“Well, if that … aw, Eight …” She glanced up at Viv, eyes wide. “Is this what I think it is?”
“I felt a little weird, giving you a book of just recipes, because, well …” She waved around her. “Do you really need them? But—”
“Just recipes? This is a book of gnomish pastry recipes.” Maylee laughed. “Hells, I don’t even have to make ’em. Just readin’ ’em is a treat. Some of these … gods! The steps! And look at these woodcuts! I love it, hon.”
“I’m glad,” said Viv, although at the same time she felt a spike of embarrassment that she hadn’t thought of this particular book on her own. “And thanks for thinking of me. Uh, in prison. You didn’t have to, but it was … it was nice.” She flushed. Giving gifts involved a lot more careful navigation than it ought to.
“Thinkin’ of you?” Maylee leaned on the counter. “Hon, I ain’t stopped since you got here.”
“Oh. Um.” Viv’s thoughts were obliterated as surely as if she’d been brained with a cudgel.
The dwarf watched Viv’s expression, her own a mix of amusement and something else besides.
“Take care of that leg, Viv.” Maylee winked, gave the book a loving pat, and went back to cleaning up.
Viv left the shop confused, but not unpleasantly so.
16
Viv maintained a state of heightened suspicion for the first few days following her night in prison, but those feelings ebbed into a background alertness not far from her usual state of being.
No furtive men in gray were in evidence. Still, she kept her blade at her side, Iridia be damned.
She tucked it behind the counter when she was at the shop, though, after Fern pointed out that it wasn’t the most welcoming thing to spy through the front windows.
And for once, there were actually customers to deter. Neither Viv nor Fern could decide whether it was the fresh paint or the slightly less chaotic interior or some other nebulous perception of activity. It was hardly a flood of traffic, but a steady trickle wandered in throughout any given day—sometimes curious browsers who left empty-handed, but actual buyers too. Once or twice, even two people at once. A few shot curious looks Viv’s way, but when that happened, she made sure to pick up her own book, and their gazes wandered elsewhere.
Gallina dropped by off and on, usually on the pretext of visiting Potroast. More often than not, though, she ended up hanging around for a while on one of the chairs.
The inactivity was good for Viv’s leg, which regained some of the ground she’d lost after her inadvisable tussle in the street. Highlark even seemed grudgingly satisfied with her progress. But the quiet did nothing to relieve her restlessness over the whereabouts of the Ravens, and a hundred imagined scenarios where she missed their return, or they didn’t return at all. Rackam surely wasn’t the sort to break his word, but Viv was hardly a veteran of the company. She couldn’t silence a nagging voice that said he’d be happy to be well shut of a reckless orc that got herself into trouble she couldn’t get out of.
Words were the best distraction she could hope for.
“All right,” she said, entering the shop. “I finished the book.” The fog was piled high up the slope in front of the building, and it curled behind her like cold smoke.
Potroast regarded her with narrowed eyes and hid behind some shelves.
“Oh, really? Took you long enough. Too many chapters only suitable for your room?” Fern smirked at her from behind the counter.
“Hm,” replied Viv.
“You know, she’s local.”
“Who is?”
“Zelia Greatstrider, the author. She lives around here.”
“In Murk?” Viv asked incredulously. She unbuckled her sword-belt and hid her blade in its accustomed place. She slid Sea of Passion onto the counter.
“Yes, well, some of us like it here,” replied Fern, pulling the book toward her and running a paw down the front. “She’s got a family estate a little north. I’ve seen her once or twice, but I don’t think she gets down this way very often. Probably sends somebody else. She’s very … very regal.”
For some reason, the concept of an author being a real person you might bump into on your way down the street seemed impossible to imagine. “And she just … writes books?”
Fern gave her a funny look. “Got to happen some way. And she doesn’t just write books—she writes a lot of books.”
“Like, how many more?” Viv asked, as indifferently as she thought she could get away with.
Fern’s lips curled into a grin that was positively feline, no small accomplishment given the circumstances. “You know, for a bookseller, it’s very satisfying when you finally set the hook.”
Viv rolled her eyes.
“Let me see which ones I have on hand. I’ve been trying to finish this restocking order, and—”
The door creaked open, and it was hard to say who was more surprised when Pitts ducked in from the fog, moisture beading on his shaved scalp.
He stood awkwardly just inside the doorway, then held up the little orange book of poetry between two fingers. “Was wonderin’,” he said slowly, staring intently at a spot far above Fern’s head, “if you had another like this?”
* * *
“Hey, hon!”
After Pitts’s unexpected appearance at the shop, Viv thought she was done with surprises until Maylee slid into the chair across from her in The Perch.
“Hey …” Viv set her mug down slowly.
Maylee wore plain clothes, and for once, she wasn’t gleaming with sweat and heat, although her cheeks hadn’t lost their rosy flush. Her braid draped like a rope of flax over her shoulder, and in the lantern light, her eyes were luminous. It took Viv a second to recognize it, but as a warrior accustomed to the hunt, the shiver of being pursued was novel.
“Brand!” hollered Maylee. “I’ll have the beef! And you got any of those little red potatoes? You know the ones I mean.”
Brand raised a tattooed arm in acknowledgment.
“And somethin’ to drink!” she added.
Viv slid her plate to the side and crossed her arms on the table. It seemed polite to wait. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here.” She lowered her voice and added, “And this is kind of embarrassing, but it feels weird to see you outside your bakery. You just seem to … I dunno, belong there.” It had knocked her back to imagine Zelia Greatstrider marching around Murk, but seeing Maylee out and about seemed equally improbable. And yet, here she was.
“Hm, well, if that surprises you, you shoulda seen me a couple years ago.”
“Oh, yeah?” Viv’s brows rose.
“I guess you wouldn’t know it to look at me these days, but I used to raise some hell myself.” Maylee curled one arm. “I didn’t get these just punchin’ dough.”
“You’re serious?”
“I swung a mean mace. Big, flanged thing. Mostly mercenary stuff and only for a few years, but yeah.”
Viv leaned further forward. “Who’d you run with? What happened?”
Maylee laughed, a more delicate sound than Viv expected to hear coming from her. The dwarf might have been short, but everything about her seemed like it should be big. “Oh, nobody you’da heard of. And I guess it just got so I wanted to spend more time fussin’ over my campfire biscuits than trompin’ around some damp cave. You ever cooked biscuits on a campfire? Pain in the ass. I got pretty good at it, though. And at some point …” She shrugged.
Viv was mystified. She immediately thought of the Ravens, and something like homesickness flared up in her chest. “And you’re … happy doing that? You don’t miss it?”
“Sleepin’ on roots? Nah.”
“Here you go, miss,” said the tavern kid, sliding a steaming plate and a copper mug in front of Maylee. An inch-thick slab of heavily peppered beef crowded a bunch of salted, diced potatoes. Viv had already half finished her own meal, but her stomach snarled at the smells of hickory, rosemary, and hot, crispy fat.
“Thanks, Ketch.” So, the tavern kid had a name. Viv noticed he didn’t rate a “hon.”