Making A Splash

Chapter 4

■

At the sound of the bell above the door jangling, I looked up from my cozy spot in the corner of Bonnie’s bakery to see a young man enter.

I couldn’t tell what it was about him, at first, that immediately set me off. He looked like a pretty plain guy in his early twenties, if that plain guy was on his way to a ren faire.

It wasn't his haircut, a sandy blond crop that was cut short everywhere except the front, and parted perfectly down the middle so it fell just above his eyes. It wasn't his outfit; I’d seen several others like it while walking the main street with Bart. His clothes were much more vibrantly colored than most of the others I'd seen so far though, consisting of a pair of dark blue pants and a short, bright blue tunic on top of a second shirt with longer sleeves that flared out slightly before cinching tight around his wrists. I saw as he lowered his arm that they were partially slit, showing a bit of golden fabric on the inside. Even his boots were nicer, made of white leather with large gold buttons that caught the light coming in from the open door. Not even that bothered me though, especially since the amazing pair of sandals I’d just been gifted were much cooler.

No, the thing that immediately set me off, I realized, was his expression. As he entered, his face had scrunched up into a scowl, like he'd just stepped in something unpleasant, and anyone who could make a face like that in a place that smelled as good as Bonnie’ bakery did was definitely suspicious, at the very least.

As he moved from the doorway, I saw that he was flanked on either side by two more figures that both looked equally as displeased to be entering the bakery as he was.

The first, standing to the man's left, was tall, but in a way that made him look like someone had grabbed the top of his head and just stretched him out, leaving his whole frame long and gangly. His hair was blond as well, so pale it was almost white, and swept back dramatically into a high ponytail. He wore the same fancier style of clothes as the first man, only his were a pale purple rather than blue, and had a faint pattern of shells stitched into the fabric.

The third figure, hovering at the first man's right side, was shorter than the other two, and a fair bit wider. His hair was pitch black and piled high atop his forehead into, amazingly, a pompadour. Like the others, his clothes were obviously of a more expensive cut, his overly-showy shirt colored a bright yellow that seared the eyes, and in addition, he sported what I thought was a ridiculous amount of jewelry for just walking around town in. He had a necklace of gold chains braided together around his neck, and he sported at least six rings across both hands, which were resting on his belt as he swaggered after his companions. Even his shoes screamed “Too much,” being ankle high, black, and coming to little curled points.

Ah, I mused to myself, watching the three approach the counter. So this'll be the nobility then. Or, at least their kids.

Bart must have noticed the way the mood in the bakery shifted, as I wasn't the only person who was watching the trio in wary silence. He turned in his chair, and when he caught sight of the small group, I heard him swear under his breath, which only confirmed my feelings that something bad was about to go down.

“Ah-hem,” the first man said, not even bothering to fake clearing his throat. Bonnie, who'd already been looking directly at him, put on what must have been her best customer service smile, and inclined her head forward.

“What can I do for you today, my lord?” she asked, and I felt myself gag at the prospect of having to talk to anyone like that.

“I'm here to pick up a delivery. For my father,” the man in blue said, pulling a small scroll from his pocket and thrusting it towards Bonnie. The rabbit woman, still smiling, took the scroll and unrolled it, quickly scanning it before letting it snap closed again.

“Ah, yes, the pastries and rosemary loaves, they're just coming out of the oven now, if you'll wait just a moment,” Bonnie said, handing the scroll back across the counter.

“Tssk.” The man made a noise of irritation, and made no effort to hide it as he tucked the scroll back into his pocket. Bonnie, likewise, made no acknowledgment of his naked rudeness.

“Very well, hurry up then,” he said, waving his hand. Bonnie nodded her head again and swiftly backed into the kitchen.

“Honestly,” the man in blue started, well before Bonnie could have possibly gotten out of earshot. “I don’t know why my father insists on purchasing his baked goods from this place.”

What?

“I can’t imagine,” the taller man said, fanning the air with one of his ludicrously-wide sleeves. “Especially when there are so many others to choose from. Sandria’s caters to a far more, mmm, refined clientele, and is much closer to your home. I can’t believe he makes you come all this way every other day just for bread and some simple pastries. I mean, we’re practically at the docks!”

What?!

“At least it doesn’t reek of fish in here,” the shorter man spoke up, having bent forward and started squinting appraisingly at the pastries inside the display case. “But, I can’t imagine eating anything from this place, you know. With one of them working here. Can you imagine finding fur in your sweets?”

Okay that’s it!

I was out of my chair before I knew it, and I felt Bart’s hand make a grab for, and miss, my shoulder as I shot past him, stomping towards the trio with furious determination in every step.

“Yes, well, personally, I would never—” the man in blue was saying, before I cut him off with a shout.

“Hey!” I barked, making the three men jump and spin around to face me. “What’s your problem, huh?”

The three of them stared at me, stunned by my outburst. The man in blue was the first to recover, his shocked face settling into a look of smug derision.

“So, the rumors are true! There’s a stray catkin running around Rower’s Rest,” he said, and I rolled my eyes.

Seriously, how were there already rumors about me, and how did they spread that far? I’d only been outside for, what, an hour? Hour and a half? I guessed when people didn’t have TV, or even radio, for entertainment, sharing gossip was the closest thing to having conversations around the water cooler.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a cat, big deal, don’t dodge the question!” I snapped, pointing a finger up at him. “Where do you get off, coming in here and saying stuff like that?”

By now, Bonnie had returned from the back, a steaming bundle wrapped in tan parchment in her arms. She must have heard my shouting; hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if people on the streets could hear me, I was that mad.

“Sam, it’s alright,” she said to me, then held out the delicious smelling package to the man in blue. “Here’s your order, my lord, I’m sorry for the wait.”

Accepting the package without so much as a “Thank you,” the man sniffed haughtily and turned away from me to address Bonnie directly.

“See to it that you’re more punctual in the future. And maybe think before letting urchins into your establishment,” he said, and I felt my hands curl into tiny fists at my side. Turning back to me, the man continued, heedless of the storm of fury brewing inside me. “As for you… well, you’re obviously new in town, so let me educate you, since you’re obviously not capable of recognizing when you’re addressing those of higher standing than yourself.”

God, I wanted to punch him. I wanted to punch him so much. I narrowed my eyes as he motioned to his left, where the taller man was still openly gaping at me.

“This is Laurence O’toole, son of the harbormaster and novice mage of the Royal Torgardian Academy,” the man said, and his companion seemed to recover himself, snapping his mouth shut and lifting his chin high.

“This,” he continued, sweeping his hand to the right and indicating the shorter man, who was squinting at me even still, “is Roberto De Campo, son of the head of the Merchant’s Guild.”

“‘Lo,” the short man said, one corner of his mouth lifting into a smile, showing off a single golden tooth twinkling between the rest.

“And I,” the man in blue finished with a flourish, touching his hand to his chest, “am Bentley Baker-Hall, and I shouldn’t think I need to tell you what that makes me.”

Bentley? Like the car? With a snort, I felt part of my anger melt into disbelief, and crossed my arms.

“An asshole?” I ventured, and Bentley’s face paled, along with those of his two toadies. I glanced at Bonnie out of the corner of my eye and found that she, similarly, looked shocked and mortified.

“You…” Bentley said, taking a step forward, and reminding me that I was no longer over six feet tall, and without the luxury to run my mouth that that afforded. His free hand shot out and closed around the collar of my borrowed shirt, pulling me forward until I was standing on the tips of my toes, and his face was inches from mine. “Now see here, boy! Nobody insults me directly to my face and gets away with it! My father will hear of this!”

“I’m not scared of you or your dad, whoever he is!” I spat back, and I genuinely think that if he hadn’t been carrying a load of piping-hot bread in his other hand, he would have tried to hit me. Which would have been all the excuse I needed.

But, before either of us could give the other the final push we needed to resort to violence, a shadow fell over us both.

“Put her down,” Bart’s said, a dangerous edge to his that I had never heard before, that sent chills down my spine.

“Well, if it isn’t our favorite mysterious foreigner, Bart,” Bentley said, looking over my head with evident disdain at the man who was no doubt looming behind me. He had lowered me slightly, so that I was no longer being almost lifted off the ground, but he still held tight onto the front of my shirt. “This doesn’t concern you, old man, I’m simply dealing with a vagrant who has wandered into our fair town. A beggar, or a thief more likely, I think we’ll leave it for the town guards to sort out—”

“She’s with me,” Bart said, and once again Bentley’s eyes snapped from me up to him.

“I said butt out, you salty old… she?”

I saw the moment Bentley’s train of thought ground to a halt, and when his eyes dropped back down to me, they were different, wide and searching. I watched him study my face for several seconds, before his eyes flicked downward. To where his fist was still bunched in the loose fabric of my shirt, stretching it out. He just as quickly raised his eyes again, but whatever he’d seen had been enough, as his cheeks and the tips of his ears quickly turned pink.

I felt my own eyes go wide, and drew my fist back.

