Viv shrugged. “I liked her. She’s sharp.”
“You know, that was my thinking too. Shame she stays away. Now, Berk, seen him a time or twenty.”
“Have you read her books?” asked Viv.
Brand returned his attention to his ever-present copper mug, his tattoos lively as he scrubbed it. He cleared his throat. “Maybe a piece of one.”
Viv leaned both arms on the bar-top, lowering her voice. “So … Berk and Greatstrider. They’re basically alone up in that big house. And her books … I mean, she has to get those ideas from somewhere, right?”
“I reckon writers got to have a good imagination,” observed Brand, “because they can’t all be that lucky.”
* * *
On Freyday, Viv set the sandwich board out on the beach, in sight of where the passengers would debark. The air was chill and slow, and the mist curled high up the bluff, like a frozen wave breaking. It blanketed the surf in a silvery hush.
On her return trip, she rapped on the door of Sea-Song, and when Maylee unlatched it, Viv slipped into the warmth and fragrance of baking bread. The quiet of the morning extended to their murmured conversation as she gave Maylee a squeeze and a quick peck on the cheek, slid Fern’s payment onto the counter, and then retrieved several baskets of fresh scones and a crock of cream.
The boardwalk creaked under her stride, and the surf thundered its morning song. She heard the neighing of horses and the jingle of harness carrying up and over the dunes from the south.
Thistleburr’s bright red door still bore the sign reading CLOSED when she knocked, but Fern opened it to admit her.
The scent of toasted pecans, butter, and burnt sugar mingled with the still-fresh tang of ink and the spice of paper. For the first time Viv could recall, flames crackled in the woodstove, radiating a delicious heat. The gryphet was curled into a feathery crescent before it.
“Let me take one of those,” whispered Fern. Then she laughed at herself. “I’m talking like I’m going to scare away the day.”
Potroast’s head rose, and his stubby tail thumped the floor.
“Didn’t forget you, little man,” said Viv, and crouched before him to deliver a chunk of scone and another piece of bacon she’d held back from her breakfast. He gobbled them down and bumped his skull against her shin before curling back up.
She blew out a satisfied sigh as she stood. “I don’t know why it feels like victory that he lets me feed him.”
“Mmm, I can relate. I had the same feeling when you finished reading Ten Links in the Chain.” Fern grinned at her. “Here, bring that over.” She motioned for the basket.
They piled the scones on a pair of platters next to a pot of hot tea and a cluster of mugs. When Fern was satisfied that they were as ready as they were going to be, she fished the satchel out from behind the counter and dusted the homunculus into animation.
He glanced around the shop, then between the two of them.
“It will be a fine day,” he said, his voice thrumming with excitement. “Zelia Greatstrider. Very fine indeed.” He opened the slotted box on the counter and poured himself inside, his bones tumbling and slipping over one another until he disappeared within. A hand rose and drew the lid shut, and Viv threw the latch to dissuade any curious customers. The blue flames of his eyes winked in the darkness of the slot, and his voice issued through it in even more of an echo than usual. “Fortune be with you, Fern.”
She gently patted the top of the box. “Thanks, Satchel.”
Then they waited with the sound of crackling flames and Potroast’s wheezing snores, while Fern fussed with the books on the front table and fidgeted with the clasp on her cloak. She’d erected a pile of Zelia Greatstrider’s latest work, Thirst for Vengeance, with previous volumes arrayed around it.
At last, they heard the sound of boots upon the boardwalk and a sharp rapping on the door.
Fern twitched aside the front curtain to peek and then threw the door wide.
Zelia and Berk waited on the threshold. For some reason, Viv had expected the elf to descend upon them like royalty, but she was dressed in the same riding pants she’d worn when first they’d met, along with sensible boots, a linen shirt with billowing sleeves, and a scarf wrapped around her neck and tossed over one shoulder. Her silver hair was piled high with a long wooden hair pin through it.
“Oh, fuck,” murmured Fern, and then she squeaked when she realized what she’d said. “I mean, come in!”
“Thank you, my dear.” Zelia’s amusement was obvious. She knocked off her boots outside, and when she entered, the shop felt suddenly smaller.
Berk stepped in behind her, this time with a venerable longsword at his belt. He unbuckled it as he entered and passed it to Viv. “Just wary of trouble on the road,” he said with a grin.
“Well,” said Greatstrider, propping her fists on her hips. “It’s a charming shop.”
Fern peered down the boardwalk, then flipped the sign on the door to read OPEN, before closing it against the chill.
She opened her mouth to speak, and was utterly paralyzed by the inquiring arch of the elf’s brow.
Viv was unarmed, but after sharing a look with Berk, she decided she probably knew how to save the day.
“Scone?” she asked, and offered one to Zelia on a plate.
* * *
There was much shuffling about, halting reintroductions, and an exceptionally awkward tour of a room that was only a few strides across in any direction, but eventually, Zelia took pity on Fern and seized control of the situation. Commandeering an inkwell and a quill pen—and another scone—she ensconced herself in one of the padded chairs with a pile of books on the table beside her.
She hardly had time for a sip from her mug of tea before the door opened for the first time.
It was Luca, the unfortunate dwarven Gatewarden.
He self-consciously stroked his golden mustaches and stumped into the shop, then stopped short to boggle at Zelia, who regarded him over the rim of her cup with amusement.
“Miss Greatstrider?” he asked. Viv thought if he tugged any harder, he’d yank the braids off his upper lip.
“That’s me,” she replied.
He cast about, saw the pile of Thirst for Vengeance, and seized one, holding it before him in a death grip.
Shuffling closer, he said in a low voice, “I’ve read all your books. Uh, except this one, of course.”
“Would you like me to sign it?”
His eyes widened. “You would do that?”
She held a hand out to him. “What’s your name, then?”
“Uh, Luca, Miss—um, uh, Lady Greatstrider.”
“Call me Zelia.” She took the book, flipped it open, dipped the quill, and signed with a flourish before scrawling a message below her name.
When she handed it back, he read the note while color rose in his cheeks.
Crinkles appeared at the edges of Zelia’s eyes. “You have a question, Luca?”
His voice was barely above a whisper as he asked, “Can … can I tell you one of my favorite bits?”
“Luca, I think you need a scone. Have a seat and let’s chat.”
And that was the beginning.
* * *
Viv and Berk observed from the back hall, leaning against opposing walls, each with a similar expression on their face. A fond and watchful interest.
As Viv studied the customers entering the store, circulating in little eddies throughout the shop, she felt a warmth in her chest that didn’t come from the woodstove. Fern’s starstruck paralysis evaporated quickly in the slowly building swell of custom. There simply wasn’t room for it to survive. Potroast wove between people’s legs, alert for any dropped bits of scone. Very few actually made it to the floor.
She was surprised to see Highlark make an appearance, and then highly amused at the youthful awkwardness of his stammered introductions to the great lady.
Zelia’s clear laugh and husky voice were a uniting thread as she chatted and signed and shook the hands of those who stopped by to see her.