Saturday was more of the same for Iris, just without the interruption that was Kayla. Iris was glad about that. She never liked to scold Kayla, let alone punish her, and the unspoken punishment for disobedience this week was refusing to play with her on Sunday. Iris knew she couldn’t follow through with that one. Maybe she could refuse to go to the river, but she couldn’t say no to playing with Kayla. Not when she knew exactly why Kayla was always so difficult.
It would have been easier if Kayla hadn’t known her parents at all. She’d been three years old when her parents dropped her off at the church, and although her memories of them were hazy, she remembered. Iris’ imaginings about her parents were just that: imaginings. The pain of abandonment didn’t sting her as much as it did Kayla. And it stung Kayla badly. When it was all too much for her to handle, she’d run away—always to Iris, fortunately. Iris hated to think what could happen to Kayla if she truly ran away.
And she hated disciplining Kayla.
It had to be done, as with any child, and sometimes, a strict punishment was unavoidable, but Iris always hated it. She’d much rather spend Sunday with Kayla in their secret spot by the river, the place where Kayla was happiest.
Iris glanced up at the cloudy sky, wishing it would rain already. If it held off until Sunday, the river wouldn’t be an option.
The breeze had been heavy-laden with moisture all day. She’d prioritized her outdoor jobs for the morning, just in case, watching the sky as she worked, but no luck. Then she’d peered through windows as she worked her indoor jobs all afternoon, hoping to see droplets of water trickling down the glass. Nothing. She finally had to give up and begin the arduous back and forth from the river to the various thirsty gardens around town with buckets of water, a chore she’d been putting off, hoping the rain would save her the trouble.
Now, she hoped the rain would wait until Monday, or at least come and go in the night. That would sting after all the hard work she’d done watering gardens, but then she could still go to the river with Kayla, and that was more important to her than sore muscles and bone-weariness when she walked into the inn.
Although Saturday was always the busiest night of the week and it wasn’t a good night for Iris to start the evening tired. Especially this Saturday, when the mage and the green-eyed stranger were still renting rooms.
She hadn’t seen the mage all day, for which she was thankful, but she had seen the stranger when she'd passed through the market. They hadn't spoken, and yet that chill had run down her spine again. Reminding herself that travelers usually spent more time at the market during the day than any other place in town hadn’t eased her discomfort.
She knew he hadn’t been following her. She knew she had no cause for concern. But she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling he gave her.
Was he a mage, too? Was that why? Was it just something to do with magic?
She knew next to nothing about magic, and she didn’t want to learn. She just wanted to earn her pay for the night and go back to the church to sleep.
The tavern was already full when she arrived, and Mr. Jones was far beyond tipsy and well on his way to black out drunk. She tied on her apron and jumped into the fray, wiping up the mess he made and escorting him to the door. He was singing about Mrs. Jones again when he left. Iris smiled, thinking what an odd couple they made.
Mrs. Jones was all about appearances, dressing and making up her face as if she was the epitome of fashion and beauty. Maybe she had been in her youth. Mr. Jones, on the other hand, was a portly little bald man; friendly butcher by day, friendly drunkard by night. Iris couldn’t imagine the two ever meeting, let alone getting married. But they'd found each other somehow, and whatever they had worked for them. Even with Mr. Jones coming home drunk most nights of the week.
“Iris, watch the bar for me, will you?” Mr. Tumes called, emerging from the kitchen with a plate of food and a mug of ale.
“Sure. Who’s that for?”
“The mage.”
“Oh, I can take that,” she said out of sheer reflex. The words tasted like bile in her mouth.
Mr. Tumes shook his head. “He was asking for you.”
She needed no further explanation. The moment a tenant started asking for her personally, Mr. Tumes took over tending to their room and bringing them their meals.
And in this case, she couldn’t deny her relief at not having to deal with the mage anymore.
She slipped behind the bar and picked up a rag to polish some glasses while she waited. If anybody wanted anything other than a simple refill, they’d have to wait until Mr. Tumes returned. She did little with drinks beyond serving them.
