Page 92 of Cursed Shadows 5

That is our time limit.

And, honestly, if I don’t get to celebrate the Sabbat, if we aren’t ready by that phase, I might just burn the tavern down myself.

Probably not, but I can dream.

“Says six barrels of brown ale and three of porter.” The garbled accent takes me by surprise for a beat. “I count three brown ales and one porter.”

I forgot, almost, that Forranach is here.

My mind was too lost in my spiralling thoughts of urgency, and my body too occupied with the steady brushstrokes I slide down the floorboards. Floor polish stinks, I learn, and it has a knack of starting headaches.

I throw a look over my shoulder at Forranach.

He runs through a list, letters inked onto parchment, with the tip of his slow-moving finger.

“Is that all that’s missing?”

I asked Forranach to come work at the tavern. He grumbled, muttered under his breath about how litalves can’t do anything right, it’s a wonder I am still alive, a lot of other garbled nonsense—and now, he sits on the chair by the still-boarded-up window, a snoring Hedda curled on his lap. There is much he can’t do around here, given the missing leg, but as it turns out he can still do a lot.

Already, Forranach has decided what to order in Eamon’s absence, since my brother of the soul decides to be gone so long, and somehow I’m meant to carry the weight of the tavern preparations all on my own.

Forranach has been something of a saviour.

It doesn’t hurt that, even without his leg, he is formidable. I watched him just yesterday, weight leaned onto one crutch tucked under his pit, and he reached out for the stove in the kitchen, then yanked it out of place, tore it away from the wall, and saved me a tonne of trouble with that.

And I don’t quite feel as exposed with him here.

Besides, together we are getting a lot done.

All that is left is the final coat of paint, which I cannot do as I cannot reach up to the ceiling, so I have left that for Eamon; the polishing of the floorboards, which I do now; the stock fulfilment, which Forranach takes care of now; furnish the dwelling upstairs, another time; and, finally, absolutely anything to do with the kitchen.

The stove is out and gone, but the new one has not arrived yet, and I was raised with servants, so I don’t know the first thing about what kitchens should have in them besides food.

Like I do with the final paint coat, I leave that to Eamon.

“I’m certain,” Forranach decides and folds the inventory list. “I’ll go now and sort it.”

My shoulders sag with a touch of relief. Still, I offer, “I can go—”

Forranach tuts, harsh, cutting me off. “They won’t argue with me.”

He slides Hedda off his lap and sets her softly on the table. She slumbers through the shift.

I let him go.

I am saved the bother with the supplier.

I have no regrets hiring Forranach. I hope Eamon agrees when he returns.

If it’s coin trouble that Eamon takes with the matter, I will argue it, because now I know that the payment for Forranach will be coming out of Daxeel’s pocket, as our secret-but-not-secret investor. He has more than enough, so let him pay.

Besides, I like Forranach’s company.

Whoever he was before battle took his leg, I don’t know, but I know who he is now—and I am fond.

I finish half of the floorboards by the time my wrist and fingers are aching to the bone, and I set the brush down on thick layers of scrap parchment.

I abandon the front of the tavern for the kitchen, and take Hedda with me. I set her down on the middle bench, tall and sturdy. Her snores, grumbles and growls are the music I work to.

---