The one thing he refused to ask her about was the only true twinge of pain he’d experienced lately, but if he told the apothecary that the enchanted ring she’d given Sass to warn of danger had prickled when he’d tried it on, that might raise more questions than he wanted. Besides, he had sensed nothingsince that single prickle. There was no reason to believe it was anything but a glitch. He thought of his prickling wrist in the market, then quickly dismissed that as a product of the dry air, and more of an itch than a prickle.
When Iris emerged from behind the curtains again, she held two cups of tea. She extended one to him, inclining her head slightly. “This should help with that sore throat you had a few days ago. I added some lemon oil for you.”
Vaskel thanked her, cringing inwardly that she’d remembered his last manufactured ailment as he sipped the hot tea that was indeed tangy with lemon.
“How is your throat?” she asked. “Did the herbs help?”
He nodded while swallowing. “It’s better than ever.” At least that was not a lie. His throat was better than ever, perhaps because it had never been sore.
Iris smiled over the rim of her flowered teacup. “Then you didn’t come back for more herbs. What can I help you with today?”
He cursed himself for speaking too quickly. Now he couldn’t simply ask for more of the last remedy. If he continued to complain of new aches and pains every time he stopped in to see Iris, she would think he was dancing on death’s door. Then he remembered his conversation with Cali.
“Lira’s wedding,” he blurted.
This made Iris tilt her head. “Lira’s wedding?”
He released a breath that sounded more relieved than he would have liked. “Cali and I are worried that the elaborate celebration the village wants to throw might not be what she and Korl want. You’ve known her longer than anyone, though.”
Iris placed her teacup on the counter as she mulled this over. “Tin has a tendency to take charge of celebrations, and Lira doesn’t have her gran here to run interference.”
“You’re as close a thing to family that she has,” Vaskel said, “aside from Erindil, but his ideas of a celebration are even more extravagant than Tin’s.”
Iris scrunched her lips to one side. “That’s putting it mildly.”
Vaskel pressed on, knowing the one thing to say that would secure Iris’s help. “You knew her gran better than anyone. I’m sure Elia would want you to step in for her.”
Iris’s eyes became glassy, but she sniffed and squared her shoulders. “You’re right. I always promised Elia I would look out for Lira. She would want me to make sure Lira’s wedding is about what she wants.”
Vaskel felt a stab of guilt that he pushed aside as he realized what he’d said was true. If there was anyone who could ensure that Lira’s wedding didn’t become a spectacle, it was Iris.
“I’m glad you stopped in this morning, Vaskel.” Iris drained the last of her tea and held his gaze. “I’ll stop by the tavern this evening to talk to her.”
Vaskel downed his remaining tea in a single gulp before wishing Iris farewell and already eagerly anticipating her visit that evening. It wasn’t until he stepped outside the shop doors that his mind cleared enough for him to notice that the prickling on his wrist had shifted from mildly irritating to impossible to ignore.
Three
Vaskel wipeddown the bar with more force than strictly necessary, the worn wood gleaming under his crimson fingers. He’d been eyeing the door all night, but so far, there had been no sign of Iris. He gave an absent rub of his tingling wrist and busied himself pulling a pint for a bandy-legged sailor who was a long way from port.
Sliding the tankard across the bar and scooping up the dingy copper bits in return, Vaskel cast his gaze across the tavern’s great room that hummed with comfortable chaos. Warmth radiated from the massive stone hearth, flames spewing shadows across the rough-hewn beams overhead. The air was thick with the scents of cinnamon, peat, and Lira’s latest batch of meat pies cooling in the kitchen. Underneath it all lingered the familiar tang of ale and the sweetness of mulled wine that had become the drink of choice as the nights had gotten colder.
Sass sauntered toward him with a tray balanced on one hand, her dark braid swinging and her ample hips swaying. The dwarf had become an expert at weaving her way through the crowded tables, dodging flailing arms and close-pressed bodies withoutbreaking stride. But even she blew out a breath when she reached him, tucking a cloth into the waistband of her brown skirt.
“Another round of ale for the table in the corner.” She flicked her dark eyes toward the kitchen doors. “Any word on fresh meat pies?”
Vaskel shrugged. He knew better than to poke his head into Lira’s kitchen and ask. Being hurried did nothing but make her glower these days. “Why don’t you ask the bride-to-be?”
Sass snorted a laugh. “I prefer to keep my head, thank you very much.” Then she lowered her voice. “You don’t think her recent moodiness is wedding jitters, do you? You don’t think she’s having second thoughts?”
Vaskel glanced at the stone fireplace where Korl occupied one of the oversized armchairs, the orc’s massive form making the furniture look like it belonged in a child’s nursery. He was sketching something on a piece of parchment, probably a design for a new gadget. Vaskel thought about how the guard-turned-tinker had courted Lira by making her a new stove, and a smile tugged at his lips.
“I don’t think she’s having second thoughts about Korl,” he said with a shake of his head.
“Aye.” Sass nodded. “You’re right. She adores the big, green lug.”
Vaskel grinned at this, knowing that Sass’s barbs were terms of endearment. “And how’s your big, blonde lug?”
Sass tried to wrestle away a pleased look as she cleared her throat. “I don’t know if she’s mine. It’s not likewe’rethe ones engaged.”
