“Did you find the dragon fare satisfactory?” Vormalt asked him in an amused tone.
“Surprisingly so.”
“Did you get a chance to try the fabled soup?”
“I would prefer to do that in the comfort of my own home with a lady friend on the premises,” Yerin said. “Otherwise, if its reputation is to be believed, I might leap into your arms after a few spoonfuls.”
“Neither of us wants that.”
“Certainly not.”
“I’d have to repel such an advance and toss you to the nearest availablelady friend.” Vormalt turned his amusement toward Rylana, though his gaze drifted upward to her hair again.
She bared her teeth, not wanting to participate in the insipid conversation. They were blocking the door, so she made a shooing motion, hoping to stem off any further comments they might make about their sexual preferences, though she knew Vormalt’sperfectly well. Assuming they hadn’t changed in the intervening years.
The men didn’t move, and the reason why opened the door and stepped out. The goblin, Rolf, strode out, smiling and clutching a bag in his arms. His step faltered when he saw Rylana. He recovered quickly and held the bag toward Yerin.
“Your leftovers, sir,” Rolf said.
Yerin accepted it and handed the goblin a silver coin.
“Is it Jildarin's policy to charge people for leftovers?” Rylana asked.
“Oh, that’s a tip, my lady.” Rolf kissed the coin, bowed to the men, then hurried back inside.
Yerin smiled, not disagreeing, and headed off down the street with his bag.
“Do see to your hair, Rylana,” Vormalt said before following his comrade. “It’smuchmore flattering when it flows lushly about your shoulders.”
Rylana borrowed from the extensive variety of goblin hand gestures to make an appropriately scathing one as he walked off. He was lucky because, if not for Tranquility’s peace laws and the lurking gnomes, she would have found something to hurl at the back of his head. Her aim was, after all, impeccable. Instead, she was left staringafter him and wondering if he would be more trouble.
“Probably,” she muttered and stepped inside.
She almost walked into Jildarin. He was peering out the window, watching his food critic depart, but his gaze shifted to her. She braced herself, expecting him to comment on her departure in the middle of the day for coffee with a man.
“That food critic is Yerin Molingvar,” Jildarin stated, barely acknowledging her as he continued to look out the window, though the two men had disappeared from view.
“Yes. Did he introduce himself?”
“He did not.”
“But you know him?” Rylana asked in surprise, though she supposed it would make sense that he would read restaurant reviews in the newspaper and have heard of a food critic.
“He is alsoChefYerin Molingvar who works up the hill at Celestial Ceremony.”
Rylana had never been to the fancy restaurant but recognized the name. It was the kind of upscale place people of her father’s ilk visited when they deigned to cross the lake to take in the food and culture of Tranquility. It was considered an honor to work there and even the servers and kitchen help came from well-off families.
“One would think having a restaurant review column would be considered a conflict of interest for him.”
Jildarin waved away the suggestion and said what must have been more important to him. “He is one of the chefs who passed the preliminary rounds and was accepted into the Golden Whisk competition.”
Ah,thatwas why Jildarin knew him.
“So, he’s one of your archnemeses.”
“I would not suggest that precisely. After all,hehas never shot me.” Jildarin looked pointedly at her.
Rylana sighed, suspecting it would be a long road to win Jildarin's trust—and forgiveness.
