This will be fun, p.5
This Will Be Fun, page 5
Her hand in his, he strode decisively for the open counter—only to abruptly pivot, yanking his date’s arm forcefully toward the other brewmaster. “Apologies,” he said. “This line is, uh, better.”
She eyed him, but if she saw the cause of Clare’s change of mind, she stayed silent.
Clare positioned his date so he could turn toward the wall to speak to her, keeping his back toward the rest of the room—and the all-too-familiar brunette waiting for her drink.
Beatrice. Here.
Of fucking course she was here, he chastened himself. Yes, Clare could perhaps have foreseen she might come to the one Harpy & Hind in Elgin, the most popular brewshop in the realm, on this summer morn like every other villager here.
Perhaps she didn’t see him, he hoped ridiculously.
Calling on the stealth that saw him through the Grimauld Mines, he turned just enough to catch Beatrice in the corner of his vision.
Only to find her looking directly at him. Their eyes locked. The corners of her lips flickered in victory. Her eyebrows rose imperiously.
It was almost comical, Clare could admit. Last night, he had caught her in mismatched boots and a pink robe, which, for the record, was unfairly hot given how fuzzy it was. Now the scales were even once more. She was catching him fresh off a one-night stand.
Not that Clare wasn’t entitled to one-night stands. He certainly owed Beatrice nothing. Still, he hated how the impression of him she was getting here would only fit the opinion she had of him—rake, scoundrel, disgrace.
He stepped up to the counter, determined to ignore his ex. “One large nut-milk caramel foam brew, please,” he requested. He unleashed his usual smile. “For Clare Grandhart.”
Clare knew other men disdained the sweet, intricate brews they considered ladylike. Not him.
“Of course, sir,” the hand magician said.
Clare nodded, waiting.
No one spoke for a moment.
Realizing, Clare faltered, glancing to his companion. The whole point of this Ghosts-forsaken errand.
“Oh, nothing for me,” she said.
What?
No. Sir Clare Grandhart didn’t give up this easily. He’d saved the realm once, with resourcefulness and persistence. He needed only call on them now.
“Please,” he insisted, leaning charmingly on the counter, coating his voice in sugar. “It’s on me. It would be my pleasure. You must”—he glanced at the menu, improvising—“you must have the pumpkin-gingerroot cream. It’s the only thing I’ve ever tasted half as sweet as kissing you.”
The line was risky. He hoped his date wouldn’t roll her eyes. Distantly, he heard a familiar snort of derision from the other side of the shop.
Instead—yes. “Fine. One small pumpkin-gingerroot cream, please,” she said.
He paused, waiting for her to give her name.
She did not.
The brewmaster smiled pleasantly.
“I must step outside quickly,” he commented, thinking fast, then placing farthings from his pocket on the counter. “I need to check on my eagle. Could you collect our drinks?”
She blinked, no doubt surprised by his sudden urge to see a bird. Celebrities were often eccentric, though. She turned to the brewmaster. “Of course. Put it under Sir Clare’s name and I’ll collect them both.”
Clare hesitated.
“Go. See your eagle. I’ll be right out,” she said happily.
This was the dark night of the soul. All was lost. His quest would fail.
“He wants you to give your name for the drinks, Viola.”
Viola! He was saved! By the most lovely voice, one belonging to a majestic Ghostly visitation, no doubt, to—
Beatrice?
She walked up beside them, her own drink in her hands. “He’s forgotten your name, and he’s brought you here in hopes he could learn it without you ever realizing,” Beatrice said, her tone thick with gloating.
Not waiting for a reply, she strode off. A conquering hero who has laid waste to all her foes.
Clare turned to Viola. “So sorry. Would you excuse me for just one moment, Viola?” Wincing, he followed Beatrice.
On the street, Clare gave up subtlety entirely. “Beatrice,” he called out.
Of course, she ignored him. She strode into the middle of the road.
Groaning, Clare ran to her side. “Stop,” he demanded when he caught up to her.
