Leon was already opening the second envelope. “Second place goes to Donny Pace of Fireside Brewery for the Campfire Smoked Porter! He was our only out-of-town entry, andhopefully, his second-place victory will encourage more for next year.”
A smattering of applause, a little thinner this time. The man who stepped forward was someone I didn’t recognize. Mid-thirties, broad through the shoulders, a slightly too-confident smile as he accepted his ribbon.
I turned my attention back to the stage, scanning the line of brewers. Ivan Petrov stood at the far end, arms crossed, jaw tight, waiting to see who got first. His coyote side was pushing close to the surface, making his eyes golden.
“Ivan is one of the best brewmasters around,” I said. “His dark lager had a depth and complexity that most commercial breweries spend decades chasing.”
Declan looked up at me. “You know everyone’s recipes?”
“Occupational hazard.” I shrugged. “Also, he brought me a growler last spring and asked my opinion.”
Leon lifted the final envelope with what I could only describe as barely restrained joy. “And the winner of the first annualGet Hopped UpBeer Festival, taking home first place and the distribution partnership with Kettlebrook Regional...” He drew in a dramatic breath. “Roy Pruitt, for his Ravenswood Red Ale!”
The applause this time was solid. Roy was well-liked. He was a big, ruddy-faced man in his late fifties, who’d been brewing in his garage for over a decade before he’d opened the brewery. He moved across the stage with the energy of someone twenty years younger, pumped Leon’s hand, and held his ribbon aloft like he’d won a championship bout.
Declan cheered. I clapped, but I kept glancing at Ivan, who hadn’t moved. Hadn’t clapped. He just stood there with his arms still crossed, staring at Roy like he was doing complex and unhappy mathematics in his head.
“You’re doing the thing,” Declan said.
“What thing?”
“The squinting, scanning, filing-things-away thing. What did you notice?”
I almost smiled. Three weeks, and he could already read me. I wasn’t sure whether to be charmed or unnerved. I settled on both.
“Ivan didn’t place,” I said.
Declan blinked. “Is that unexpected?”
“For Ivan? Yes. Like I said, his lager was good.”
He followed my gaze to where Ivan now stood slightly apart from the other brewers, watching Roy accept congratulations. “Maybe the judges just preferred the others.”
“Maybe.” I didn’t say anything else, because Leon had launched into another speech about the importance of local craft brewing to the regional economy, and the woman in front of us had turned around again, finger already raised in warning.
Declan pressed his lips together.
I looked straight ahead.
The crowd began to drift as Leon wound down, the energy loosening into the pleasant, purposeless wandering of a festival afternoon. Roy and the other winners came down the stage steps into a small knot of well-wishers. Leon was already orbiting them, straightening his sweater vest and looking extremely pleased with himself.
I was considering whether to congratulate Roy when I heard it.
Not the words at first, just the tone. Sharp, low, and angry. It wasn’t loud, but my sensitive hearing picked it up.
I turned.
Beckett Hayes, Roy’s former apprentice, had planted himself directly in Roy’s path. He was in his late twenties, maybe, lean in the way of someone who worked with their hands. His jaw was set, and his eyes were dark with the kind of fury that had been building for a while before it finally found its moment.
“You didn’t deserve that.” His voice was quiet enough that only the people immediately around them could hear, but that still meant a fair number of festival-goers had stopped moving and were watching. “Everyone who matters knows it. That recipe is mine. You took it and called it yours.”
Roy’s expression went from surprise to something carefully composed. “Beckett?—”
“Don’t.” The young man, Beckett, took a step closer. He wasn’t shouting, which somehow made it worse. “You fired me. Fine. I can live with that. But you didn’t just fire me. You took my work and put your name on it and then won a distribution deal with it.” His voice cracked on the last few words, the anger fracturing into something rawer. “That’s not fine.”
The crowd had gone quiet, and I could see Leon at the edge of my peripheral vision, going a spectacular shade of red.
Declan touched my arm. “Gideon.”