“Oh, you fucking—!” was as far as I got. Bentley had yanked his hand away as though he’d been burned, and held it up, palm facing outward, the supremely-embarrassed look on his face becoming one of shocked terror as I swung my fist towards him.

Thankfully, for all of us, Bart’s much more massive hand closed around my wrist, and caught it before the strike could land.

Silence reigned inside the bakery for several long heartbeats. I glowered up at Bentley, who continued backing away until he bumped into his two friends, who also had taken several steps backwards, away from Bart and I.

“Bentley,” Bart spoke, the first one to break the silence. “Leave.”

“T-that’s Lord Baker-Hall to you, and nobody tells me—” Bentley tried to protest.

“I said leave!” Bart roared, and the three men scrambled over themselves to reach the door first. Laurence was the winner of that particular race, and yanked the handle open, tumbling out into the street with Roberto hot on his heels. Bentley paused, standing in the threshold, and cast an angry glance back at both of us.

“My father will hear of this!” he shouted one last time before he followed after his companions, the bell above the door jangling one more time.

Once again, the bakery was blanketed in tense silence, the only sounds the muffled street noise that managed to leak in from outside. The few other customers that had also been inside eating were either staring at the door, each other, or me.

Slowly, Bart’s iron grip relaxed, and his fingers uncurled from my wrist. I pulled my arm to my chest, rubbing the feeling back into it with my other hand.

“Pfft…” I scoffed at the door, and the fleeing trio, before turning around to face Bart, who was looking down at me, his eyes hooded and his brow deeply furrowed.

“I didn’t need your help,” was the first thing I said, and was maybe a little unkind.

“What is wrong with you?” Bart asked in response, in that way he did where he just cut straight to whatever point he wanted to reach without bothering to walk the conversation there naturally.

“Me?!” I spluttered, feeling the anger that hadn’t fully subsided start to build again. “What’s wrong with you? You’re not going to tell me you couldn’t hear what they were saying!”

Bart took several seconds to answer, which I took to mean he had been considering exactly that.

“Of course I could hear,” Bart said finally. “But it doesn’t matter. It was just words.”

“That’s easy for you to say, they weren’t insulting you,” I huffed, turning to Bonnie, who was just looking lost. “That guy said he comes in here a lot to pick up orders, does he always talk like that?”

Bonnie blinked, very clearly looking from me to Bart before answering.

“Not… every time. When he’s alone he usually keeps quiet, sometimes he’s just complaining about something else, but it’s worse when it’s all three of them… And I have caught him staring at my ears. And my tail,” Bonnie explained. Well, that wasn’t as bad as what I just caught him staring at, but it was still extremely rude. “But it’s alright, Sam, honestly…”

“No, it’s not alright!” I protested. “Just because someone’s popular or good looking or their parents have money, doesn’t mean they’re better than everyone, and it definitely doesn’t mean they get to do and say whatever they want!”

Okay, I was, maybe, projecting a little bit of my own past experiences with bullies of my own onto the situation, but I was still more concerned about Bonnie, and whoever else those three regularly abused.

“That’s just the way things are here,” Bart sighed, and I snapped my gaze back to him. His gaze was still hard, but he looked more tired than anything, which only made me more angry.

“That doesn’t mean it has to stay that way,” I said, shaking my head. “You might be used to it, but I don’t have to be, if that guy ever tries to talk to me like that, I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing,” Bart cut me off, his tone deathly serious, both his hands flashing out and landing on my shoulders, dwarfing them completely. “That ‘guy’ is not just the son of some minor noble, he is not someone you can insult or ignore, and certainly not someone you can start a fight with.”

“And what makes him so special?” I asked, not that I cared.

“He is the son of Maxwell Baker-Hall,” Bart said, sounding like he was delivering grave news of my impending execution. “The Lord Mayor of Rower’s Rest.”

I stared up at Bart for several seconds. He obviously expected me to react, most likely with regret, or fear, upon learning just who I’d insulted and nearly sucker punched. Instead, I just rolled my eyes.

“So what?” I scoffed, and Bart’s brow furrowed even more. “You make it sound like he’s a prince or something. Which, even if he was, wouldn’t make what he does okay.”

I ducked out from under Bart’s hands, shrugging my shoulders and brushing them off.

“Pff, geez, the mayor’s son,” I muttered, mostly to myself. It was ridiculous, the amount of deference Bart expected me to show to just some guy because his dad ran the town. Everything I’d seen of the fishing village, which admittedly wasn’t much, led me to believe he had to be at least a somewhat reasonable guy, and his kid was just a spoiled brat. Now, if the mayor himself turned out to be a racist jerk too, then I’d… I’d…

I couldn’t think that far ahead, but either way, what I did was still none of Bart’s business.

“Hey,” I said, a particularly nasty thought occurring to me. The part of me that had shared the danish with Bart wanted me to just shut up and leave, but the part of me that was so utterly pissed off at him was louder. “What if those three came into the tavern and talked about Felda like that?”

Like he’d been struck by lightning, Bart’s back straightened, and he stood there stiffly, glowering down at me. His jaw was working again.

“Even if they did, Felda is a grown woman, and knows how to take care of herself,” Bart said, slowly and carefully forcing every word out between his teeth. “And, I still wouldn’t fly off the handle, like you did.”

“But you’d still say something, right?” I asked, baiting him.

Don’t, I thought. Just let it go.

Bart narrowed his eyes at me. Gruff, stubborn jackass that he was, he was smart, and he probably saw what I was doing.

“I get your point,” Bart said, lowering his voice. “We should leave. You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

I’ve caused enough trouble?! I mentally gasped. Nah, fuck him.

“So you would!” I snapped, pouncing on the answer he’d implicitly given, taking a step forward. He didn’t move, so I reached up, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Well why didn’t you say anything here, huh?” I asked, despite knowing no good would come from asking, nor would asking the follow-up question, but I continued, despite myself. “Was it okay for them to say all that because Bonnie’s a beastkin?”

And I’d said it. If it were possible, Bart went even more rigid. I wasn’t sure if I actually believed that was the way Bart felt, or if I just wanted to lash out at him for trying to reprimand me for standing up to those three.

“Sam…” Bonnie’s quiet voice broke the silence, and I turned my head, finding her looking decidedly more upset than she’d been after the trio had departed. “I think you two should leave. Please, you’re disturbing the other customers.”

Feeling hot shame well up in my gut, and with my eyes starting to prickle again, I turned on my heels and ran for the door.

“Sam, wait for me!” I heard Bart call.

“Bite me!” I shouted back at him, wrenching the door open, and after almost bowling over one of the several people gathered in front of it, I took off across the street, weaving and ducking my way through the foot traffic while I could still see.

I found the Crooked Hook easily, my feet hammering heavy impacts on the wooden planks of the docks as I stomped my way towards the door.

I tugged the door open and slipped inside, trying not to let it slam shut behind me. I found Felda in the process of removing the chairs from the tops of the tables, and she smiled as she saw me, but her expression quickly melted into one of concern.

“Oh, you’re back, how was… Sam? What’s wrong?”

She set down the chair she’d been holding, catching me as I tried to cross the floor, heading for the set of stairs behind the bar.

“Nothing,” I said, biting my lower lip. The last thing I needed at that moment was someone being kind to me.

“Where’s Bart?” Felda asked, noting that he hadn’t returned with me.

“I don’t care,” I said, too harshly, and Felda’s mouth set itself into a thin line.

“That bad, huh?” she asked, full of understanding. “Come on, sit down, I’ll get you—”

“No!” I snapped, clenching my hands into fists. I didn’t want any more help from anyone at that moment, and I definitely didn’t deserve any more delicious, free food, after what I’d just been through, and what I’d just done. “I… I’m just tried… I just need to… lie down for a bit…”

Felda, taken aback by my outburst, nodded and stood up from where she’d been kneeling in front of me, giving me space.

“Alright, Sam,” Felda said, nodding towards the stairs. “You go ahead and rest. I’ll… bring you some water, in a bit.”

I was about to tell her I didn’t need that either, but I bit it back, and resumed my march towards the stairs. I ascended them at a rapid pace and, showing as much care as I could to it, opened the door to Felda’s bedroom and slipped inside. I found that the bed had been made, and added the guilt I felt at messing it up again onto the heaping pile I was already carrying. I pulled back the blankets and slipped under them, grabbing one of Felda’s pillows and squeezing it against my chest.

■

I hadn’t meant to actually fall asleep, but I nonetheless found myself blinking my eyes open, some number of hours later. I was groggy, and confused, filled with that unique disorientation you only felt after waking up from the midday nap on the couch, only to find the sun had set and you had no clue what time it was. Only, for me, that included not even knowing what planet I was on.

Absently, I reached up and felt around the side of my head, finding a large, furry cat ear.

“Yeah,” I sighed to myself. “Still here, still a cat girl.”