He was, he’d discovered on his way out of the brewshop, furious once more. Fuck heroism. He had much, much more to say to her than posturing pleasantries.
“Is there nothing you won’t ruin?” he found himself exclaiming.
Lo and behold, Beatrice did stop. He recognized the moment the same spark struck in her. Fuck civility. Fuck silence.
She held herself rigid. Her hair was loose and wild, the way it always was after her baths. She was beautiful. The angles of her face stood out strikingly in the morning light. Were her lips always a shade shy of purple? He’d forgotten in the ten years since he’d last tasted them.
“I offer my deepest regrets, Sir Clare. Your discord gives me not inconsiderable grief,” she replied, her voice deathly low.
Was she . . . mocking the way he spoke last night? In hindsight, he knew he’d overemphasized the courtliness of his phrasing.
“I would never have intervened had I known your liaison with my former neighbor Viola was serious,” his ex continued. “I wish you lifetimes of happiness. She’s lovely.”
Headache was not the word, either. She was his everythingache. “It’s—not like that,” Clare retorted.
“Like what?” She crooked the arm not holding her drink onto her hip. Waiting for him to say it.
He looked to the skies, wishing his eagle really was nearby. Wiglaf followed Clare at a distance, preferring to hunt on his own, then swooping onto Clare’s shoulder in hopes of some salted meat from the market. It was very cute, and frankly, he set Clare at ease in stressful situations.
“It was only one night,” he said, letting his breath out in defeat.
Beatrice grinned. “Just like old times, right?”
“No.” His voice was tight. There was too much history in their words. Too much they weren’t saying, too much he so desperately wanted to say. Years of resentment covering over pain from which neither of them had healed, like wounds dressed with heavy stone instead of silk.
“Clare, it’s fine,” Beatrice said, finally dropping some of her spite. “Really. Go. Take Viola to the wedding. She’d make a great date. I’ll even share a drink with her and give her some words of wisdom on being with Clare Grandhart.”
“We were never together— Wait.” He stopped himself, realizing what she’d said. “You’re coming to the wedding?”
Beatrice looked to the side, clearly frustrated to have betrayed herself. “Don’t make this a thing. I’m coming to the wedding. We’ll hardly see each other.”
The sun seemed to shine brighter. Was that Wiglaf in the clouds above? From fury, Clare glimpsed the shimmering filament of . . . hope. Beatrice is coming to the wedding.
No. Beatrice and hope couldn’t overlap in his mind.
Not when he knew her heart held nothing except poison for him. The event would only remind him of the hatred that endured in their relationship. Beatrice and him, side by side, witnessing declarations of undying love, expected to share wine and dance together, while she loathed him and he determinedly returned the resentment . . .
The wedding would be torture.
“I’m not going for you,” Beatrice warned him, “and we’ll never have peace between us.”
Clare was good at withstanding torture, though. He could do this. For Galwell. Yes, it was only for Galwell that he would force himself to take Beatrice’s arm while the harps played. Only for Galwell would he compliment her dress. For Galwell, he would hold her close, brush his nose along her neck, lose himself in her dark eyes.
“I’ll see you at the wedding, Beatrice,” he promised her. “Save me a dance.”
He turned back to Harpy & Hind, feeling strangely light.
“I certainly will not!” she called behind him.
He raised his hand in farewell. He would see Beatrice again. He would see Beatrice again.
When he walked into the brewshop, Viola was waiting for him, her expression pained. She handed him his drink.
“Clare . . .” she began ominously.
“Viola, I’m so sorry for . . . all of that. Truly, you didn’t deserve it.” He put heart into his words, no longer seeking to charm, just to be sincere.
She smiled weakly. “I had a really fun night last night. But I think I’m going to skip the festival.”
He nodded. “I understand. I’m sorry. Again. I was drunk, but I shouldn’t have forgotten your name. It’s no excuse.”
She blinked, the apprehension in her eyes replaced with confusion. “You didn’t forget my name,” she said simply. “I never gave it to you. Honestly, it’s very sweet how much effort you put in to learn it this morning. Under other circumstances I would love to see you again.”
