The Raven’s Beak Tavern.
I head to Evandale’s main social hub to talk to some locals. In front of me, the wooden building sits low and squat, with a thatched roof. From the outside, I’d expect some damp, depressing watering hole, but light and laughter spill out of the open doors, and I’m drawn to it as a bee to a flower.
Once I step inside, I’m greeted by a cozy warmth that’s rare in Lundenwic. The tavern is packed, and I feel entirely invisible, which immediately puts me at ease. My shoulders relax as I take in the surroundings: mismatched tables and chairs, the soft glow of lamps overhead.
The air is thick with smoke from tobacco and the roaring fireplace. I grab a table in the far corner, away from most of the other patrons. I don’t take off my hat, but I keep a sharp eye on the room, scanning for anyone who might be open to a conversation. Most of the folks here are either deep into their drinks or engrossed in chatter with their companions. I’m the only one sitting alone.
Across the bar, I spot, who I can only assume, is the resident barmaid. I am overcome with an awareness that despite this being my kingdom, this isherdomain.
She has a mug of ale in one hand and the other on her very lovely hip. She refuses to pass the ale to an inebriated chap who is currently in her crosshairs.
“But I would be good to ya. A good husband. I promise.” He pleads.
“I know you’re better at talking out your ass than reading signs but Harvest Mother, Aldus, you know the rules.” She points, exasperated, to a sign behind the bar that has a litany of rules including one peculiar one—no marriage proposals. I’m struck by the need for this rule.
“But my heart beats for only you,” he tries again.
“That’s what you said to Julia Falgren just last week.” The barmaid retorts.
Some of the patrons around them snicker at this comment and nod their heads. The barb is true.
A point for the barmaid.
He reaches for the beer in her hand. She pulls it away.
The bar roars in laughter. I chuckle as well. This is more entertainment than I was bargaining for.
She squats down to Aldus’ level and eyes him long and hard until he looks like a little boy instead of a grown man.
“Next round is on you.” She tells him loud enough so the whole bar can hear before reaching into his pocket and taking out a few coins. The man doesn’t even flinch. In fact, he acts as if the pleasure is all his.
She turns around to resume her rounds, the bar cheering for the free libations. For good measure, she brings his beer with her.
Touché, barmaid.
But there is a fleeting look of subtle sadness in her eyes, as she takes a sip from the mug. Despite my own distaste for the institution of marriage, a vibrant woman like her deserves more than slurred proposals from the town drunks.
She spots me alone and without a drink, and as if on cue, the feisty barmaid approaches my table.
“What can I get ya?” she asks, thrusting out one hip like she did before. It really is a nice hip.
My eyes lift to meet hers and I notice the light dusting of freckles that grace her cheeks.
She’s nothing at all like the wispy, giggling, delicate women paraded in front of me in every town. No, she’s striking in every way.
“Ordering something or just gonna waste my time, like old Aldus over there?” She asks.
“I promise I won’t propose.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Do you have a menu?” I ask and I’m met with a blank stare from her piercing dark eyes.
“It’s a list of foods on offer, written on a piece of parchment?” I continue, hesitantly.
“I know what a menu is, but this isn’t that kind of establishment. You either know what you want, or we don’t have it,” she says impatiently.
“Do you have ale?” I ask cheekily.
