I stutter, “Um, w-well … if you had two that would be…”
“One room. One bed. Take it or leave it.”
Taron looks at me, and I sigh.
“We’ll take it,” he says.
As much as I hate the idea, it seems we don’t have any other choice.
The man claps his hands together, but his applause is swallowed by the lively hum of the tavern. “It’s settled, then. Welcome to the Lucky Fish. Your first shift started two seconds ago.”
Chapter Eleven
As the sun dips below the terracotta rooftops of Rava, casting a pinkish glow over the tables by the windows, I realize to my dismay I’m still only halfway through my one and only shift at the Lucky Fish. I’m exhausted.
The tavern is a far cry from the tiny old place in Stellargrove where I once had a brief stint as a waitress at weekends, before they kindly showed me the door for my remarkable lack of serving skills. The worst thing that happened to me then was tripping over my own feet and landing face first in a plate of mashed potatoes, and today somehow manages to top that.
The place is rammed, as it has been since lunch. I’m constantly darting between chaotic kitchen staff and noisy patrons, facing a never-ending barrage of demands. To top it all off, sunset marks happy hour, so now I’m scribbling down drink orders at twice the pace, mynotepad and pen perpetually clenched in a white-knuckled grip.
“Don’t frown too hard,” Taron mutters as I pass him on my way to the bar. “Your face might stay that way.”
“Ha, ha … very funny,” I drone, making sure he sees me rolling my eyes. Possibly the worst part about this job is the fact that Taron seems to be a natural at it.
When he’s in the kitchen, he’s churning out washed plates faster than customers can finish their meals and, when he’s out here in the tavern, he glides easily through the maze of tables, using his talents to lay down dishes and snatch up empty glasses.
His emotionless nature is serving him well – he seems unflustered by the constant demands – and somehow even that infuriates me. I grind my teeth as I watch the train of hovering crockery obediently follow him back into the kitchen. Working here was my idea, after all. I’m supposed to be the one putting him to shame, not the other way around.
Earlier, when I asked Taron whether he could do this sort of stuff, he said no. It would seem he’s now both heartless and a liar.
I curse under my breath, realizing I can’t decipher an order I scribbled down ten minutes ago. Two non-alcoholic …somethings.
“What do you think this says?” I ask the barman.
He leans in and grunts, but he seems to understand because he takes two glasses from under the counter and starts mixing some kind of concoction.
My breath hovers in my throat when I finally return from the bar with what I hope are the correct drinks. I thread my way between the tables, anxiety knotting my stomach.
“Here you go,” I announce, placing the drinks in front of the two young women at the table.
“Fab, thanks,” says one of the women. She has golden hair that cascades across her shoulders in perfect waves, and her eyes are a striking blend of blue and green. Her smile has something calming about it. Exactly what I need right now.
“Sorry about the wait. It’s my first day, and…”I’m rambling.I bite my tongue and force a smile.
“Hey, relax. Nobody died, right?” The dark-skinned woman sitting across from the white one shoots me a wink, and it’s hard not to be captivated by the almost translucent quality of her emerald eyes.
I steal an admiring glance at the raven-black plait flowing down her back, adorned with delicate sandstone ornaments, worn by those hailing from the White Desert.
“Right,” I say. “Thanks. For understanding.”
As I pivot towards the kitchen, I sense a shift in the air of the tavern. Chatter fades into hushed murmurs, and the ambient noise gives way to pointed stares.
I turn to face the entrance, where a young man, practically dripping with arrogance, is throwing a long crimson coat at a man beside him. All eyes are on him as he rolls up his sleeves and saunters to an available table by the window.
He’s handsome, tall and broad-shouldered with a shock of champagne-blond hair. But something about him makes my skin crawl.
It’s the way he flops down on a chair and kicks his legs on to the table. The way he bites his lip as he winks at a passerby.
“Who is that?” I ask, accidentally out loud.
