Page 72 of Horn of Winter

Which was code for “please don’t report the incident to your adopted father,” I suspected. I smiled, said goodbye, and headed out.

Once we were back in the car and heading toward Deva, I sent a text to Eljin to let him know how far out we were, then another to Sgott detailing everything Reginald had said and adding the images. He replied,Seriously, you need to become a consultant once your relic hunting days are over,to which I responded,No thanks, I plan to settle down, run the tavern, and produce babies.

The latter of course being a long-term goal given, aside from the fact there wasn’t a man in my life I wanted to have babies with, I was barely even on the cusp of fertility. Both pixies and elves aged fairly normally until we hit our twenties, which was when the whole process came to a screaming halt—something scientists had spent forever trying to understand with no success. Pixies didn’t actually get periods or become fertile until we were at least one hundred, and for elves, with even their longer lifespans, it was a couple of hundred years later. We were, of course, as physically capable of having sex at the same age as any human—and thank fuck for that. Having to wait one hundred years before I could legally indulge would have killed me.

Darkness had set in by the time we arrived back at Deva. Mathi dropped me at the top of the lane with the promise to contact me tomorrow, then sped off. I jogged down to the back door, then quickly made my way upstairs, grabbing a shower, then stuffing a change of clothes and some toiletries into a small wheely suitcase to match the cover story we’d given. I also grabbed a couple of silicone gloves out of the kitchen to use if we happened to do a little breaking and entering.

It still wasn’t raining, despite the scent in the air, so I walked down to the small inn. Once again, it was packed. I scanned the crowd and found Eljin in a booth not far from where I’d sat last night.

“Hey,” I said, dropping a kiss on his cheek before sliding onto the bench seat opposite, “How was your day?”

“Slow and boring.”

“Slow and boring is a big part of an antiquarian’s job, is it not?” I picked up the menu and scanned it. It hadn’t changed in the twenty-four hours between visits, and I rather suspected that if I came back here in a year or so, they’d have the same items listed.

“Apparently, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He raised a hand, motioning for the waitress moving through the room. “How did your day go?”

“Found another dead body.”

He blinked. “Should I be worried about your propensity to find such things?”

I grinned. “Only if you turn out to be a bad guy.”

He laughed but didn’t reply as the waitress stopped and said, “Ready to order?”

I nodded and asked for the pork sausages, which came with applesauce, creamed potatoes, and steamed veg, while Eljin went for cottage pie.

“And drinks?” she added.

I hesitated, then ordered a large pot of tea. I would have liked a double whisky, but I was tired enough as it was. Alcohol was likely to send me over the edge.

As the waitress bustled away, Eljin leaned forward and caught my hands in his. “You look beat.”

I shrugged. “It was an early start and a long, somewhat unsuccessful day, and I really don’t want to go into all that right now.”

He smiled, though there was a flick of something—concern?—briefly in his eyes. “I managed to grab a look at the register when I was checking in.”

“And?”

“The woman in the next room is a Mrs. Rhonny Brown.”

I frowned. “Could be a false ID. It wasn’t like the owner asked me for ID when I booked.”

“No, and it’s also possible Mrs. Brown paid by cash. They did ask if I was paying cash or card.”

Surprise ran through me. “It’s rare for places to take cash these days.”

We did, but only because some of our elderly patrons still preferred hard currency over credit or debit cards.

“Depends, I guess,” Eljin said. “For small places like this, the credit fees could be the difference between profit and not.”

“Not when they have a pub attached that seems to attract a good nightly crowd. What are you working on at the moment?”

“Still cataloging Nialle’s bits and pieces. The man really seemed to prefer chaos over order, at least at the museum.”

I grinned. “Harder to steal what can’t be found.”

Our conversation moved on from there, and our meals eventually arrived. It was once again damn delicious, but the tiredness hit halfway through, and suddenly I couldn’t stop yawning.

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