"The observatory is named after her sister," Silva wheezed, burying her face against his arm to absorb her laughter. "You gotalotof these details mixed up. I knew it was a bad idea to drink at lunch that day."
"Yeah, and it wasn't a human," Ris added. "He was a werewolf."
"Fucking worthless humans twenty-nine days out of the month, excuse me. And what did they do after she was gone? Do you think they outlawed dragons? Do you think a single one of these brainless werewolf cunts had an ounce of sense between them?
"She was a dragonborn, actually —"
"Fuck no, they didn't. Now you've gotmoredragons, all just waitin' to have a bad day. Does anyone stop them? You already know they don't. You've got araneaens strolling through the middle of town. Are they eatin’ people? Nobody cares. You've got grown trolls walking around with their bollocks swinging down to their knees in public, practically fornicating with themselves in plain fuckin' view. You've got fuckin’ shadow folk owning businesses like they'renotfrom the other side of the veil, calm as can be, and nobody blinks. It's brilliant. What a fuckin’ time to be alive in this place. So no, Ainsley, I don't need you to take me by the hand and show me the bleedin' coffee shop. I've already been there a hundred and eighty three times in the past seventy-two hours. We're managing just fine."
Silva was laughing so hard she was in danger of peeing herself, which would've made the situation a million times worse, as she likely would have screamed.
“Wait a minute, there’s a history museum?! AndI’venever been there? I really am being attacked now! Holding out on me all this . . . why don’t you just stab me with a butter knife while you’re at it, Nanaya?”
Ris was leaning over the table, tented over her untouched glass, shoulders shaking. "I completely forgot about it! It’s a tiny little thing . . . and it’s called theheritagemuseum, for yourinformation. You know, if you're considering changing careers,” she choked out to Tate, wiping the tears from her eyes, “I would like to purchase the first ticket to one of your historical tours."
“Aye, that’s a thought. We can go in together,” he told Ainsley, clinking their glasses and making good on his promise to slosh. “You can drone on with your historical accuracy and rubbish no one gives a fuck about, an’ then there’s me, just standing on the corner in front of the coffee shop, givin’ out for an hour.”
"You know, I really don't think I appreciate the way you are denigrating the importance of a handsome tour guide full of charisma and accuracy. This business is over before you even get off the ground."
"Aye, because you'll be too busy fuckin' following people to their cars, not shutting up or realizing they're actually running to get away from you, Ains. 'The tour is over, sir. We've tipped you. We've already left a five star review on Tripstatic. Please, for the love of Aemmondel, we have children at home. Won't you let us be.'"
Ris had dropped her head against the booth, her laughter having ascended sound itself. Her shoulders shook, mouth open, and every few seconds she would gasp in a breath to continue.
"You know what? Fuck all of you. I came out to have a nice time, not to be insulted by someone who thinks hummus is a condiment. Hey, do you remember that guy who used to give tours in front of our building?"
Tate began to laugh as Ainsley cracked his knuckles, finally taking back the conversational spotlight. Silva wasn’t sure how anyone could talk as much as the tall, punkish orc and still have enough oxygen left to breathe, but somehow, he managed.
"So, apparently the alley side of our old building in Bridgeton is the alleged last resting place of some shifter socialite from the 1800s. Six days a week there would be a crowd standing on the corner for a ghost tour around the neighborhood with thisgoblin wearing like, some steampunk get up, telling the story. The legend goes that she was buried alive and was ringing her little grave bell . . . you know how people used to be buried with bells, right? It's where the saying –"
"Ainsley, get the fuck on with it."
Ris hunched in laughter again, as Ainsley scowled at Tate across the table.
"Whatever. Anyway, buried in the alley, ringing her bell, no one answered. The goblin is out there, wearing his little goggles on his hat and his long leather coat every night and we noticed over time he starts embellishing the story. Like, just really laying it on thick, you know? Goring up the details. The girl went from being unconscious when she was buried to kicking and screaming, her bell ringing for one night to a whole week. But his crowd starts getting bigger, so it’s obviously working. Less historical accuracy, but more ghosty ghost bullshit."
"I used to get home every night right around the same time this group would be squatting on the pavement,” Tate cut it. “This gowl is waiting for me on the fire escape, can’t put him off, and we'd stand out on the landing smoking before I made my escape from all of them."
"Hey!"
"So one night, I have the cat's collar in my jacket pocket. Down on the pavement the guide gets to the bit about how the girl was screaming and all the folks in the buildings ignored it all. These fucking humans he’s got around him are slack-jawed; they’re eating every word of it. He gets to the part about the bells and the dead girl ringing them just as I reach into my pocket for a lighter and I remember the cat collar. Obviously you see where this is going."
"Oh no, those poor people!" Silva gasped as Ainsley began laughing once more.
"They scattered like ants. One minute there's a whole crowd right there at the corner, the next minute you see people running down the street to get away. Grown, rational adults! And they never thought for a minute that it might be some asshole with a cat collar. They were there because they wanted to believe in ghosts. We just gave them their money's worth."
“I think,” Ris laughed, leaning in to kiss Ainsley on the cheek, “this is something you need to consider. Think of the showmanship you could bring to education!”
The conversation shifted, Ainsley telling them about a museum exhibit he and Ris had gone to Starling Heights pointedly ignoring Tate’s snort of laughter. Ris mentioned that her ballet studio was talking about doing a recital, and that she wondered if she ought to try out for one of the featured roles.
“Wait, I told you I joined that balalaika group, right? With that troll that used to come in with his brother? Ivor? We’re playing at the Tula House in Bridgeton next week.”
Silva had no idea what a balalaika was, but Tate piped up before she could decide if it was worth asking.
“Ainsley, I would rather chew screws than have to sit through an hour of you playing button accordion with a couple of balalaika trolls. No offense. Invite ‘Shona to that shite. Let us know when the big band gets back together.”
Ris leaned over the table, grinning as Ansley sputtered once more. "Have you talked to Lurielle? I wonder how she's getting on with your binder. I feel bad, she left a message asking if I would look at flowers with her the other day, but I didn’t get it until the next morning.”
Silva sipped her drink daintily, avoiding Ris's eye. "I haven't. I've been working from home since then. Hey, didn't you say that Dynah has a double next to her? In your complex? I think I might need to move soon. I wonder how heinous it would be to have a roommate in one of the condos."
