Page 143 of A Sanctuary from Shadow
Mirth frolicking across his wide mouth, Pete thought a minute. “He customarily buys those he fancies ales.”
“Oh. Well—that’s—”
“But don’t drink them, for he’ll surely have dosed them.”
I closed my eyes, shook myself.
“That reminds me—” When I met Pete’s waiting gaze, he pressed several seeds into my palm. “If you find yourself in need of some Dutch courage, you’ll have these at your disposal. Then you won’t be forced to rely on Howlite’s donations. I don’t wish you to souse yourself, mind you. I need your mind sharp, Shorty.”
I stuffed my drink money into my skirt pocket.
“Remember the signals we discussed?”
“Yep, and their corresponding hands.”
We’d spent hours eating riggit stew and playing bachram at our camp, just so I’d understand the flow of the game and how consequential hands developed. He’d also tried teaching me the art of bluffing, but I hadn’t taken well to that. When I had shit in my hand, my expression showed it. Of course, as Pete had already warned, I was even worse at pretending I had nothing when I’d struck gold.
“Good thing you won’t be playing,” Pete had chortled when we’d wrapped up our last round. “Those gleaming eyes of yours could sabotage a joker’s wedding.” This was the highest possible hand in bachram—two jokers, the queen and king of hearts, and the ace of clubs. Random, I thought, but the fae realm thrived on chaos.
Anyway, Pete was right. I should work on my tells. Not just for bachram purposes. Political negotiation, I assumed, oftentimes involved bluffing or slow playing opponents to attain one’s desired goal. If I struggled with these things during a card game, then I was in real trouble when it came to being a queen of puckish fairies.
Again, I felt the sting of the Goblin merchant’s treachery.
Tying his seed pouch back onto his belt, Pete nodded me toward the pub. “You go in first. I’ll follow shortly.”
Steeling myself with a deep breath, I rose. “Here goes nothing.” I forged ahead, my off-brand Buggs my only comfort. Both hands and teeth clenched, I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin.Be the vixen, Amy. Be. The. Vixen.
“Shorty,” Pete hissed.
I staggered back to him, worried I was being obnoxiously awkward. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” He smirked, still kneeling behind the fetid compost crate. “Just curious—what’s a douchebag?”
Snorting, I waved him off. “Tell you later.” Then I flitted away, laughter settling my nerves.
The Ceridwen Public House looked much the same as the Thorny Rose Tavern. Moss and flowers festooned all surfaces, and fae asters hovered above the patrons, lighting the busy dining room with a buttery glow. A piper with stringy orange hair and knobby limbs pranced by the hearth in garb befitting Robin Hood, his warbles accompanying the chatter of carousal.
Surveying the space from the open doorway, I spied a vast variety of fae—Middlings, Dwarves, Trolls, tiny Hedge Gnomes, Giants whose heads touched the rafters—and, for once, several other Dananns. Somehow knowing I’d still be “the other,” I exhaled and forced myself over the threshold.
I was the moon, and all eyes the oceans. My simplest movement commanded the tide.
Gulping, I feigned the confidence of a supermodel, then sauntered to the bar, singing “I Am Lovely” fromEast End Epicin my head the whole way.Trying to remember the showtune’s next lyrics, I took an overgrown toadstool at the horseshoe shaped bar.
Numerous other fae waited there to place orders. Yet, the bartender, a slender Middling of average height and build with short black hair, silvery skin, and a pair of gorgeous navy-blue insect wings, addressed me first. “Here for the tournament, lady?” He gestured toward the batch of shroom-like tables to my right, where all the other Dananns mingled.
He must’ve assumed that I, being Danann, was only there that night for the thrill of gambling away my gluttonous wealth. Knowing what Pete assumed of my Danann-ness upon first meeting me, I’d take it.
“Only to watch,” I replied in my phony British accent. “And to drink.” I placed two apple-like seeds on the rough countertop before him. “This enough to buy me an ale?”
“O’ course, lady.” He flitted aside to fill a horn mug for me.
I lost sight of him when a Middling beyn stopped before me. She set a heavy tray down beside her on the counter, then swatted a tuft of long yellow hair from her creamy, lemon-hued face. One elegant hand on her hip, she grabbed a damp cloth with the other, wiped the bar with efficient pizazz. “What can I fetch you to drink?” she asked me, her upturned nose blushing.
I gestured toward the other bartender. “I’m already being helped but thank you.”
Casting a quick glance over her shoulder at her co-worker, the beyn nodded my way. “Enjoy!” She darted onto the next patron, her hands a fluster of business. She circuited the bar like a machine. Before my drink found me, she’d taken all awaiting orders, then served them two at a time.
A chuckle drew my attention, and I glanced up to find the feyr bartender pocketing my payment. He’d set my ale before me. “Maggie’s a tireless foofaraw. This pub would crumble without her.”