With a groan, I sat upright. Looking around the dim room, the first thing I found was the promised glass of water that Felda must have brought at some point. Rubbing at the still raw feeling skin under my eyes, I scooped up the glass and greedily gulped it down.

I spent several seconds looking for a lamp or something, before I remembered that, in all likelihood, people in this world relied on things like candles and lanterns to see after the sun went down. Not that I really needed either, since within seconds my eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the room, and I was suddenly seeing in almost perfect clarity. The colors were a little washed out, but it was almost as if it wasn’t dark at all, and I felt myself smirk at the discovery.

“Right. Cat eyes,” I muttered, tugging the heavy covers back and sliding out of the bed. I found my sandals, discarded with haste before I’d collapsed, waiting for me, and quickly strapped them back on.

I did my best to remake the bed while I thought about the confrontation at the bakery, and what I wanted to do about it. Not about Bentley and his two goons, but about Bart, and Bonnie.

Although, thinking about Bentley…

“He did say that guy was a ‘mage,’ huh?” I said to myself while I tucked the edges of the blankets under the mattress.

I’d been too angry at the time to react, but between being introduced to a mage, and then the druid Bart had mentioned earlier, I had no choice but to conclude that magic was a thing in this world. That… somewhat buoyed my spirits, as I wondered about the prospects of learning to do magic. I really hoped there weren’t some dumb conditions to it though, like, only nobles and civil servants could learn magic or something. In either case, it probably wasn’t free, and I was still completely broke, and without a way of fixing that any time soon.

“Agh!” I shook my head. That wasn’t what I was supposed to be thinking about! Willing my stupid cat brain to focus, I sat on the edge of the bed and crossed my arms.

“I should apologize to Bonnie, the next chance I get,” I concluded. It was… unfair of me, to use her like that just to try and hurt Bart in an argument. They’d obviously known each other for a while, and I’d heard with my own two ridiculously good ears that he rejected whatever propaganda about animal people this “Empire” was spreading. So, in all likelihood, Bart didn’t actually refuse to confront the trio of rude nobles just because their target had been Bonnie.

“And,” I sighed, tipping backwards onto my back on the bed I’d just finished making. “I should apologize to Bart, I guess.”

I still thought he was wrong, for thinking it was fine to let those three have free rein just because they were a bunch of rich kids, but he did stop me from making it way worse by socking the son of the mayor of the entire town without thinking. I didn’t know if this place had some kind of prison system or what, but I wasn’t in a hurry to find out. Part of me wanted to say he only stepped in and stopped Bentley from hauling me off because if he hadn’t, Felda would be mad at him, but I squashed that part. I didn’t want to keep believing the worst about him, and the first step was not always assuming he was harboring some kind of grudge against me, specifically.

Feeling a little more sorted out, I hopped off the bed before I could fall asleep again, and smoothed out the blankets one more time.

“Well, let’s go,” I said. To… myself. I paused, one hand on the handle of the bedroom door. Had I been talking to myself? That was… a weird habit to pick up suddenly. Was it another cat thing? Or was this world just driving me insane after not even a single day? Probably best not to dwell on it.

I opened the door, and the muffled din that I’d been hearing in the background increased in volume, blasting into the room like a wave. I just as quickly shut the door again, and my forehead thumped against the wood.

Right, it was a tavern. Basically a restaurant. Seeing it deserted in the afternoon had given me the impression it wasn’t a very busy business, but maybe Felda just didn’t open until the evenings. As I listened to the din coming from down the stairs, I felt momentarily transported, like I was back on Earth. It sounded like a house full of guests. It sounded like a busy holiday dinner with the entire family gathered, and here I was, up in my room, avoiding going downstairs except to fill my plate before tactically retreating.

But it wasn’t my room, and I wasn’t on Earth, and the people downstairs weren’t my family. And, I rationalized, they probably wouldn’t make… the same comments, that I was used to having to shrug off. I could manage, I just had to slip downstairs, maybe find Felda and talk to her about what had happened, maybe hide in the kitchen instead of up here. Yeah, that would work. With another deep breath, I opened the door again, and waded out into the sea of noise.

I crossed the short length of hallway to reach the stairs, then began tip-toeing down them as slowly and carefully as I could, both hands on the banister. Arriving at the last step before the landing, I steeled myself again and ventured a peek around the corner wall.

Wow, yup, that’s a pretty full tavern.

The tables and booths that I’d seen Felda setting up earlier were now almost all entirely occupied, mostly by large burly men and women in the, by now, recognizable warm and rugged fisherman’s garb. But there were also a few standout sights, like Nils, seated at table with a few of his fellow dwarves, all of whom had similarly rough-looking skin, in shades ranging from slate-gray to a sandy tan color. There were also a few of those people I’d seen around town, with large pointed ears and even more widely-varying skin and hair colors than the dwarves.

Ah, and there was a… bird… man? Seated at one of the stools, with a head full of soft-looking, fluffy gray hair, broken up with what I eventually realized were actual feathers jutting out here and there across his scalp. He was wearing a pair of thin-rimmed glasses, perched on the edge of his nose, and as he reached up to adjust them I saw that the backs of his hands and fingers were covered in patches of scaly skin, and, similar to me, he had sharply curved black claws instead of fingernails. But, unlike me, he had patches of feathers sprouting from his forearms and elbows. There was a red woolen flat cap perched on top of his head, and he was wearing a white, short-sleeved shirt under a warm-looking wooly red vest that matched his hat. And, as he moved, I noticed he had a large pair of wings, tucked up tight at his back, and covered in the same fluffy, soot-gray feathers as his head and arms.

He started to look up from his meal, and I pulled myself back around the corner, almost slamming my back into the wall. I did not want the bird man to think I was staring at him, simply because he was a bird and I was a cat. I just added “Birds” to another of my mental lists, the one that was keeping track of which animals demi-humans could be.

Right, I couldn’t put it off any longer. I hadn’t seen Felda out on the floor, so she was likely further behind the bar, or in the kitchen, and either option meant I was going to have to step out into the open, and hope that everyone was too focused on their dinner to pay attention to me. Refocused on my goal, I stepped around the corner, out into the space beside the bar. The little cutout section of the counter was raised, and I easily slipped behind the bar, where there was indeed someone working, but not the someone I was looking for.

“Woah,” the large man said when he noticed me approaching from the side, mirroring my thoughts. He still wasn’t as big as Felda, but this guy was ripped, the tight-fitting white shirt and simple black apron he wore doing little to disguise that fact. His dark brown hair was roughly slicked back, and his entire upper lip was completely covered by an impressively-bushy mustache, which twitched as he spoke down to me.

“Ah, sorry kid, you’re not allowed back he-oh!” He started to shoo me back the way I’d come, but stopped, a look of recognition crossing his face. “Oh, forgive me, you are Sam, are you not?”

“Y-yeah,” I stammered out, hunching my shoulders and ducking my head. I wished he hadn’t announced my presence so loudly. But that was nothing compared to what came next.

“Hey Viktor, who’s— Eeee!” The voice behind me had begun to ask, before devolving into a high pitched squeal of delight. I spun around and was treated to the sight of a young woman, looking down at me with obvious glee. Her skin was yellow, like, bright yellow, like the outside of a lemon yellow, and her hair was green, cut into a short, bouncy bob, that perfectly framed her cute face and her large, pointed ears. She was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt under a black, apron-style dress, with a pleated hem that stopped just above her knees.

I watched, frozen in place, as she bent forward and reached out, clapping both hands onto the sides of my face, and began smooshing my cheeks with her palms.

“Look at yooooou!” the woman squealed again, and with her that close to me I realized that my mind had not just thrown out “lemon-yellow” by accident, but that she did, in fact, smell strongly of lemons and citrus. Just what in the world was she, some kind of plant person?

“Mel, hey Mel!” Ignoring my attempts to identify her and, I hoped, the heat I felt in my cheeks, the woman turned and stuck one of her arms into the air, waving it while shouting across the tavern. “Look, Sam’s awake!”

“I can see that, Elle,” came the reply, from another woman about the same age, dressed in the exact same outfit. She was standing before a table full of bemused-looking fishermen, holding a wooden slate with a stack of paper clipped to it in one hand and what I assumed was a pencil in the other. Also like the first woman, her ears were pointed, and her skin was a deep indigo color, more blue than purple. Her hair, a lighter shade of blue, was long and perfectly straight, and hung to the middle of her back. When she did actually turn to look my way, I saw that her hair was parted in such a way that it covered a full half of her face.

“Remember we’re still working, Elle,” Mel said, and, thankfully, that made the first woman, Elle, spring back to her feet, releasing my cheeks from her grip.

“Oh! Right, sorry!” Elle shouted back, then gave me an apologetic smile. “Sorry Sam, I have to get back to work, but I’ll see you ‘round, ‘kay?”

With that, she bustled past me and the large man, Viktor. She reached the little half window that looked into the kitchen and picked up several plates that were waiting there for her, stacking them up her arms and weaving her way back out onto the floor, to deliver them to their respective tables no doubt.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“Waitresses…” I whispered to myself while I waited for my legs to stop shaking from the sudden overwhelming amount of attention. “Of course she’d have some already.”

