of granola, in case they became very hungry.
Imelda reached into her pocket, pulled out the walnut, snapped it open, and retrieved a golden pair of shoes, which she then handed to the slack-jawed troubadour.
“Do we have a deal?”
The troubadour gaped at the shoes, then tucked them into his jacket. He swung his lute over his shoulder and sighed.
“I wanted to be a baker anyway,” he said and strolled off down the steps.
Ambrose and Imelda watched him go, then turned to one another. In his typical courtier fashion, Ambrose gestured grandly toward the door of the inn where they would have to stay for the night before getting back to the road.
“Shall we?”
Normally, the way he said it would have annoyed her to no end.
But at this moment, it didn’t sound nearly as irritating.
“Thank you,” she said loftily, and swept past him.
***
The inn was Imelda’s exact idea of “warm and cozy.” There was a roaring fireplace, flanked by a semicircle of rocking chairs, and niches carved into the stone where warm, flickering torches cast pools of golden light across the floor. A sign in bright calligraphy declared:
HAVE A DELICIOUS STAY!
Imelda wanted to smile at that, but she couldn’t. The farther Imelda walked, the more she felt…off.
The hall was warm. The carpet was lush.
But it was strangely empty.
“If this is a traveler’s inn, shouldn’t it be filled with people?”
“They’re sleeping. Just as we should be.”
Ambrose yawned, scratching at the base of his throat. Even his delusional cloak hung from him limply, as if it had already fallen asleep.
“But what about all the jousting and drinking and slamming of dragons’ heads on dining tables?”
Ambrose stared at her, and Imelda frowned.
“Surely that’s what people do when they travel?”
“They don’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Imelda looked around her and crossed her arms. “I just don’t think it feels right.”
