Making A Splash

Chapter 5

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After I released Bentley’s hand, he and I were left glowering at each other for several moments, until Bentley cleared his throat and turned back towards the bar.

“Well, now that that's settled, if you would excuse me,” he said, climbing back onto his stool.

“Huh?” I said, blinking at the back of his head. I'd expected him to slink back out into the night now that he'd, ostensibly, gotten what he came here for, but instead he went right back to eating his nearly-forgotten bowl of chowder. Laurence and Roberto looked equally as lost as I felt, and the awkward silence that hung in the air was too much for me to bear.

“I'll, uh, see you at the competition then…” I said, failing to put any real bite into it, and quickly scurried back to the corner booth, brushing past a very exasperated-looking Bart.

What followed were several of the longest and most painful minutes of my life, as Bentley quietly and politely finished his soup. Eventually, he stood, muttering a thanks to Felda and dropped several coins onto the bar. Finally, turning on his heels with his cape swishing, he stalked back out into the night, flanked by his two flunkies.

Several more seconds passed, before the tavern exploded. Patrons were shouting, to me, to each other, or to nobody in particular, clattering their cups and slapping the surfaces of their tables.

“Who knew a lil thing had such stones on ‘er!”

“Ya see the face ‘e made?”

“I tell ya what, I'm puttin’ a crab down on the cat!”

“Oh come off it, no way she actually takes first place!”

“Still, ‘bout time someone told that rotten little shit off!”

Apparently, Bentley was not a very popular fellow.

I was joined in the shadowy corner booth shortly after by Bart. He slid into the same spot as before, across from me, and sat with his massive arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Hey, look on the bright side,” I spoke up before he could get going. “I didn't fly off the handle this time.”

“Hmmh,” Bart made a noise I chose to interpret as a closed mouth laugh, then sighed deeply.

“That was extremely foolhardy of you, Sam,” Bart said.

“I know,” I replied, nodding and looking down at the table's surface. “I… only really meant to tell him I was taking up fishing, to get him off Felda's back.”

“And that's the job you wanted to talk to me about?” Bart asked, and again I nodded.

“Yeah,” I confirmed, looking up and giving him a smirk. “I figured, who better to ask, right?”

“I'm hardly the best fisherman in the town,” Bart said with a shake of his head. “I'm no pro, and I haven't competed in years…”

He broke off, fixing his eyes on mine again.

“Answer me this, Sam, why do you want to take up fishing?” he asked.

There were a lot of answers I could have given. A number of ways I could have worded my answer to make it sound more well thought out and less dumb, but I kind of got the feeling Bart would be able to tell if I was fudging the truth.

“Because I like fish,” I stated, simply. “I'd be happy enough if I just got to a point where I could fish up as much fish as I need to eat it for every meal of every day, but what I really want is to be able to make enough to pay Felda back for everything she's given me so far, to pay for my own lodging, y’know?”

“I see…” Bart said, turning his head and gazing across the tavern. “That's about what I expected, but still surprising. You… know that Felda would continue to put you up free of charge though, don't you?”

“Yeah, and that's why I can't let her,” I said, earning me another look from Bart. “Don't get me wrong, I was fully ready to let her, too. But I… decided I don't want to live like that anymore. I want to at least try earning my keep for once.”

Bart mulled over my words for a bit, his eyes searching me over so thoroughly I started to fidget in my seat.

“You are… quite full of surprises, Sam,” Bart finally declared, his tone quiet and somber.

You don't know the half of it…

“In any case,” Bart said, clearing his throat. “Seeking to earn your own wages is one thing, but I still think that wager you entered into with Bentley was foolish and ill-thought-out.”

“Tell me about it,” I sighed, resting my chin in my palm. “But there's no way I'm backing out of it, if that's what you're getting at. There's no telling what worse shit he might try to pull if I do. You heard him, he threatened to have Felda audited.”

I started growing agitated all over again at the idea of him so blatantly trying to abuse his station (or his father's station, more accurately) to make life difficult for Felda, just because he could, because she chose to help me out.

“Still though,” I continued, as Bart seemed lost in thought again. “It might wind up being a blessing in disguise, the bet.”

“How do you figure?” Bart asked, looking up.

“Because, this way I can't just decide the whole thing is too hard and quit the first time something goes wrong,” I said, thinking back bitterly on past experiences trying to pick up new hobbies, only to ditch them before I could get beyond the beginner's stage.

“I… suppose,” Bart tentatively agreed. “Well, if I am to teach you to fish well enough that you even stand a chance in time for the competition, we'll have to start as soon as possible. I'll be here to collect you before sun up tomorrow, see to it that you're ready.”

“Uh, okay, I will!” I hastily agreed. Not like I planned to stay up late, and I doubted this village had much of a night life. “Thank you, by the way. For agreeing to teach me, even though I never actually got to ask.”