Clare felt his mouth open unbecomingly. His quest was . . . in vain? He had to hold in a laugh. Let Galwell see him now. Sir Clare, the hero no one actually needed.
As Viola started to walk away, a thought seized him. He didn’t want to make things work with Viola. He was grateful she was moving on from him.
Yet, if it wasn’t forgetfulness of her name, why didn’t Viola want to see him again? Was it something he did? Was his morning breath bad? His skills in the bedroom diminishing? Ghosts, please let it not be that one. He had to know. Knowing Beatrice would be at the wedding made it, for some inexplicable reason, pressing to learn. He hurried after her, catching up to her at the door.
“Can I ask why? Why don’t you want to come to the festival?” he asked. “I respect your choice completely. I just . . . want to know.”
She smiled and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. “I thought everything that happened between you and Beatrice was in the past, but seeing you two together . . . I can’t be the woman to get in between Claretrice.” She patted him like he was an eagle with a wounded wing, then walked off.
Claretrice?
Clare watched her go, confounded. He considered the gossip pamphlets’ couple name no different from the legends of Old Mythria that historical scribes would recount. Captivating? Perhaps. Lost to the past? Certainly.
He sipped his nut-milk caramel foam brew. What Claretrice? There was no Claretrice, never—
His wondrous brew distracted him. It was delicious.
The simple pleasure calmed his nerves and eased his hangover. What couldn’t the Hind do? In the reprieve, he found his focus sharpening like steel under the weaponeer’s whetstone. He remembered what was important.
He’d woken this morning wanting the chance to prove his character to Beatrice. Whether he enjoyed the celebration of love with her mattered not. What the wedding offered was exactly the opportunity he wanted. Indeed, the Ghosts could not have presented him a more ideal one.
Finishing his drink, Clare left the shop. When he stepped outside, Wiglaf descended from the skies, making the delightful ka-kow sound that Clare, when completely alone, had been known to repeat to his dear pet.
While he fed Wiglaf from the bag of jerky he always kept on him, Clare hummed, realizing he found Elgin beautiful. Was there really a chance three of the Four could reconvene, even for just one night? Thessia had assured him Elowen would come. Now, with Beatrice’s notice, Clare had reason to hope. What if he, Clare Grandhart, with nobility and grace, could reunite them peaceably?
The very idea made him feel . . . like he could face down any evil in the realm. Ever since the Four separated, he’d struggled to compensate for their absence, to fill the emptiness that losing friends closer than family left in him.
If he could rejoin them, maybe this week he would not find the role of hero so difficult after all.
4
Beatrice
The wagon smelled of old roasted gryphon shank. While the wooden seat thumped under her on the uneven road, Beatrice could easily imagine some previous rider stuffing his face with the sinewy meat, leaving the scent of grease pervading the wagon.
Beatrice had never once traveled on Wagons-For-You. She’d only heard of the new convenience in dialogue on shadow plays or from the slurring mouths of younger people outside of Elgin’s tavern. It was the preferred method of casual transportation for those in foreign cities, or on late nights when drink rendered hometown streets unrecognizable. Everyone in possession of their own wagon could sign up to contribute to the service’s expanding network of drivers for hire.
Their promotions promised rides in luxurious convenience. In fact, neither point was consistent with Beatrice’s present experience.
Convenience? She’d recited the simple summoning spell on the Wagons-For-You posters everywhere in town, clutching her five farthings’ fare together like the instructions described. She’d then proceeded to wait nearly thirty minutes before her farthings emitted the green firefly-like lights indicating her wagon was nearby.
Luxurious?
Only if one really liked the scent of gryphon shank.
Still, Beatrice reminded herself, the ride was preferable to nothing, which was what her family was left with when she was young. When they couldn’t scrape together fees for established carriage services, there were no other options. The steep fares sometimes meant the difference between seeing loved ones one last time or not.
