No spitting.
No bare feet.
No gambling.
No poisoning (knives and fists OK).
And last night, I hastily scrawled in one final rule.
No marriage proposals.
*If any of these rules are broken, patron must buy whole bar a round of drinks.
A sobering shock settles on Shep’s face as he reads the sign.
“Rules are rules, Shep,” I say with a smirk as I wipe a glass clean.
Vindication.
His drinking buddy nearly doubles over in laughter.
“She’s got ya, Shep,” he cackles.
“But, but—hic—I was serious this time,” Shep stutters between hiccups.
“So am I,” I reply, elated that I’ve bested him.
“You’d make a good wife and ma,” he rambles as I set down the clean glass and walk toward the end of the bar. “Who’ll have you—hic—but me!”
He really knows how to woo a woman.
I reach a rope and tug, ringing a heavy brass bell.The sound of it cuts through the noise of the tavern, an alcoholic’s dog whistle. The raucous din of the packed tavern quiets for only a moment, heads swiveling toward me.
I give them my best shit-eating grin. “Good news, degenerates! Next round’s on Shep!”
Everyone explodes into cheers, so loud it makes the floorboards shake and the glasses on the bar clink together.
I lean over the bar, close to Shep’s weathered face. Renewed hope flits in his eyes. He puckers his lips, expecting a kiss.
Instead, I reach into his pocket and pluck out a silver stamped with the crest of Alarice. “That’s for the ale.” I fish out the remaining three coins. “And the rest is for suggesting the insult of marriage.”
His drinking buddy is crying tears of laughter now, and before Shephard can protest, I shove the coins into my apron. They land with a jingle against the rest stored there—just enough noise to remind me the night wasn’t a complete waste.
I look out into the crowd. The place is packed. Low benches and long, well-worn tables are crammed with too many bodies. Farmers and laborers sit shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee with merchants and artisans, all of them clinking mugs like they’re the best of friends. The Harvest Mother’s festival begins tomorrow, so the mood is high. Evandale doesn’t get many reasons to celebrate, with a backbreaking workday and the steep cut paid to the marquis, as predictable as the seasons. The very ale they’re drinking is the product of the farmers’ hard labor. I don’t blame them for indulging, even if it does turn the best of men into bumbling idiots.
“Need a six cupper,” Bonnie, my junior barmaid, interrupts my musing. She notices Shep, now completely passed out at the bar.
“Another proposal?” Bonnie asks, nodding in his direction. She’s a little breathless from running around doling out pints, her cheeks almost as flushed as the patrons’. “How many is that this week?”
“I lost count,” I say, pouring another mug. Bonnie stacks them high, like playing cards. She’s an expert at this.
“And you’d never consider it?” Bonnie asks.
“Marrying one of these clowns? No fuckin’ way. They’re not looking for a wife, they’re looking for a barmaid at home.”
“I heard the marquis himself proposed. Is that true?”
I let out an annoyed sigh. “That old perv asked me to be his mistress, not his wife. Disgusting.”