“Are you alright down there?” the deep, rumbly voice of Viktor asked, and I lifted my head to meet his eyes.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” I said. Which was true, as long as I didn’t turn my head and look out into the tavern. That way, I didn’t have to acknowledge how many of the patrons were looking my way, their eyes drawn by Elle’s eager exclamations.

“Hah,” Viktor laughed, the corners of his mustache curving upwards as he smiled. “Good, good. Yes, Elle has been quite eager to meet you since she first heard of you from Felda.”

“Oh,” I said, chancing a glance towards the tables. Elle had dropped off the dishes she’d been carrying and was now just hovering, listening to the table full of sailors and occasionally giggling at something they’d said. “She’s a real, uh… ray of sunshine, isn’t she?”

“Truly,” Viktor agreed with a nod, also watching the woman work. Then, he started, looking down at me again. “Ah, my apologies, was there something I could do for you?”

“Er, no, I was just looking for Felda?” I said, shaking my head.

“Oh, of course,” Viktor said, reaching up and scratching his cheek. “Well, she is in the kitchen, but I am afraid she usually does not allow, ah, visitors, while she is working.”

“It’s alright, Vik,” came Felda’s husky, soothing voice from behind the man, and he turned, finding the large woman herself smiling as she piled several trays on the edge of the serving window.

“One halibut special, two cod baskets, two clam chowders,” Felda called out.

“Aye!” Elle shouted back, already heading towards the bar.

“Aye,” Mel called, a bit less loudly, also returning to the bar with two tall, empty glasses in each hand.

“Come on back, Sam,” Felda said, and I nodded, swallowing nervously. Had Bart told her about the incident in the bakery? I could see no reason why he wouldn’t. Was she mad at me? Would she listen to Bart, and decide I was more trouble than I was worth?

These questions, and many more, were ricocheting around inside my head as I pushed open the swinging door into the kitchen and slipped inside.

The kitchen was, in a word, impressive. I’d been expecting something simple, rustic even, but the setup Felda had briefly distracted me from my worries. The entire left, right, and rear walls of the kitchen were all counter space, with rows and rows of cabinets and cupboards both above and below. The center of the kitchen had not one, but two island tables, their surfaces topped with thick slabs of some polished white stone, and suspended above both were two rectangular racks laden with pots, pants, and utensils. There was another door, at the far left of the kitchen, opposite the one I’d just come through, that I assumed led to storage or a cellar of some sort. And finally, up against the back wall, between two lengths of counter, were the stoves and ovens.

That’s where I found Felda, stood before one of the stoves, slowly stirring a very tall pot with a wooden ladle.

“Uh…” I opened my mouth, but trailed off as I had no idea what I was going to say.

“Are you feeling better?” Felda asked, turning to look at me over her shoulder.

“Y-yeah,” I said, and she smiled that wide, tusk-filled smile at me.

“Good,” she said, nodding, then pointed at a stack of bowls to her left. “Could you hand me one of those?”

“Sure,” I said, moving up beside her and lifting the topmost bowl, handing it up to her.

“So, Bart tells me you two ran into a bit of trouble. At the bakery, huh?” Felda asked, while she carefully ladled a large portion of something thick and creamy into the bowl. Ah, so that was why she asked for my help, she wanted to get me close before she sprung the trap.

“Yeah…” I sighed, lowering my head to stare at the floor. So, it was that after all. I supposed it was better to get the scolding out of the way first, rather than put it off.

“Nasty business, that. Those three are really starting to become a problem, but I’m sorry you had to deal with them so soon,” Felda said.

I didn’t say anything, just listened to Felda continue to fill the bowl.

“Hopefully you won’t run into them again any time soon, they rarely come so far into this half of town,” Felda said with a sigh. Then, noting my silence and, I assumed, my bowed head and stiff shoulders, she lowered her voice and softly called out, “Sam? What’s wro—”

“Just… get it over with…” I said, clenching my fists at my side.

There was a clatter, as Felda set both the ladle and the bowl down on the counter and knelt in front of me. Slowly, and very gingerly, she put her hands on my shoulders.

“Get what over with?” she asked, and then, when I didn’t answer, she repeated, more softly, “Sam, get what over with? Do you think I’m cross with you?”

I lifted my head, and found Felda, looking at me with her brows knitted together in concern.

“I… don’t know, aren’t you?” I asked. I’d told myself I was just going to come into the kitchen and have a normal, straightforward, adult conversation about the incident, but I’d slipped instantly into the same state of mind I always had, ever since I was a child. I was no stranger to getting in trouble, either for doing something I shouldn’t have, or for not doing something I was supposed to do, and the best defense I’d come up with was to just clam up, stand as still as a statue, and take it on the chin until I was allowed to leave again.

“No, Sam, I am not angry,” Felda said, throwing my entire game plan out the window. I’d been bracing myself to get yelled at for acting without thinking, I’d been mentally preparing for the news that I was not worth the trouble I’d caused and wouldn’t be allowed to stay in the tavern any longer. I wasn’t prepared for… this.

“I’m relieved that you weren’t hurt or anything, and I’m proud of you for standing up to those three, for Bonnie’s sake, but I’m not upset with you, no,” Felda explained, and I felt a wrenching sensation in my chest, like someone had grabbed onto my heart and was squeezing it.

How could she not be mad? Sure, I wasn’t scared of Bentley for my own sake, because I had nothing to lose, but Felda ran a business here. She lived here. And there was no doubt in my mind that between who those three’s fathers were, they could make her life difficult if they really wanted to, and it would be my fault, since she was supporting me.

So, how could she not be mad at me? How could she not… why wasn’t she…

My distress must have been showing, somehow, as before even I knew what was going to happen, I found Felda’s arms, ready to catch me when my knees buckled. She eased me onto the floor of the kitchen, where I buried my face in her apron and, for the second time that day, cried harder than I had in years, unsure of why I was even doing it this time. I didn’t cry, and I didn’t need people to help me, to feel bad for me, but the more I told myself that, the harder it became to stop. I could only hope the thickness of the apron and the commotion of a tavern full of people eating and chatting was enough to drown out the noise I was making.

Eventually, inevitably, I calmed down, and when I pulled my face out of Felda’s lap, she handed me a folded hand towel.

“Here,” she said softly. “Sorry if it smells like dishes.”

I laughed, a pitiful, phlegmy sound, and used the towel to clean my face and blow my nose while Felda patted my back in slow circles.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, and she shook her head.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Felda said, insistently. It was a kind statement, but one I knew to be untrue.

“I’m distracting you… you’re busy, you have cooking to do, you have a tavern full of customers…” I protested, and Felda laughed softly.

“Nothing’s going to burn, and I know almost every one of those people out there, and they know me. None of them is going to kick up a stink if they have to wait a few extra minutes to get their dinner,” Felda said, giving me a small smile. “They know what I’d do to them if they did.”

I laughed again, sitting up straighter. I knew she was just trying to cheer me up, and it was working. But…

“You’re still wrong,” I said, swallowing. “I do have something to be sorry for. I said… something pretty awful to Bart. Do you know where he is? I need to apologize to him… and to Bonnie, if she hasn’t banned me from her bakery.”

“I’m sure she’d be happy to hear you out,” Felda said, offering me a hand. I took it, and she rose, helping me to my feet as she went. “As for Bart, he’s here in the tavern. He’ll be in his usual spot; it’s the table in the far-left corner, beside the stairs to the guest rooms.”

“T-thanks,” I said, but she stopped me before I could leave, picking up the bowl she’d filled from the pot and thrusting it into my hands.

“Here, take this,” she said, then reached for a metal tray that had several partial loaves of bread resting on it, ripping off a large chunk and setting it on a small plate, pushing that into my other hand.

“Wh… Wha…” I stammered, looking at the creamy, off-white, still steaming bowl of delicious smelling soup in my hand.

“It’s chowder,” Felda explained. “Clam chowder. For some reason, Bart brought me back a bunch of extra loaves of bread, so I decided to add it to the menu for tonight. Free bread with a bowl, it’s a great seller, and I’m sure you’ll love it.”

Oh, he did, did he? So, that whole line about the reason for the trip to the bakery being to pick up bread for Felda had been just that, a ruse, an excuse for Bart to buy me a treat, huh? That sly bastard.

“Thank you!” I said, smiling up at Felda. “For this, for… everything.”

“Oh, go on,” Felda said, waving me off with the ladle. “You go find Bart, I’m sure he’s worried about you too. I’ll send one of the girls with some lemonade for you in a moment.”

I nodded, hurrying to the kitchen door, pushing it open with my back and stepping out into the area behind the bar.

Thankfully, almost everyone was still busy eating and drinking and laughing, and my moment of vulnerability hadn’t been experienced by the whole tavern. The same couldn’t be said for Viktor; the large man was unable to wipe the concern off his face before he looked down at me as I passed.

