The bakery still has their popular raspberry and chamomile frangipane croissant on the top shelf of their display case. Ada would usually end up ordering it, even when she promised herself she would try something new. I ask the young male at the counter to box up half a dozen and then order a black coffee for myself.
There is no sense in delaying the inevitable, so I head in the direction of the town hall building situated at the very end of the main street as if it is watching over the beloved business district, the crown jewel of the town. There are no vacant store fronts, and it seems to have grown since I last saw it, though I remember many of the establishments. Few are open this early, so there are not many pedestrians out yet. The boulevard street is wide enough for a median accommodating mammoth live oaks that look like they are trying to reach out and touch the buildings on each side.
The town hall building itself is grand and striking. A tall, three-story limestone structure with an exterior more ornate than practical. The shady square situated in front of it invites you in, with benches and lush landscaping, offsetting the otherwise dramatic appearance. I wonder if that old centaur is still the mayor. He used to insist on greeting nearly everyone who stepped inside when he was not in a meeting, whether thevisitor was there for him or not. He cornered me and gave me his entire pitch on the town right after I moved here.
The building is quiet as I follow the posted signs and head upstairs, no nosy old centaur or anyone to be seen. The layout of the large meeting room, where this first safety council meeting will be held, feels too much like a tribunal for it to simply be a day to interview witnesses and victims. A chair and table are set far apart from the rest, the focal point of the room. Only a group of constables and other law enforcement representatives are here, talking amongst themselves while setting up the tables, which might contribute to its unfriendly configuration. Still, Ada, or any other witness, should not be made to feel uncomfortable. I worry it will add to Ada’s stress. She was tense last night, much of which was caused by my arrival, but certainly not all of it. This surely loomed large in her mind too.
Niven, who will be leading today’s meeting, arrives right after me. He studies me, a guarded expression on his face. I wait impassively while he approaches. I do not want to make an enemy of him if I do not have to, even if I do not care for how overly solicitous he was of Ada. She needs friends in her corner, but it looks too comfortable coming from him. Still, I may be able to use it to my advantage in this situation.
“Norrell Snowstrider, you’re here early.” Niven’s unexpectedly scraping voice is at odds with his sophisticated demeanor. “I didn’t want to bring this up at dinner, but our group of friends wondered who claimed so much of Ada’s time that last year at the academy. When we finally learned about you it was a bolt from the blue, to say the least. A yeti among us for an entire year. She kept your secret, you know. She was true to you. And then you did the unthinkable and left her. You didn’t have to come back here, and you certainly have no business expecting a room in her house. There are plenty of other places you could stay. Ashes, if you were a decent male, you would havesent an advisor. Do you find sick pleasure in blowing up her life?” he accuses with an unnatural calmness.
“I did all of those things. But the situation was not as simple as you say. I care more about her than anyone else in my life,” I counter.
“Most of the time itisthat simple. You’re bad for her. Don’t make things worse. Everyone is watching,” he replies, never breaking his cool stare.
It would be a bad look to start an argument with him before I speak with Ada, so I do not let him bait me.
“Is Ada up first?” I ask, motioning a hand over to the lone chair. The unrelated question does not faze him. His hard expression remains in place.
“Yes, even though her testimony falls last in the timeline. Our other big interview today, Ben Garde-Pierre, is here representing himself as well as his mate Cara Bishop so it will be a long day,” Niven explains, the tone of his voice turning strictly business.
“Mayhap that chair needs to be somewhere more comfortable for her,” I suggest, with a tilt of my head toward the long tables. “Like over there where she is part of the group instead of opposite them. She will feel too exposed.”
“Good point,” he agrees, though he gives me a piercing look like he is trying to get a read on me. “This isn’t a questioning; it’s a collaborative effort. I’ll move her.”
By the tone of his voice, it sounds like he is done with me for now, so I say my piece while I still can. “Give these to Ada when she gets here. They are her favorite. Mayhap do not say they are from me.”
He nods curtly as I hand him the bright pink Pearlhouse Pastries bag. He looks inside, as if checking whether they are tainted, then strides toward the chair and drags it closer to a different table. He drops the bag onto it. Crossing his arms, heexamines the set up. I leave him to his own devices and walk to the edge of the room where I lean against a wall out of the way. Before long, he enlists help to move the tables into a friendlier grouping. I hope the other witnesses appreciate it too.
An older female cervitaur rolls in a cart with coffee, water, and other beverages, along with stacks of paper cups, plates, utensils, and napkins. She is followed by a much taller golden-blonde-coated centaur with chin length blonde hair tucked behind his ears, maybe a decade younger than me. His human-like torso is donned in a crisp dress shirt and a vibrant purple tie, the color not unlike Ada’s eyes. His presence fills the room, even more than his size. Mayhap they traded in the mayor for a younger model. The centaur sets down the boxes he carries. Some familiar pink ones on top of plain brown bulkier ones. As he helps the cervitaur arrange the table, I take this opportunity to introduce myself. Get it out of the way since he must know Ada well through their respective elected positions if he is indeed the new mayor.
As I approach, they look over and both of their expressions sour. The centaur’s tail swishes sharply. Ah, my reputation has preceded me.
“Here he comes,” the silver-haired cervitaur murmurs. The centaur snorts and continues unpacking the boxes.
When I stop next to him, he twists his human torso toward me, looking far down his nose to remark, “I’m not going to pretend I don’t know who you are and that I don’t have a very low opinion of you.”
I nod in understanding, looking between the two of them. Both narrow their large, deep brown eyes at me, giving me no quarter. “Are you related to the centaur who was mayor about fifteen years ago?” I ask decorously, not wanting to test them further, though still needing to appease my curiosity.
He jerks his head. “I am. He’s my father, the former mayor. I’m the current mayor.”
“He was Byron Evermane?” I pull the name from the back of my mind.
“That’s right, he is. And I’m Clancy.” He finally identifies himself. “And this is Madge Feverfew, my assistant. She’s worked with both of our administrations.”
“Was it the fae or was it Ada’s misfortune that brought you back here to darken her doorstep? I have my eyes on you. I don’t care if you’re a big shot somewhere. You upset her and you’re out!” Madge shakes her finger in my direction as she dresses me down.
“You’re as bright as the night if you think that’s an empty threat, yeti. Ada doesn’t need you rubbing salt in the wound. I reckon you should keep clear of her as best you can,” Clancy warns me.
“Noted,” I acknowledge. “I am only here to offer her and this council assistance.”
“She doesn’t want your help,” he states with flat finality. Both return to their task at hand, effectively cutting off the conversation.
Walking away from them, I circle the room, surveying the growing crowd as I return to my previous spot. Another stray, seemingly the dragonkin I heard about, saunters toward an empty space along the wall near me. The gleaming indigo scales covering his neck and the edges of his face while in his unshifted form give him away. His long black hair is pulled into a knot high on the back of his head. He inadvertently imitates my pose, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, though fidgeting a tad too much. He may be counted as one of the Whispered Folkcoming out of the woodwork, as Cyrinda put it last night.
“Seems like a lot of fuss over one fae,” he complains, sounding unimpressed.
“Did your leader send you here?” I guess from his criticism.
