Planning for the future was like fixing a plate for someone who never came to supper. It gave power to something that didn’t exist, and the power had to come from somewhere.
The concept was so simple as to be ridiculous, but it hit him like lightning. If all he had was the present, then denying himself today’s pleasures was an infinite cycle of misery.
It was with this in mind that Jesstin rode straight to Mythgarde without stopping.
Elloven had picked a poor night to visit her banker. The ground snow was days old and packed into ice from an overnight chill, with another fresh storm underway. The Reliquary astrologists who predicted weather shifts had cautioned to expect a few days of treacherous conditions on the roadways, particularly those less traveled. Most of the establishments in the village square of Oldtown were already closing shop before she’d even arrived.
Asterin had assured her the contracts she’d signed would be enough to codify the matter of property and finance, but her banker wanted to speak to her in person to verify she was the signee and of sound mind. Asterin had offered to escort her, but he’d already helped enough, and for all she liked him, being near Jesstin’s family was still too raw.
Her banker was surprised to see her on such a treacherous evening and was expedient in the transaction. She was officially the owner of record of her apartment in Nettle’s Den and her father’s apartment, had enough cash to sustain a modest lifestyle as long as she lived, and would inherit Nightwood—all back taxes paid and current, courtesy of a “secret benefactor”—when Esme departed the world for a better one.
Elloven lifted her hood and fastened her cloak as tight as it went as she carefully crossed the slippery road, headed toward the row of carriages. Her travels from Rivenholde hadn’t been the smoothest, and the poor thing was worse for wear. It was also old and needed new parts, but the horses were young, and there’d hopefully be a few good years left before she had to invest in something newer. Nettle’s Den wasn’t exactly bustling with carriages for hire.
She squinted through the squall at what looked like vapor and smelled like warm, delicious spice. As she drew nearer, she saw it was coming from a hot tea vendor, the stalwart holdout along the line of closed food merchants that had shuttered ahead of the storm.
“You’re still open?” She danced from one foot to the other. “It’s near freezing. The roads are all closing.”
“I’m always here, making the tea.” The old man shut one steamy kiln with a reverberating clang and stirred the one beside it with a ladle as long as her arm. “Always someone, like yourself, in need.”
“Oh, I’m not...” Curiously, she did want tea, particularly his, which she’d smelled on the way over, but she couldn’t very well drink it while driving a carriage. “Thank you, but I have a journey ahead of me.”
“Which way are you headed, miss? East end of the city or west?”
She wasn’t sure why she hesitated. “I’m not from Oldcastle. I was only here on a matter of business. Nettle’s Den.”
“Ah, you’re not going there tonight.” He resumed his mixing. The garnet liquid looked as smooth and delectable as it smelled. “They closed that path, oh, about a half tick back?”
If she’d only come an hour earlier. “There are other paths out though? Longer but still passable?”
“Not unless you’ll be taking a detour through Parth.”
In good conditions, it took less than an hour to reach her apartment via the usual route. In those same conditions, going west through Parth and then returning to the southeast path would add two. But in a storm? She might not even make it to Parth. “I see.” She’d have to take up at an inn, but she didn’t know which establishments were safe for women traveling alone and which to avoid.
“There’ll be plenty of rooms available here in town. We don’t get many travelers this time of year, not until Wintertide Jubilee.” He stepped back from his kiln and dried his hands on his apron. “Don’t trouble yourself, miss. The one behind me...” He tossed a nod at the pub, the Erstwhile Madame, sandwiched between two others that were nearly identical other than the names. “That one’s mine. Wasn’t going to open at all tonight, but I’d make an exception for you.”
Elloven’s panic must have been clear because he was swift to shake his head.
“All the doors bolt from the inside, miss. I’m too old for trouble these days and too tired to know what to do with it.” He flashed a crooked grin and scooped her a mug of tea. “Here, take this inside, rest a bit in the pub, and I’ll make sure there’s a room made up.”
“You really don’t have to open your tavern just for me,” Elloven said, wary but not of him. She wasn’t sure what it was, but the sense was similar to past intuitions she’d regretted ignoring.
“Oh, the pub is open all hours. It’s the rooms I’ve closed. Saves me some coin in having them cleaned when overnights are infrequent is all.” He handed her the mug and crossed his arms, pensive. “I’ve two daughters, miss, both about your age. Marian and Felice. I’m treating you the way I’d hope a stranger would treat them.”
“Very well then. I’m truly grateful.”
The man ushered her inside the Erstwhile Madame, where there were only two tables in use and a yawning young woman behind the bar. He handed Elloven a key and pointed up the stairs, indicating which room would be hers. “Name’s Tobias,” he said. “The bored woman you see behind the bar is Felice, and she’ll get you a hot meal if your belly is empty. Don’t mind the others. They’re here all the time, and they’ll not cause you or anyone a spit of trouble.”
Elloven reached into her coin purse, but Tobias curled a hand over hers.
“I’m only doing what’s right. Not looking to turn a profit, Miss...” He waited for her name.
“Um, Shioven,” she said. It hadn’t been a choice to be dishonest, more of an instinctual nudge.
“Unusual name, that. Have you always lived in Nettle’s Den?”
“No,” Elloven said. She wasn’t accustomed to lying and didn’t enjoy being on either end of it. “My mother’s family is from the Westerlands.”
Tobias smirked the way Easterlanders often did when the Westerlands came up. “It’s a nice name, miss. Don’t mind me.”