“Ah, is everything… well, young Sam?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” I said, giving him a smile. It was maybe not the best first impression for him to have of me, distracting his boss and bawling my eyes out in the kitchen, but I couldn’t worry about that at the moment.

As I passed, I also noticed one more person watching me go. It was the bird man, his large golden eyes following me behind his spectacles. As I passed, he smiled, and reached up to, completely unironically, doff his cap at me, before going back to his meal. I blinked, and stared at him, but he didn’t seem to have anything more to contribute, so I just turned and continued on my way. I suppose I should have just been glad he hadn’t taken one look at me and run screaming from the tavern.

Now that I knew to look for it, I could see the table that Felda had been talking about. It was an extra booth that was tucked away into the left corner, furthest from the door, and partially obscured by the stairs that led to the second floor. I could see Bart, bent over a bowl, a half-gone hunk of bread in one hand and a book in the other.

“Well, here goes,” I said, again, to myself, as I slipped out from behind the bar and started to cross the tavern floor. I could not ignore the way conversations momentarily stilled as I passed, nor the way people obviously turned in their seats to watch me. I simply kept my head held high, my back straight, and my eyes on my destination. I only faltered slightly when Bart’s eyes lifted from his book, noting my approach. He stared at me, and I wondered if I ought to just spin around on my heels and run back to the kitchen, but he snapped his book shut and sat up straight, motioning me closer with a jerk of his head.

Spurred on, I hurried the rest of the way and climbed into the booth, scooting along the seats until I was sitting across from Bart.

Conversations resumed, the indistinct noise filling the space where neither of us could figure out how to start. Bart was looking down, at his large hands, which were resting on the table. He was clearly thinking of saying something, but I resolved to get my piece out first.

“Bart,” I said, causing him to raise his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” he said, simply.

“Geez, you could look a little less surprised,” I huffed, noting the way his eyebrows shot up.

“Ah, yes, you’re right,” Bart said, clearing his throat and gathering himself up, fixing me with a more serious stare. “Please, continue.”

Rolling my eyes, I sighed and leaned forward, propping my elbow on the table and resting my chin up on my palm.

“Right,” I said, picking up where I’d left off. “Anyway, yeah, I’m sorry. Not about what I said to those three, they deserved that, and I won’t apologize for standing up to them, but I am sorry about what I said to you, after. I’m… pretty sure you don’t actually secretly hate demi-humans, or me, I was just upset, and it wasn’t fair of me to take it out on you.”

With one more deep breath, I wrapped up the apology, looking down at the bowl in front of me and idly stirring it with my spoon.

Bart was quiet for several moments, and it took all my strength not to just dig into the impossibly fragrant chowder while I waited for him to figure out how he wanted to respond. But, I wanted to be conscious enough to hear his reply, and I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be able to focus on anything once I started eating.

“You were under the impression that I hated you?”

I looked up again. Bart’s brow was only slightly furrowed, and his mouth was set in a perfectly straight line, but he was looking at me with such sadness in his eyes that I almost felt guilty.

“Well… yeah, a little bit?” I said, meeting his eyes. “You didn’t seem thrilled when Felda suggested you show me the way, or when I decided to follow you into town.”

“Mmh,” Bart said, taking a deep breath. “I suppose that is my folly, for thinking you were not… capable of recognizing that. I was annoyed, yes, but I was expecting you to behave differently, to behave worse than…”

He trailed off, shaking his head.

“This is a rubbish apology…” Bart muttered to himself, straightening his back and clearing his throat before starting over. “Sam, I apologize, first and foremost, for anything and everything I may have done to give you the impression that I despise you. I apologize, for presuming I already know who you are and how you will behave, based purely on your species. I will try to keep both of those in mind in the future.”

Damn, he was really blowing my apology out of the water.

“And…” he continued, heaving a sigh. “I apologize for the way I acted in the bakery, as well. I should have stepped in sooner, and I should not have tried to paint your actions as anything less than they were: noble, and commendable.”

“Okay, okay, take it easy buddy,” I said, putting my hands up. “All I did was tell off some bullies…”

“Yes, it was a simple act, but it was the right one. You reminded me, and Bonnie, and Bentley and his comrades as well, that this is not the Empire, and we should not be acting like it is. I believe I needed to hear your words as much as he did, and I only hope he dwells on them half as much as I have been.”

“Geeeeez,” I sighed, resting my forehead in my palm again. “That was… so much of a better apology than mine.”

“It… is not a competition, Sam…” Bart said, confused, and I laughed.

“I know, I know, I just wish I’d come up with something more impressive sounding for mine… Whatever.” I shook my head, holding my hand out across the table. “Apology accepted, let’s just… forget about today and move forward. Clean slate, y’know?”

Bart, ever so slightly, smiled, reaching out to shake my offered hand.

“Agreed. Apology accepted,” he said.

“Thank God,” I sighed, taking my hand back and sitting forward in my seat. “Because the smell of this chowder has been driving me mad and I really wanted to wait until we were finished to start eating.”

In another first, for me anyway, Bart chuckled, leaning back in the booth.

“By all means, don’t let me keep you any longer. ‘Tis very good, I assure you.”

Eager to verify for myself, I took the hunk of bread I’d been given in one hand, tearing off a sizable chunk, and dipped it into the creamy chowder, swirling it a few times before popping the entire thing into my mouth.

“Mmmmmm…” I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut. It had cooled slightly, but that hardly mattered, when the taste was so incredible. The bread had soaked up plenty of the chowder, and like a wrung-out sponge, released it as I chewed, filling my mouth with the rich, creamy, briny broth. The large chunks of clam, and their signature flavor, were the main stars of the show, but I couldn’t ignore the tender, fluffy cubes of potato, or the hint of savory smokiness from the crisp, crunchy bits of bacon also playing back up. The ingredients, and the seasonings, and the broth, all came together in perfect harmony, and I knew it was going to be very difficult for me not to beg Felda for a second, and maybe third, bowl after finishing this first one.

“Wow,” a dull, almost monotone voice sounded, calling me back to the material plane. I opened my eyes, finding the dark-haired waitress standing at the edge of our table, a pitcher of lemonade in one hand and a glass in the other.

“So you like, really dig seafood, huh?” the woman, Mel, asked, setting the glass down and giving it a generous pour from the pitcher before placing it in front of my plate.

Bobbing my head in thanks, I reached for the glass so I could take a swig from it to help wash down the mouthful of soup and bread. Damn, even in a fantasy world, the waitresses still know how to wait until your mouth is full before visiting your table.

“Uh, y-yeah, I kinda do,” I choked out, once I could speak again. I noticed, with a bit of a warm feeling in my stomach, that the pitcher of lemonade that Felda had sent over had had coral sugar added to it again. “Er, hi, I’m Sam.”

“Mel,” she said, bringing one hand to her chin and looking me over with her dark-purple eyes. “You have no idea how badly Elle wanted to bring you this lemonade.”

“O-oh?” I said, leaning over in my seat. I could see Elle behind the bar with her head in her hands, being comforted by Viktor.

“Yeah,” Mel said, half-turning and following my gaze to her overreacting co-worker. “I challenged her to a game of turtle, eel, crab for it.”

I wondered if that could possibly be what I thought it was, when Mel bent down and whispered to me conspiratorially, “She always throws turtle first.”

“Aaaaah,” I said, my suspicions confirmed. “She knows I’m not going anywhere, right? She’ll get to, uh, meet me soon anyway.”

“Yeah,” Mel said, shrugging her shoulders. “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine, she just likes being dramatic.”

I watched, and eventually Elle sat up straight, taking a deep breath in through her nose, then slapping both her cheeks with her palm. Her smile returned like flicking on a lightswitch, and she bounced over to the window, grabbing an order that had just come up and bustling off back to work.

“See,” Mel said, and I nodded. “Well, I better get moving. Nice meeting you, Sam, let me know if you two need anything else.”

“T-thanks, uh, you too! I mean, I will!” I called after her as she left, then sank back into the booth, sighing and resuming my methodical devouring of the bread and chowder. Once I was out of bread I used the spoon, and before I knew it I was tipping the bowl up, scraping the last bits of broth into my mouth.

Sitting back with another satisfied groan, I found Bart, still only halfway through his bowl, looking at me with what I figured to be his version of fondness.

“That was so good,” I said, sorely tempted to just flop onto my side and fall asleep in the booth.

“Felda will be glad to hear it,” Bart said, nodding.

“Yeah… yeah, she will, won’t she,” I said quietly as I pushed my empty bowl and plate out of the way and rested my arms on the table, leaning forward on them. “I’d… like to find some way to repay her.”

Bart did manage to not look as surprised that time, but it didn’t help that he paused with his mouth open, a spoonful of chowder halfway into it. Lowering the spoon back into the bowl and straightening his back, Bart gave me an appraising look.

“Not just for the soup, I mean. Or the mussels, or the cod,” I said, looking down at the table and idly drumming my clawed fingers. “I mean, for all of it. For everything. For… letting me stay here and letting me eat her amazing cooking. I don’t know if I’ll be able to pay her in full for everything she’s already given me, but I want to be able to give her something back, y’know?”

“Are you suggesting… that you find work around the village that you can do?” Bart ventured, and I nodded.

‘Yeah, that or, you know, get some kind of job,” I said. “I started thinking about it while we were out running errands, actually.”

“Really?” Bart asked, and I let him have his incredulity.

“Yes, really. Seeing so many people doing what they obviously loved, and making a living out of it, it made me wonder what it would feel like, to find that ‘perfect job’.”

“I…” Bart started to say, and I chuckled.

“I know, hoping for ‘perfect’ on my first job likely isn’t going to happen, and to be honest, I don’t know which jobs, if any, I’m qualified to do in a place like this, but I want to at least try,” I said, meeting Bart’s eyes again, and hoping I sounded as serious as I felt. It was true though. I’d been dreading the prospect of having to go out searching for jobs back on Earth, but at least here things seemed easier, and less formalized.

“That would… be a great help to Felda, I’m sure,” Bart said, holding my gaze for a moment before looking away again and continuing, “I could also, perhaps, help you discover what kind of work you're best suited for, what kind of work calls to you. If you’d like me to, that is.”

I thought about turning him down. The me from that morning would have turned him down, but the me from that morning probably wouldn’t be considering voluntarily seeking employment when there was a nice, juicy free ride still up for offer. I knew, deep down, that one day in this weird fantastical world wasn’t enough to totally change who I was, because part of me still balked at the idea of work. But, I realized, I did not want to keep being that version of me, and the first step away from that was going to be learning how to do things I didn’t want to do. And the second step would be letting people help me, when they offered, damnit.

At least, when people in this world offered to help me, it felt genuine.

“Sure, I'd like that,” I said, shrugging casually like it wasn't going against every pattern I'd ever established for myself. Bart nodded, and went to continue eating his chowder.

“Actually,” I spoke up, then paused, the time it took me to think over what I was about to say, allowing him to get a few more spoonfuls in. “It's funny, you offering like that. There is… one job I think I'd like to try first, and you'd actually be the perfect person to talk to about it, but… I don't know, it’s kind of stupid.”

Bart, having poured himself a glass of the lemonade as well, took a slow, careful sip before responding.

“And which job would that be?” he said, cocking his head curiously.

“Promise you won't laugh,” I said, and Bart raised an eyebrow.

“Why would I laugh?” he asked, which, fair, he did not seem the type.

“Right… Well, okay. I’ve never done it before, so I don’t know if I’ll be good at it, or even actually like it once I try, but if works out it really might be the perfect job for me,” I said, using the long preamble to build up just a bit more confidence that I wasn’t about to sound like an idiot. “What I’m saying is, I think I would… like to… try…”

I trailed off, not because my confidence had failed me, but because I felt my ears perking up on their own. I spent a split second wondering what exactly could have caused that, when a distinctive voice made itself known above the background chatter.

“...sure this is the correct establishment? I’d rather not prolong my exposure to the ghastly smell of this place any longer than I have to.”

It was a high, reedy voice, and one I recognized. It belonged to Laurence, the taller of Bentley’s companions from the incident at the bakery.

“You’re telling me,” another voice, more croaky, that one belonged to the shorter man, Roberto.

And if those two were, by the sounds of it, outside, and getting closer, that could only mean…

“Yes, I am certain. She was seen retreating down this dock after that beastly foreigner chased us out of the bakery, and it is common knowledge that he and the owner of this tavern are close.”

And that was Bentley. I turned my head, and was pretty certain I could see them through the windows, coming down the short side path that led from the street to the docks, about to round the corner onto the front entrance to the Crooked Hook.

“Sam?”

Bart’s voice, concerned, drew my attention back, but I kept my eyes on the three shapes I could still see moving past the windows, heading for the door.

“They’re coming,” I said.

“Who?” Bart asked, instantly upright in his seat.

“Bentley, and his two goons,” I explained, and heard Bart exhale through his nose.

“How do you know?” Bart asked, less forcefully.

“I can hear them,” I explained, scooting further back into the booth.

A second later, the door opened, and into the tavern strolled Bentley, Laurence, and Roberto.

Unlike the momentary stalling of conversation that had happened in my wake, upon noticing who had just entered, all noise inside the tavern came to a halt.

Just like when he’d entered the bakery, Bentley’s face scrunched up into a nasty scowl as he regarded the crowded tavern. His friends were also doing their best to look as scornful and unshaken as he was, but I could see Laurence fiddling with the edge of one of his flowing sleeves, picking at the fabric, and Roberto was shifting his weight constantly and fidgeting with one of his many rings.

After a moment of just standing there and glowering, Bentley started moving again, approaching the bar. I saw that, in addition to the same expensive looking blue and gold outfit he’d been wearing before, he’d added an actual cape to his ensemble. Or maybe it was a cloak. Whatever it was, it was a darker shade of blue, and made of a much thicker fabric, presumably to ward off the chilly night air after the sun had set.

Once he’d reached the bar, Bently glared up into the eyes of Viktor, and spoke, his voice carrying across the silent tavern.

“I would like to speak to the owner of this establishment,” Bentley said.

“Ah, yes, let me—” Viktor replied stiffly, but before he could even start to turn, the door to the kitchen pushed open behind him.

“And what can I do for you, Master Baker-Hall?” Felda said, as she exited the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel as she walked.

“Stay here,” Bart whispered to me, sliding out of the booth. He moved to stand in the space between the stairs and the booth, putting himself between me and where Bentley was now standing, half-hidden by a support beam.

“Finally, someone with a little respect,” Bentley said, and I rolled my eyes. He was one to talk about respect. “I'm looking for two people, and I believe you know which.”

“Well, I'm happy to be of service to the office of the mayor, but I'm afraid I'm just a simple tavern owner,” Felda said, shaking her head sadly. A quick chorus of chuckles rippled through the otherwise quiet crowd, just as quickly coming to an end as Bentley shot a look over his shoulder. “I'm afraid you'll have to spell it out for me, who are you looking for?”

“I don't have time for your games, woman,” Bentley said, sounding more and more petulant by the second. “I'm looking for your friend, the man who calls himself Bart, and that vagrant beast girl, the cat!”

“Oh?” Felda asked, lifting her eyebrows and feigning surprise. “Well, I'm sure I saw both of them just a little while ago…”

Felda made a show of crossing her arms, grinding her knuckles into her forehead like she was thinking extra hard. At the same time, Bart slipped out from his spot beside the stairs, so smoothly and quietly I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been right next to him. He circled around the trio, approaching them from behind, and I felt the entire tavern drawing in its breath and holding it.

Meanwhile, Bentley was rapidly losing his patience, and stepped forward, slamming his fist onto the bar.

“Enough! Just tell me where Bart is hiding!” he demanded. Felda’s only response was to smile pleasantly at him, and again, I could practically feel the rest of the patrons holding in the urge to laugh, many of them actively covering their mouths.

“Ain't nobody hidin’ from you, lad,” Bart finally said, crossing his arms.

“Aach!” Bentley shouted, whirling around and coming face to face with the older man. Bart had managed to position himself behind the trio without any of them noticing. At Bentley’s shriek, the other two jumped and spun as well, then quickly scrambled to put Bentley at the head of their formation again.

The tavern erupted with laughter, some patrons slapping the surfaces of their tables, some teetering in their stools and leaning on each other. I had to bite down on one of my knuckles to not join in, and I couldn’t imagine how Bart was managing to hold a straight face.

Eventually, the laughter died down, and Bentley stepped forward, clearing his throat and straightening his shirt, facing down Bart’s unamused stare.

“Where is she, then?” Bentley asked, deftly ignoring the laughing fit that he and his companions had just endured. Then, realizing the potential folly of not being specific enough, lest he open himself to more verbal keep away, he pointed a finger at Bart and clarified, “and you know who I mean! The beast girl, the cat!”

“She's about,” Bart said.

Bentley narrowed his eyes, then quickly threw a glance over his shoulders, I suppose in case I'd been sneaking up on him from that angle as well.

“Where,” Bentley asked through clenched teeth.

“Why,” Bart fired back.

“Because I said so, you damnable—” Bentley started to shout, his face going red. Before he could dig himself too deep a hole, his companions put a hand each on his shoulder (or his upper arm, in Roberto's case) and he snapped his mouth shut. Taking several deep breaths and bringing a hand up to grind his knuckles into his forehead, he started again, sounding just barely back in control of himself.

“Because I have some questions I would like to ask her, Bart.”

Behind Bentley, I saw Felda move, and her eyes met mine, only for a second.

“I'm afraid she's in no condition to be answering questions at the moment,” Felda said, causing Bentley to have to turn around again to face her. “What is it you need to know so badly?”

Bentley took another several seconds to answer, now that it was Felda he was talking to again.

“Fine,” he said, when he finally did. “I have questions for her, regarding her presence in our little town. Where she came from, and what her reasons for being here are, and most importantly how and when she arrived here. Unless the two of you can answer that for me?” Bentley sounded like he'd finally regained a bit of steam, now that he'd actually managed to get to the point.

“I'm afraid we can’t,” Felda said, which Bentley responded to with an irritated huff.

“Very well then. Perhaps you could at least inform me of her current residence. Surely you know that?” Bentley asked, and for once Felda didn't have a quick response, pausing to consider the young man in front of her.

“She lives here, with me,” Felda explained, and I saw a smile spread across Bentley’s face.

“Ah!” Bentley said, making a clicking noise with his tongue. “Now that is interesting. And convenient. I suppose that means if I just wait around here long enough, she'd turn up eventually, yes?”

“What?” said Laurence and Roberto in unison, as Bentley climbed onto a stool.

“I suppose,” Felda repeated, favoring Bentley with one of her best tusk-filled smiles. “Is there anything I can get you then?”

“Surely not!” Laurence interjected. “I shouldn't think you have anything on your menu but fish, and only of the most common sort as well, with only cheap ales to wash it down with!”

“Doubt you’ll find even a single scrap of beef or pork or fowl in a place like this,” Roberto followed up, hooking his hands through his belt again.

Oh, don't tell me these guys hate fish too. I'd only become such a big fan of it today, technically, but still, could they get any worse?

“Now now,” Bentley said, dismissively. “It would be… ill-mannered to take up a seat and not order anything. I’m sure there’s something on the menu that is passable, at the very least.”

Having admonished his companions, Bentley turned his gaze on a fixture of the room I’d failed to take in before; a large rectangular chalkboard hung up on the wall behind the bar and beside the serving window.

“Mmh, I will try a bowl of this ‘chowder’ everyone seems so keen on, and a glass of lemonade,” Bentley declared. Felda continued to look at him for several seconds, before uncrossing her arms and shrugging.

“Of course, I’ll have that right up,” she said, then turned her head until she found Elle and Mel, standing off to the side and staring, like everyone else. She jerked her head in Bentley’s direction and I saw the pair form a quick huddle, whispering back and forth to each other. A decision was reached, and there was a brief flurry of movement as they played a quick game of what was, undoubtedly, rock, paper, scissors, but with slightly different hand motions. Elle thrust her fist forward, closed, and Mel stuck her hand out in the shape of a crab’s claw, covering the fist, and Elle’s face fell. A second later, she was beaming brightly, as she approached the spot at the bar where Bentley had seated himself.

I couldn’t hear what she said as she poured him a glass from the pitcher she carried because by then, small, quiet snatches of conversation had started up again. Nowhere near as loudly or as rowdily as before, but people were returning to their drinking and their meals. Hesitantly, Laurence and Roberto got into the two seats on either side of Bentley, and Bart moved to position himself against the stairs again. For a while, it seemed like everyone was just waiting to see what would happen next.

What did happen next, obviously, was that Felda returned, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of chowder and several neatly sliced, uh, slices of bread on it, setting it before Bentley.

“Here you are, Master Baker-Hall,” Felda said cordially.

“Ah, wonderful. And, how much do I owe you then?” Bentley asked, leaning forward in his stool and sniffing at the fragrant steam coming off the soup.

“Oh, think nothing of it,” Felda said, waving her hand.

“Oh? That’s very generous of you,” Bentley said, lifting the spoon and slowly, deliberately guiding it into his mouth. He followed up with a sip of lemonade and then, fixing his eyes on Felda again, went on the attack.

“You’re a very generous person, aren’t you, Miss Stoutsinger?” Bentley asked, leaving no room for her to answer his clearly rhetorical question before he continued, “I’ve heard you’re always quick to offer financial assistance to your friends and neighbors in times of need. On top of that, you have a robust staff working for you, and you support your local fishermen by buying from them directly. This tavern of yours must be doing very well.”

Bentley had another spoonful of chowder and a long pull from his glass, letting out a satisfied sigh and wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. I didn’t know about Felda, but I was actually starting to grow worried about where he was headed with this line of conversation.

Then, he went in for the kill.

“So well, in fact, that you can apparently afford to take in a catkin of your own now,” Bentley said, and I felt my throat tighten. “There are nobles even in the capital who would find that a daunting prospect, let alone be able to procure one so easily, yet one has materialized right here in our little town, and under your care. One can’t help but wonder, in the face of all that, if maybe your tavern is doing too well, hmm?”

Oh, that bastard. I still didn’t know why everyone just assumed cat people were inherently some kind of huge burden, but clearly Felda wouldn’t be able to get away with just brushing off the fact that she was letting me live with her rent-free like she’d thought. Maybe this conflict would have come much later if I hadn’t directly antagonized Bentley on my first day out, but I got the feeling it would have happened eventually. And now, I really was going to wind up causing trouble for Felda, no matter what she said.

“If you’re managing so well that you can make plans to house and clothe and feed that girl, then I must in turn wonder if perhaps I need to have a word with my father, about having your business looked into, possibly adjusting your taxes…” Bentley said, casually and offhand, like he was discussing the weather and not making some kind of weird, roundabout threat.

Well, I’d wanted to talk to Bart about it first, but I guess now is as good a time as any, I thought, as I slid out of the booth.

“That won’t be necessary,” I announced, after ducking around Bart and taking a few steps towards the bar.

“Sam—” I heard Bart hiss behind me.

“Ah, there she is!” Bentley grinned as he turned in his stool, his companions following suit, along with the entire tavern. I felt my knees start to tremble a little at making myself the center of attention, but for once that served my purposes just fine.

“Yeah, yeah, here I am, and you can quit threatening Felda,” I said, continuing to walk towards the seated trio.

“Threats? Me?” Bentley gasped, putting a hand to his chest. “I would never. I simply think it’s suspicious for a simple tavern owner to suddenly start living beyond her means, as will, I’m sure, the treasury when they hear off—”

“I said that won’t be necessary,” I cut him off, stopping once I was standing directly in front of Bentley’s stool. He’d continued to watch me approach, and, with a growing smile, slid from his seat and stood before me, placing his hands on his hips.

“Oh? And why is that?” Bentley asked.

“Because Felda isn’t going to be housing, and clothing, and feeding me,” I said, crossing my arms. Bentley scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, please,” Bentley said, his face and tone so insufferably smug. “Don’t try to lie to me now, girl. I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s Bart who’ll be caring for you instead!”

“Nope,” I said, keeping my tone level despite how much I was starting to want to take another swing at him.

“Then who—” Bentley began, and I took a step forward, causing him to jump and lean away from me.

“I will!” I shouted, pointing a clawed finger at him. “I’m capable of taking care of myself, and I’ll be paying for my own housing, and clothing, and food. You wanted to know why I’m here? That’s why. I came to this town to work!”

The tavern had gone silent again, as still and quiet as when Bentley had first entered. Bentley himself had backed into his stool, and my shouting had caused him to lean back awkwardly until his back and elbows hit the bar, and his wide eyes were boring into me.

That showed ‘em, I concluded, crossing my arms and smirking at him.

Then, he began to chuckle. I felt my brow furrow as Bentley regained his balance and stood up, laughing heartily at my furious declaration. Laurence and Roberto quickly followed suit, the former laughing into one of his wide sleeves and the latter heaving great, bellowing guffaws as he hopped down from his stool to hold onto his knees.

Worse still, I heard a few voices out in the crowd start to echo the laughter. I felt my confidence start to falter, and my eyes begin to unfocus. Was it really that ridiculous? Did everyone really think so little of catkin that my failure was already a given?

Movement behind Bentley drew my eye, and I saw Felda there, looking down at me across the bar’s counter. She was smiling, and when she saw me looking, she gave a solid nod of her head.

That was enough to keep me from backing down, or from bolting for the stairs with my tail literally tucked between my legs, and I just stood there, waiting for Bentley to laugh himself out and look up again, wiping an actual tear from his eyes.

“My goodness…” Bentley breathed, still catching his breath and fighting to get his composure back. “So… tell me, girl, what career did you have in mind, coming all the way to our little village?”

“A serving girl, perhaps?” Laurence asked, joining in on Bentley’s mirth.

“Maybe you could employ her! As a chambermaid!” Roberto laughed, nudging Bentley in the hip with his elbow.

I turned my head, and met Bart’s eyes. He hadn’t followed after me when I walked forward to confront Bentley, which I took as a sign of him trusting me not to do anything stupid. He was looking at me strangely again, that funny look I was starting to associate with him catching me doing something too un-catkin like. I flashed him a grin, and turned back to Bentley.

“Fishing,” I said.

Now that really knocked the smiles off their faces. I even saw Felda’s eyebrows shoot up behind the trio, but I just kept on grinning.

“You came here… to fish?” Bentley asked, a disbelieving laugh once again escaping between breaths.

“That’s right,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “What of it?”

“Don’t you know where fishing happens?” Roberto asked, and I looked at him, raising an eyebrow at the odd question.

“The ocean?” I supplied, tilting my head. “Or, lakes and rivers too, I guess.”

“Which are bodies of water!” Roberto followed up, and I blinked. He was smirking like he’d completely outsmarted me, but I just stared back at him.

“So?” I said, and he gaped at me. All three of them did, in fact. I knew I’d be turned into a half-person, half-cat, but they couldn’t possibly think…

“Your kind reviles the water,” Laurence stated, matter-of-factly, and I smacked one of my palms into my forehead.

“Felda,” I said, leaning around them to speak to her. “Could you get me a glass of water?”

“Oh, sure,” Felda said, slightly thrown off by suddenly being drawn into my confrontation. She pulled a glass from under the bar and turned to one of several large wooden barrels on either side of the drink shelves, turning the spigot and filling the glass with water.

I reached across the bar to accept it from her, then turned, staring down the trio who were watching with mixed expressions of curiosity and skepticism. I brought the glass to my lips first, taking a few sips just so it wouldn’t make too big a mess, then, with a sigh, splashed the rest of it into my face. The three of them, as well as several people around the tavern, including Bart, made noises of alarm, but I just pushed my now-damp hair out of my face and set the glass back on the bar.

“Any more questions?” I asked the thoroughly shaken-looking trio. I didn’t care if I wasn’t acting like a “real” catfolk at that moment, the looks on their faces were worth it.

“T-t-that…” Laurence stammered indignantly. Roberto just looked confused. Only Bentley seemed like he still wasn’t ready to give up and just accept me at my word.

“Do you even know how to fish?” Bentley asked.

“Do you?” I shot back and, once again, I heard a few scattered laughs from the crowd.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” Bentley fired back just as quickly. “An outsider such as yourself might not realize it, but fishing is a vital component of the fabric of our town’s culture and livelihood, so of course my father has ensured I am well practiced in the craft.”

“Oh?” I said, nodding along while water dripped down the back of my neck. That made sense, of course. There might be farms, and smiths, and all sorts of other businesses, but a town built right on the water like this was bound to owe a huge part of its prosperity and history to fishing. “Well, good for you. If you can manage to figure it out, then I’m sure I should have no trouble picking it up.”

“Hear, hear!” one lone, brave voice from the crowded tavern shouted.

Bentley’s nostrils flared, and I knew that had got him good. It would have been the perfect time to leave things where they were and walk away, with the issue of my presence in the town and Felda’s ability to bankroll my stay put to bed, but I simply wasn’t done running my mouth, and I wanted to get in one last jab before I quit.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll turn out to be even better at it than you,” I said, shrugging dramatically, and I instantly knew I’d fucked up when Bentley’s response to that wasn’t the further darkening of his cheeks, but a look of realization and a return of his smug smile.

“Oh, are you willing to wager on that?” Bentley asked. That set off a chain of excited muttering throughout the crowd.

“Hey yeah, the Midsummer Fishin’ Festival is comin’ up!” another voice in the crowd announced. “She could enter the fishin’ competition!”

“Uh…” I said, glancing over my shoulder. The crowd was really taking to the idea of some kind of bet and whatever this festival was. And so many of them were giving me encouraging grins and shaking their cups and glasses at me, it was hard not to get swept up in it.

“Well, how long is it till this festival?” I asked, stalling for time.

“Aren’t those huge ears good for anything?” Bentley asked, snidely. Oh, if he only knew. “It’s the Midsummer Festival, that means it’s in the middle of summer. Today’s the eleventh of first-quarter, the festival begins on the twentieth of second-quarter and goes until the twenty-fifth, so you have thirty-nine days. But, surely you’ll have no trouble being ready by then, right?”

Huh… I really needed to get my hands on a calendar soon, before anyone found out I didn’t know anything about the days, weeks, or months of the year in this place.

“Hey, she ain’t ‘fraid a you!”

“Yeah, you ‘tell ‘em, cat girl!”

“I’d put my money on ‘er!”

The tavern was growing more animated by the second, and I was fully ready to ride that wave.

“That’s right,” I said to Bentley, lifting my chin high. “No trouble. I’ll see you at the festival, and I’ll beat you at the festival.”

“Well, then perhaps we should discuss terms,” Bentley said, bringing a hand to his chin. “Whichever of us places higher in the competition—”

“Oh, I won’t just place higher than you,” I said, my head swimming with visions of completely demolishing this smug, rude, racist prick worse than he’d ever imagined. “I’m gona win the competition!

“Ah, Sam, perhaps…” Felda started to speak, but Bentley held his hand up.

“No no, she speaks for herself, isn’t that right?” Bentley sneered. “Very well then, the wager is set. What are your terms?”

Ah, shit. In addition to the calendar, I still didn’t know what all the currencies were called. There were other things I wanted to ask for, too, but mainly I wanted to squeeze this jerk for his money.

“Hey,” I called over my shoulder at the crowded tavern. “Is there a prize for winning the competition?”

“‘Course!” one man from a table full of sailors shouted. “Fifty crabs!”

“And the free trip to the capital, don’t forget that!” a woman at another table added.

“Ya fool, that’s only if you impress the judges enough!” a third ranted.

Hmm. Crabs. Right, I really needed to have Felda sit down and explain to me what all the coins were worth later.

“Then, if I win, you match the prize money. Fifty crabs,” I said, turning back to Bentley.

I had no idea how much money that was, but Bentley sure did. He hesitated, casting a glance over either shoulder at his two companions. Laurence, seemingly unconsciously, was chewing on the corner of one of his nails, but he gave Bentley a quick nod. Roberto looked far less concerned, and merely gave a dismissive shrug. Bolstered, Bentely took a few more seconds to consider, before flicking his head and running a hand through his hair.

“Pssh,” Bentley scoffed, failing to sound not at all bothered by what I was guessing was actually a pretty solid chunk of change, even for him. “Is that all?”

“No, actually,” I cut in before he could get going. “When I win, you have to promise you won’t go into Bonnie’s shop and say shit like what I heard earlier, ever again.”

Both Laurence and Roberto made dismissive noises at that, but Bentley remained still, once again sizing me up with his eyes.

“Very well. And when I win?” he asked.

Well, that was an easy one.

“I’ll leave town,” I said, shrugging again. Sure, Felda and Bart were nice people, but I didn’t really have anything to lose here, and I doubted my feelings would change that much over the course of a month. So if my presence was going to be such a disruption for him, and everyone else, I could just leave.

I could just leave, I reassured myself.

I could hear the crowd reacting to that again, but the reaction I found most interesting was Bentley’s. He didn’t look like I’d suggested the very thing he’d been hoping I would. He was no longer smirking smugly, and his shoulders had sunk a little under his cloak.

“Sam,” Bart spoke, suddenly appearing beside me and the trio. Even I hadn’t noticed him crossing over from the side of the tavern. “Wait—”

“She’s made her decision, old man,” Roberto said, attempting to ward Bart off with a not very impressive glower of his own. “She’ll reap what she’s sown.”

“Yes, you’ve butted in quite enough for one day!” Laurence sneered, though I suspected he only dared because he had two other people between him at Bart at the moment.

“Think this through, both of you,” Bart pressed on, ignoring them. “This arrangement is foolish. Bentley, you got your questions answered, Sam, you’ve made your point. There’s no need for this to end in your exile.”

Bart’s eyes bored into me, and I was at first a little hurt, and a little angry, that he seemed to think I had already lost, but I figured that was just him being protective. I gave him a smile that I hoped was reassuring.

“Hey, don’t worry Bart, that’ll only happen if I lose, which I won’t,” I said, moving my gaze from him, back to Bentley. “So, what d’you say, huh?”

“That… would be acceptable,” Bentley spoke, haltingly, and slowly extended his hand towards me. “I suppose we have an accord, then. We shall both enter the Midsummer Fishing Festival competition, and should you win, I will pay you fifty gold crabs and agree to hold my tongue when visiting the bakery owned by one Miss Bonnie Hopkins. But, should I win, you will leave Rower’s Rest and never return.”

Speaking of tongues, I had to bite mine to not react when I heard what Bonnie’s full name was. She had to know, right?

I looked down at Bentley’s outstretched hand, so I wouldn’t have to see Felda shaking her head at me from over his shoulder, or Bart silently trying to dissuade me from my left. When I’d made the decision that I wanted to give fishing a try, I’d planned to take things slow, to work my way up to the point where I could, at least in part, support myself without help, but if I agreed to this ridiculous bet, I’d be putting myself under tremendous pressure to not just learn how to fish, but how to excel at it, and do it fast. If I’d been thinking clearly, if I hadn’t had a room full of half-drunk sailors egging me on, and if I didn’t hate Bentley so much, I probably would have thought things through a little more thoroughly.

“You’re on,” I said, reaching out and shaking Bentley’s hand.