“Can’t be that bad, can it? Close your eyes and think of Albion?” Bonnie jokes. “You’d be set for life even without a ring.”
A shiver runs down my spine. That slimy lech is literally one of the most repugnant people in town, even if he’s by far the richest. But isn’t that always the case? The asshole thinks he can buy his way into my pants. Gross.
I step back from the bar and gesture to my tired, formless gown, stained with beer and grease from the roast pork on the spit out back. Standard barmaid uniform. “I’d rather stay here forever than get anywhere near that man. Girl’s gotta dream there’s something more out there, right?”
The marquis might be chair of the town Chamber of Commerce, but I’ve kept my books clean and paid our dues on time from the moment my father handed me the keys to the Raven’s Beak. He’s got nothing on me.
“More? In Evandale?” Bonnie sputters out a laugh as she hefts the tower of mugs, expertly balancing them in her fists.“Good luck with that. And heads up. He’s here.”
“The marquis?”
“The very same,” she says, and I nod, thankful for the warning. She shoots me a meaningful look and heads toward a table of rowdy regulars at the far end of the tavern.
My shoulders relax, and I manage a rueful smile. Good ol’ Bonnie. With her pristine complexion and her ready smile, she’s all of seventeen and already betrothed to a successful farmer’s handsome son. She’ll be married soon enough, living a quiet life in a quiet town.
But Bonnie’s wrong. There has to be more out there. Is it so terrible to want something bigger out of life? To want the kind of love and adventure bards sing about? I’d never admit it, but Goddess damn it all, I wantmore. Iwantthe fairy tale, even if I know I’ll probably never get it. Just once, I’d like someone to see me for who I am, even with my smart mouth. More than that, I want to fall in love. Not with a man I can flatten like a rolling pin over biscuit dough. I want a man who will stand up to me sometimes, who’s got a backbone and can shoulder some of the weight. Someone I can count on to havemyback, no matter how sturdy it is.
May as well wish for the moon.
I shake my head. At least I’ve got the bar to fall back on, even if I’ll have to find a new barmaid soon.
Two mugs of ale in hand, I make my way between crowded tables to where I’ve been flagged by a couple of sellswords, their faces as sharp as their steel. They’re not from around here, but that’s not unusual. Evandale is at the crossroads of several popular routes, so we’re a prime spot for travelers to stop for the night—or longer, as they flee from more dangerous lands.
The sellswords don’t look up from their conversation as I serve their drinks. Apparently, the Usurper King of Penrith is hiring anyone who can lift a blade, but neither of these men is convinced the coin is worth the risk. If our King Elgar increases his soldiers’ hazard pay as he’s been promising, these men would rather sign up to defend Alarice. I’ve heard others whisper about the Usurper looking to expand his borders and make war against Loegria and Alarice, so there might be some truth to it.
I collect their empty mugs, keeping a mild, disinterested expression on my face, but they don’t even acknowledge my existence.
I’m used to being ignored. Patrons talking among themselves, keeping their voices low as I serve their drinks. They don’t think I’m listening, or simply don’t care if I am, because I’m a nobody. Barmaids couldn’t possibly care about the politics of Penrith, a kingdom half a world away. What harm would it do if I were to overhear? I’m used to being invisible, just another set dressing, and I like it that way. It’s way better than being proposed to, that’s for sure.
They continue their hushed discussion as if I’m not there. Being a nobody has its perks.
I feel someone’s gaze at my back, and every hair on my body begins to stand up. I turn to see Lord Breadalbane, Marquis of Evandale, at a table with two of his trusted lackeys. He is almost three times my age, with cold eyes and a lecherous stare that makes me feel as if I’m already standing naked before him.
Ugh. Lord Grabbyhands. That’s what the girls call him.
He stares at me like a beast does its dinner as his henchmen bicker amongst themselves. I pretend not to notice him and dodge his gaze.
I walk over to a lone traveler at a table by herself. She doesn’t hear me approach, given that a group near her has spontaneously burst out in a harvest shanty.Four scores of seven whores…
“What can I get ya?” I ask, hand on my hip.
The woman blinks up at me in surprise and adjusts her spectacles. “Tea, if you please.”
“That’s all? A tinker doesn’t want anything a little stronger?”
The woman gawks. “How’d you know I’m a tinker?”
“You’ve got a callus on your middle finger,” I say. The tinker looks down at her hands. “You hold a tool of some kind, something small, and for long hours. Basedon that, you’re either a scholar or a tinker, but seeing as you don’t have ink stains on your fingers, that’s a giveaway.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Comes with the job,” I tell her. Years working at the bar means I’m good at reading people. You can learn more about a person from their body than what comes out of their mouth.
“Where you off to? Back home, is it?” I ask, noting her Loegrian lilt.
The tinker nods. “I’m supposed to meet a friend here and journey together, but he’s coming from Penrith, and I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him.”
Traveling from Penrith has been risky since their rightful king was overthrown a couple of decades ago.
