The broad-shouldered guardswoman sat in her usual chair across from Korl, knitting needles clicking in a steady rhythm. Val held up what appeared to be the beginning of a white wool scarf, catching Sass’s eyes and grinning.
“Not yet,” Vaskel teased before squinting at the knitting. “Another scarf?”
“Scarves are her specialty.” There was both pride and a hint of defensiveness in the dwarf’s voice. “This one is for the wedding.”
“Could be a table runner if Lira doesn’t want to wear a scarf down the aisle,” Vaskel suggested, avoiding a sharp look from Sass.
“Scarves are what she does best,” Sass blew a loose curl off her forehead. “Well, that and swinging a sword.”
Vaskel chuckled as he retrieved a clean tankard from beneath the bar and began filling it with dark ale. “Speaking of those with a fondness for weapons, have you seen Thrain?”
Sass swept her gaze across the great room, wrinkling her nose when it didn’t land on her childhood friend. “He’s probably sleeping off last night’s apple brandy drink-off with Rog.”
“That explains why the gnome isn’t here.”
Rog was another of Vaskel and Lira’s former crew who’d found his way to the village, along with his brandy-brewing wife, Rosie.
“They aren’t the only ones who might need to sleep it off.” Sass gestured with her head to one of the long tables. “Pip, Fenni, and Tin are having a rather heated debate about whether sugar-work sculptures are the best centerpieces.”
As if summoned by the mention of their names, the three villagers’ voices rose from their table.
“Sugar work is an art form!” Pip insisted, his wiry hair still dusted with flour although he’d left his bakery long ago. “I can create snowflakes you would swear are real!”
“But sugar is very fragile, brother.” The halfling cheesemonger patted his brother’s chubby hand. “And you have enough work to do just baking the wedding cake.”
Pip frowned at this, but bobbled his head in tacit acknowledgement of a good point. “The cakewillbe spectacular.”
“That’s why fabric is the perfect alternative.” Tinpin adjusted his emerald cravat, and his long, pointed gnome’s cap flopped to one side. “Perfect, I tell you. Silk snowflakes will never shatter. Never, never.”
“They’ve been at it for an hour,” Sass said with a wicked grin as she plopped the full tankards on her tray and backed away from him. “I’m half tempted to suggest ice sculptures just to watch them unite against a common enemy.”
Vaskel laughed, glad for the distraction from his impatience. The contentment had barely settled in his bones when the tavern door burst open, bringing with it a blast of winter air that made everyone near the entrance yelp and huddle deeper into their cloaks and shawls.
Cali strode inside, her gray fur speckled with snowflakes, making her look momentarily spotted. The pantheri shook herself from her pointed ears to the tip of her striped tail, sending droplets of melted snow flying.
She pushed back her hood. “It’s really coming down out there.”
Behind her, Iris emerged, hidden beneath a heavy cloak. The village apothecary brushed off some of Cali’s scattered snowflakes before tossing back her hood and revealing her mass of curls teased with glints of silver. Her violet and orange patchwork skirt jingled as she walked to the bar and slid onto a stool, while Cali hurried to warm her fur by the fire.
Vaskel gave the apothecary his most charming smile, the one that had gotten him out of (and occasionally into) trouble across half the Known Lands, and hoped she couldn’t tell how relieved he was to see her. “I thought the snow might have kept you away.”
She rubbed her hands together and shook her head. “I’ll admit that it delayed me and that it was tempting to stay curled up in a chair at home.” She gave him an amiable smile. “But a promise is a promise. Now, do you have any of that mulled wine?”
He pivoted to an earthenware pitcher, pouring a generous amount into a pewter goblet and sliding it across the bar to her. His gaze tracked the delicate way she wrapped her fingers around the stem, and when the tips of his fingers brushed hers, a tingle sent heat sliding up his hand. He pulled back, rubbing his fingers and wondering if the apothecary possessed magic, after all.
Iris seemed unaffected as she took a sip and sighed. “Perfect.”
Vaskel smiled, but his attention was almost instantly hijacked, and it wasn’t from the pleasant buzz of her touch. The prickling sensation had returned, the one he’d first felt months ago when he’d worn Iris’s charmed ring that signaled danger, and again that morning. But this time there was no ring to blame.
His hand moved involuntarily to his wrist, rubbing at the spot where his sleeve met his hand. The sensation was an insistent itch that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
Not now, he thought, forcing his hand back to the bar.
But even as he tried to dismiss it, the sensation intensified. The prickle that had started as a faint murmur beneath his skin was now emerging as something darker and more insistent.
“Vaskel?” Iris’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Are you unwell?”
He dredged up a grin, the kind that had fooled guards and maidens alike. “A bit tired is all.”