A pair of soldiers seated themselves on the barstools across from her. A pair of troublemakers.
“What’ll you have?” She glanced at the mugs in their hands. One looked like ale, the other…maybe whiskey?
“How ‘bout a little time with you?” one said with a smirk. His friend snickered.
She rolled her eyes. With a solid wood bar separating her from them, she wasn’t concerned. “Sorry, I’m not on the menu. Try the brothel across town.”
“You’re prettier than any of those wenches. C’mon, isn’t it time for your break or somethin’?”
“Not happening. Maybe it’s time to cut you off.”
She reached for his mug, and he grabbed her wrist, yanking her closer as he leaned across the bar top.
“I don’t think so.”
“Let—me—go,” she hissed, trying to break free from his grasp, but he tightened it further, making her wince. Unless she was much mistaken, the tavern noise had died down, and it was a safe bet the regulars were watching. If he didn’t stop, a bar fight was coming.
“You got spunk,” he said, glancing sideways at his friend. “I like that.”
Before she could do more than let out a startled yelp, they had her by both arms and were dragging her over the bar, and that was when chaos broke loose.
She fell to the floor amidst a flurry of shouting and cursing. Somebody pulled her up and out of the way as tables, chairs, and bodies went flying. Mr. Tumes vaulted the stair railing and grabbed one man, throwing him onto a table, and Mr. Smith conked his full mug casually on the man’s forehead without even getting up from his chair. The second man was swinging at Mr. Tumes; other soldiers were jumping to their feet; Mrs. Tumes came barreling out of the kitchen, her gray hair escaping its bun as she brandished a heavy wooden ladle over her head and rushed into combat.
It was all becoming a blur. Iris couldn’t breathe.
The hands on her shoulders steered her behind the bar, through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the cool breeze that always preceded a storm. She couldn’t hear the quiet over her pounding heart.
“Are you okay?”
She stared in shock into a pair of sharp green eyes, but before her scrambled mind could come up with a response, the air began to sizzle and crack. She spun back to face the inn, clapping her hands over her ears and squeezing her eyes shut just in time. An ear-splitting shriek whizzed through the air; a sudden explosion shook the ground under her feet.
And then…silence.
Just the blood roaring in her ears, the rasping of each frightened breath she took.
She felt his hands on her shoulders again. He turned her to face him, and she opened her eyes slowly, lowered her hands cautiously. His appraising gaze wasn’t altogether friendly.
“How did you know that was coming?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
She swallowed and shook her head. “I…I don’t know.”
She wasn’t sure if he believed her. His green eyes narrowed, and a muscle in his jaw pulsed. She was suddenly afraid he hadn’t saved her, that he was a greater threat to her than whatever had happened inside the inn, and then the door burst open behind her. His hands left her shoulders, and another set spun her again, into a tight, familiar embrace.
“Iris, are you okay?” Mrs. Tumes cried.
“Y-yes, I’m fine.”
“Lynn, you’re suffocating her,” came Mr. Tumes' booming voice. He pulled her free from Mrs. Tumes and wrapped her in another hug.
“W-what happened?”
“You can start quite a bar fight, little lady.” He released her and wiped sweat from his forehead. There was a small cut there and the beginnings of a bruise on his cheek.
“But…the explosion…”
They exchanged confused glances. “What explosion?”
“The…” Her head was spinning. How could they not have felt that—heard that? “Did the mage…do something?”
Recognition dawned in Mr. Tumes’ gray eyes. “Oh, that. Yeah, he put the fear of God in his soldiers, that’s for sure. All they had to do was look at him up on the balcony and they took off running.”
“Never mind all that,” Mrs. Tumes said impatiently, taking Iris by the hand. “Let’s get you back inside. You need to sit down.”
“I’m not having her do any more work tonight, Lynn.”
“Well, you can’t send her home right now. The poor thing looks like she’s about to pass out.”
Iris glanced around as they led her inside, but the stranger was gone.
Mrs. Tumes pushed her into a chair by the little kitchen table. She and Mr. Tumes were talking back and forth, their voices fading into the background of Iris’ troubled thoughts.
