Page 27 of Crossroads Magic
“Yes, I see,” I agreed, putting the mug down. “Where do you brew your beer and your spirits? At home?”
“Well, I have a little place in the woods, near here,” he said. “Got a nice little distillery setup, and a big iron pot to brew the beer in. Then the stink of hot hops doesn’t offend the Crossing.” He grinned.
So did I. I didn’t know what hops smelled like, but I appreciated his thoughtfulness. “You live out there, in the woods?”
“Most folk say I live right here.” Hirom gave a small laugh. “There’s a bit of a cabin there, where I doss down when I need to, but I seem to get by without much sleep. Too much to do.”
“Too much to do, here?” I asked, feeling a sinking touch of guilt, that my mother had overworked her two employees.
“Nah. This isn’t really work,” Hirom said, waving to take in the bar. “I mean real work. Hard work.”
“You do that as well as work here?”
“When I can.” He tossed the cloth back toward the end of the counter. It hung just on the edge, then decided to stay there. “I’m a bit of a failure in my family.”
“You are?” I couldn’t imagine anyone thinking that way about him and I’d know him for a grand total of perhaps twenty minutes.
“I came to own a forge by way of my father. It’s out in the woods with the rest of my gear.”
I blinked. “You mean, an actualforgeforge, for smithing?”
“One of those.”
“Your father gave it to you?”
“My father died. I’m the only son.” He shrugged. “Metalwork is kind of a thing with my family. My uncles, cousins, they’re all metalsmiths. So was my father.”
“And you…aren’t?”
“I’d rather work with wood,” he said flatly. “There’s something about wood.” He smoothed his hand over the counter. The other hand, his right hand, lifted toward the beer barrels.
“You made thebarrels?” I asked.
“They’re nothing. Wood is warm. Pliable. It bends for you if you know what you’re doing.”
I studied the barrels. Clearly, Hirom knew what he was doing with wood. “That doesn’t make you a failure in anyone’s eyes…except your family. They really disapprove of you not being a metal worker?”
“It’s a family thing.” Then he grinned. “I like making whiskey, too. Just as well, huh?”
“You really serve just beer and whiskey toeveryonewho comes here?”
“No one has ever complained,” he said. “Leastwise, not after the first glass.”
“And you sell enough to cover costs?”
“What costs? A bit of malt, hops, and wheat. Some barley, rye and corn…and time.” He shook his head. “The bar more than covers costs. The money maker was the dining room, though.”
“Even with my mother as cook?” I was astounded.
Hirom leaned on the bar with both elbows. “This is the Crossing,” he said, in the same tone that everyone had used to say that to me, so far. As if I was missing vital information. “Any paying guests have to eat here, because there’s nowhere else. So that’s breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks.”
“Snacks, too?” Snacks never made back their costs.
“And people passing through nearly always stop here for a drink and something to eat,” Hirom went on.
“Passing through to where?” I asked. “The road here only goes to here.”
“The road you used?” Hirom smiled. “Once, a long time ago, it used to go all the way through to just south of Richville. But I meant the other road. We get travelers walking or riding the greenway most of the year except for deep winter.”
