Page 16 of The Sorcerer's Thief
“How kind of you to notice and also to point it out. I could change them too.” He picks at the cracking varnish on the old, dented table. “Let’s talk about something else.”
I can’t help but find him interesting. Am I annoyed he follows me around like an abandoned duckling?
Yes.
But am I bored?
No.
And he keeps my mind off my sorrows. Questions tumble through my head, each more nosy than the next. Which one would he be likely to answer?
I grin as the perfect question comes to mind. I have a feeling he’s got a lot of answers at the ready for this one. “So, erm, how’d you lose your fingers?”
Mischief lights his gaze. “Lost a bet with a dwarf. Thought for sure mine was bigger.”
I snort-laugh as our food arrives, along with two mugs of barley wine ale and a hunk of hard bread with a slab of pale yellow butter. Julian’s pie is tomato red with a generous helping of greens to make up for the lack of cheese. Mine is burnt orange with a crispy layer of toasted cheesy perfection on top. The smell is divine.
We tuck in, and I’m grateful, not only because the food is even better than I’d remembered but also because it spares us more awkward small talk.
The pub’s door creaks behind me. Julian glances over my shoulder and stiffens, his hard gaze caught on whoever just entered. The coin twitches in my pocket.
What in the seven seas?
I shift to get a look for myself, but Julian snaps, “Don’t. You’ll make it obvious.”
Though every bone in my body itches to see who made him flinch, I glower at him instead. “Makewhatobvious?”
“That I’ve noticed him. It’s no matter,” he says as if it, whoever he’s seen, absolutelydoes matter. “A guildsman. He won’t recognize me.”
“No one would.” There’s no way I’m not going to look. “I won’t be obvious.”
“Cricket!” He whisper-barks my name, but I ignore him and rise from my seat, extra casual in fashion, stretching like I’ve been sitting too long.
I wink.
Julian scowls.
Half-empty mugs in hand, I amble over to the bar, making sure to catch a solid glimpse of The Merry Goblet’s newest customer on my way.
He’s a fae, if the shimmering silver wings on his back are anything to go by. I don’t have to try hard to sneak a peak because we end up side by side at the bar.
“Another drink?” asks the barmaid.
“Two, please.” Julian will be irritable when I return. More ale will do nicely to soften the blow.
“And for you?” she asks the fae.
“Ale and directions, if you know them.” His voice is tinny, and he’s a short fellow—most full fae are petite of stature, so that’s unremarkable—with silver hair to match his wings. Fine clothes, rings on each finger, shining jewels in his hair. Julius said a guildsman, but what guild? I thought the guilds were nonsense, the stuff of stories, not real life.
And he doesn’t look evil.
Until striking black eyes, as if his irises have been eclipsed entirely by his pupils, land on me with soul-piercing intensity.
I clear my throat. “I know my way around these lands. Where are you headed?”
The barkeep takes this as her cue to fetch the drinks, leaving the fae’s attention to rest squarely on me.
This man gives me the creepy-crawlies. The coin agrees. It’s unsettled in my pocket, vibrating and cold.