That hadn’t been sleep deprivation, and it hadn’t been a simple look from the mage at his soldiers, either. That was magic. And she had sensed it before it happened.
So had the stranger.
Should she have thanked him? He had gotten her out of there, whatever his intentions were afterwards.
Mrs. Tumes set a bowl of soup in front of her, telling her to eat up, it would help her feel better. Iris pushed the chunks around with her spoon. There were already bruises forming on her wrist from that soldier’s unforgiving grip. Father John would see them, and he’d tell Mr. Tumes she couldn’t work here anymore.
It had been a long time since there had been a bar fight because of her. Most of their money came from the inn. If it weren’t for the bruises, maybe she could convince him to let her continue working here, but now…
She pushed the bowl of soup away, untouched, and stood. “I think I’d better go home.”
Mrs. Tumes came to her, cupping her face in her hands and examining her with a critical eye. “Well, your color’s better,” she muttered, and then she raised her voice and called, “George, where’s this girl’s money?”
“Right here.” He burst through the door from the bar with a small bag in his hand. It clinked and jangled far too much for the amount of work Iris had done that night.
“Oh, no, Mr. Tumes, it’s too much,” she protested, but he took her hand and dropped the bag of coins in it anyway.
“Nonsense. Take it. Tell Father John I’ll be by tomorrow to talk to him.”
“And keep your wits about you on the way home.”
“Those soldiers are long gone, Lynn.”
“I don’t trust ‘em. Here.” She handed Iris her wooden ladle. “Take that with you, and crack ‘em over the head if they try anything. That’ll teach ‘em.”
There was very little point in arguing with Mr. Tumes, and absolutely no point in even trying with Mrs. Tumes. Iris sighed and nodded, tucking the bag of coins in her pocket and holding the ladle awkwardly in her right hand.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll bring it back tomorrow. Thank you both, and goodnight.”
She untied her apron and hung it up on its hook, and then she walked out into the night, the ladle dangling uselessly at her side. It felt strange in her hands as a supposed weapon, no matter how skillfully Mrs. Tumes wielded it. She didn’t think it would do her much good, even if she ran into trouble.
The stranger was nowhere to be seen.
She took a deep, steadying breath and followed the alley to Main Street. Tomorrow was Sunday, she reminded herself. No work. Maybe Father John would let her sleep in. She would gladly skip breakfast for an extra hour of sleep before the service. Then, maybe she could talk him into letting her keep her job at the inn. Somehow.
“They’re letting you walk home alone after that?”
She jumped and spun around as he emerged from the shadows, nearly dropping the ladle in her fright. His hands were in his pockets, his sharp green eyes intent on her as he came to her side. Every fiber of her being told her to run, but he had saved her before, hadn't he?
“They—I—”
“Come on,” he said, jerking his chin to his left and turning north without breaking his stride. By the time she got her frozen feet to move, he was already several paces ahead of her, and she had to jog to catch up.
“Thank you.”
He glanced down at her. “Yeah.”
They walked in silence for a while before she worked up the courage to ask, “What’s your name?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She gaped at him openly. “But when Father John asks, I’d like to—”
“Don’t.” He cut her short with a word and a glare. She closed her mouth as that chill ran down her spine again. “Don’t tell anyone about me. Got it?”
She nodded, although she didn’t get it at all.
The silence was suddenly deafening. Their feet plodded through the dust, one step at a time, until she looked ahead and saw the church drawing near.
“I can make it from here.”
He stopped abruptly. “You’re going to the river tomorrow, right?”
She stopped, too, startled by his question. “What?”
“It’s what Kayla said.”
How long had he been standing there watching her yesterday without her even realizing?
“Y-yeah, we’ll probably go to the river.”
“What time?”
“I-I don’t know. After church sometime. If it doesn't rain. Why?”
“Go even if it rains.”
He turned and walked away without another word. Not south, to the inn, but west. To the soldiers’ camp? Or the forest?
Thunder rolled in the distance. Iris gripped the ladle tighter and ran the last few yards to the church.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjTxmlMJuhY
