Vivienne huffed out a laugh. "I thought you preferred plant man?"
Lewis grinned. "I’ll work my way up to it."
Vivienne let her eyes wander around the greenhouse. She had been too consumed by panic to take it in before. The interior differed from the artistic royal gardens, everything here favored function over form. Long wooden tables lined the space, crowded with pots in various stages of growth. A small workbench in the far corner overflowed with notebooks, dried herbs, and plant samples.
She exhaled. "I get why you love it here."
Lewis smiled softly.
The greenhouse door lurched open. A stocky, balding man froze mid-step.
Sunlight glinted off his forehead as his eyes darted between them—Vivienne slumped on the floor, head against Lewis’ shoulder… and her discarded bodice. A horrified expression overtook his features. Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked straight out.
Lewis and Vivienne looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“I can’t wait to explain this to my boss.” Lewis chuckled, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. He stood, offering her a hand. "All these life-altering events have made me hungry. Pastries?"
Vivienne rubbed her fingers over her tired eyes. "No."
His gaze narrowed in suspicion.
"I want a drink."
* * *
The Pelican Tavernon a Friday night was the pulse of Vantner, a place where worries drowned in ale and laughter swelled louder than the crashing tide. Vivienne carried her burdens inside with her, dragging them like an anchor.
The tavern was packed wall to wall. Sailors fresh off the docks clinked mugs in raucous celebration, merchants exchanged tall tales over half-eaten meals, and the people of Vantner wove through the chaos, eager to leave the week’s troubles behind.
Vivienne and Lewis navigated through the dense crowd, their shoulders brushing against strangers, laughter and shouts pressing in from every direction. The scent of roasted meat, sea salt, and stale ale thickened the air.
Vivienne welcomed the deafening hum of voices and clattering mugs. It filled the space in her mind that had been overrun with dread. She had talked enough for a lifetime today. Tonight, she only wanted silence—or the next best thing.
A wrinkled sailor with a gnarled beard and a grin full of gaps leaned in from the next table, raising a bushy brow.
"You’ve had three rounds already, lass,” he hollered over the noise, his voice as rough as sea-worn wood. “Bad day?"
Vivienne tilted her mug toward him. "You wouldn’t believe me if I told you."
The sailor chuckled, blue eyes sharp with curiosity. “Try me.”
She took a long sip, then set the mug down with a dull thud.
"The short version?" she said, voice dry as kindling. "My parents are probably dead, and now I have to sail around the world to break a curse. If I fail, I lose everything and everyone— and might be executed for treason."
The sailor’s weathered face barely flickered, as if he had heard worse. He studied her a moment, then nodded with an approving grunt.
“Good enough for me.” He slammed his fist against the table. "Lads!" he bellowed. "Her parents are probably dead!"
A chorus of boos erupted around them, loud enough to startle Lewis mid-drink.
"Let’s keep those drinks coming!" the sailor declared, raising his mug.
And they did. Vivienne and Lewis didn’t pay for another drink the entire night. Each round blurred the edges of her thoughts, muffled the gnawing fears. The weight in her chest eased, if only for a little while.
As the hours stretched, the tavern’s energy crackled. The musicians struck up a lively tune, strings and tambourines weaving a rhythm that sent braver patrons spinning into wild dances, boots stomping between scattered tables. Voices grew louder, mugs crashed together in toasts, and the world around her spun in a haze of movement, music, and free-flowing ale.
9