Her situation changed when she met Elowen. Though born to commoners, Beatrice caught the eye of her village’s noble family with her unique head magic—including the children, Elowen and Galwell. They embraced Beatrice, especially Elowen. From then on, when Beatrice wished or needed to leave the small stone walls of the village, Elowen would have the finest stallion outside Beatrice’s door the next morning.
In the years since the Four saved the realm, Beatrice could have bought her own horse if she hadn’t declined Queen Thessia’s offer of payments to the heroes of Mythria. Whenever Thessia gently insisted, Beatrice pretended she’d had enough of taking money from friends in her life. The real reason, though, was that she didn’t want payment when she’d caused so much pain.
She’d similarly rejected the offers she received from vendors who wanted her fame in exchange for farthings. She didn’t want those opportunities to carry her into contact with Clare, who’d pounced on them like she knew he would.
Instead, she married noble. She hosted dinner parties. She used Robert’s carriage for consultations with dressmakers or home decorators—not much more. In order to forget what she’d gone through, she remembered what she’d dreamed of when she was the poor village girl whose gifts her parents didn’t understand.
Until she just . . . couldn’t.
Did she regret walking the slippered, candlelit path right into her contemptuous divorce? In some ways, yes.
In the end, though, it was worth it to avoid Clare.
Nevertheless, Beatrice could not now call on the de Noughton carriage. She’d returned home from Harpy & Hind yesterday in uncommonly poor spirits, spent the day restless, then put herself to sleep in her usual manner. She knew the practical particulars of the journey, namely how she would reach the royal castle, would not be easy. Destitute from her divorce, her only choice was the cheapest means possible.
Leaving her here, in her very first Wagons-For-You, in the company of the old woman snoring next to her. The young couple on the bench across from her—still in their wedding finery, presumably embarking on their honeymoon—were canoodling shamelessly.
On the bench next to them, Beatrice spied with displeasure the latest issue of Mythria Magazine. The cover was a printed conjuration of Clare and Beatrice on the stairs of Robert’s manor. Claretrice—as in Love as Ever! proclaimed the headline.
Beatrice resolved to discuss Mythria’s declining journalistic integrity with the queen.
While the bride looked preoccupied with her husband’s wandering hands, Beatrice nonetheless wished to ensure she escaped recognition. Letting her hair curtain the front of her face, she sought to blend into the carriage wall. She diverted her gaze from the shiny cover, not needing to see the intense way Clare was looking at her nor the embarrassing flush in her cheeks.
Fortunately, Beatrice’s head magic did not only work to impress local nobility. In circumstances like these, her magic could offer the perfect escape.
She closed her eyes. Fighting to ignore the uneven journey of the wagon, she slowed her heart rate, concentrating on more comfortable times. Fonder memories.
The magic began to work. She knew when she no longer smelled greasy roast gryphon, the stomach-churning scent changing into the sweet summer ripeness of roselia flowers. The thumping terrain under her went next, becoming soft grass. The head magic of prophecy was uncommon but not unheard of in Mythria. Beatrice’s gift to peer through the mists backward was far rarer.
The insides of her eyelids melted like morning dew into the vision of the loveliest place she’d ever been. The roselia fields near her village, where her parents would pick from the swaying white field only the purest-petaled flowers for their stall.
Beatrice did not expect this refuge to make her want to cry.
In hindsight, she wasn’t surprised. She should have known the first time in years she used her gift for peace would only remind her of what she now used it for instead.
She exhaled unevenly, pulling herself together. For this wagon ride, what she needed was escape.
Thump. Under her, the wagon hit bumpy ground, threatening to break her magic.
She pushed herself to relax. Her head magic worked best when she was calm, centered. It was why her bedchamber provided such ironically perfect conditions for relived repetitions of the worst day of her life.
She summoned from her memories the moment when she was most relaxed—with her magic, she could call on not only specific scenes, but certain feelings, for which her powers would produce forth the corresponding memory. Without knowing which moment she had in mind, she wished for peaceful, contented calm.