“Well, Felda would have my head off if I didn't…” Bart said, and I chuckled. “But, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested in seeing what you're capable of.”

I beamed at that, immensely thankful that Bart had agreed to a fresh start for the both of us.

Suddenly, the quiet moment was shattered as two figures stumbled over to the edge of our table, laughing uproariously, their arms around each other’s shoulders. I could immediately tell they were fishermen, from their clothes and the way they smelled of salt and fish, and they were absolutely hammered, grinning down at me.

“‘Ey, there she is, th’ cat of the hour!” one of them slurred, motioning to me with the tankard in his free hand.

“C’mere, lets us buy ya a drink, ta celebrate!” the other offered, jerking his head towards the bar.

“Oh, uh…”

I did consider it, for a second. It hadn’t occurred to me that a place like this likely didn’t actually have something like a legal drinking age, which meant I probably could partake sometime. It wasn’t like I’d never gotten drunk before, but I doubted a few sneakily acquired beers or a couple bottles of hard lemonade passed around a party compared to a full mug of the stuff they served at an actual fantasy tavern.

The real question was whether Felda would agree to serve me, and either way I wasn’t in that big of a rush to find out.

“No thanks,” I said, shaking my head. “I have to be up early tomorrow, after all.”

“‘Nother time then!” one of the fishermen said, bobbing his head before the pair of them wandered off.

I turned to give Bart a smirk and found him looking at me with one eyebrow raised, an incredulous look on his face. He didn’t say anything, just shook his head and settled back into the booth, digging the book out of his pockets.

After that, we sat in comfortable silence, Bart reading his book despite the dim lantern lighting, me peoplewatching the tavern. The patrons all finished their drinks and meals, either leaving piles of coins on their tables to be scooped up by Elle or Mel, or approaching the bar to hand them directly to Viktor. Several times, I noticed people pointing in my direction while paying at the counter, but it was too noisy for me to pick up what they were saying. At some point, the calls for food dwindled, while the calls for drinks tapered off slowly, but did eventually come to an end as well. Groups of fishermen, sailors, and other townsfolk helped each other stagger out into the night, back to their homes to sleep it off. Except for a handful of other people who ascended the stairs to the second floor instead; among them were Nils, a quartet of people I took from their dress to be out-of-towners, and the bird man who had been looking at me earlier.

Once the tavern had finally fully emptied, Elle let out a whoop of excitement and bounded across the floor to the front door, closing and locking a pair of latches at the top and bottom of it. That done, she beelined for our booth, skidding to a halt in front of the table and slapping both hands down onto the surface, leaning forward on them and grinning at me so brightly I thought the dark corner would actually light up.

“Finally,” she sighed dramatically before perking right back up again. “Now we can do this properly.”

“Uh…” I looked to Bart for assistance, but he had somehow disappeared right out from under my nose without me noticing. That bastard must have known this was coming. Whatever this turned out to be.

“Hi,” Elle began, bouncing on the tips of her toes. “I'm Eleanor Oakwoods, but you can call me Elle. It's so cool to meet you!”

“H-hi,” I replied, smiling back nervously. “I'm Samantha, uh, but you can call me Sam.”

“Sam-anth-ah, huh?” she asked, rolling the name around her mouth like she was tasting it. “I've never heard that one, it's cute. But, ‘Sam’, are you sure? Isn't that a boy's name?”

“It can be both,” I said quickly, almost automatically. Like at the apothecary, I couldn't tell why I was so bothered by the idea of being “mistaken” for a guy, but the words came out regardless.

“Huh, I guess it can,” Elle said. Then, a thought must have occurred to her, because her grin widened and she leaned forward again. “Ooooh, what about Sammie?”

“Uuuh…” I furrowed my brow and rolled the nickname around in my head. It was very cutesy, and I definitely wouldn't want to go around introducing myself to everyone by it, but I didn't hate it. “Yeah, I guess you can call me that, if you want.”

“Yes!” Elle cheered, standing up and clapping her hands together.

“You're going to regret that,” came a voice from over Elle’s shoulder, as Mel appeared behind her, a stack of plates and trays in her arms. “She'll never call you anything else if you let her.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing,” Elle said, to which Mel just rolled her one visible eye.

“Come on, we're not off duty yet,” Mel said, hefting the stack of plates into Elle’s arms. “Get started on the dishes, I'll be back to help once I'm done sweeping up.”

“Aaaaww…” Elle pouted, but accepted the stack anyway. “Are you sure you don't want me to sweep?”

“Nice try,” Mel said.

“Shoot,” Elle cursed, sort of, and sighed wearily. “Okay Sammie, I'll be right back.”

“Uh, I could come with you, if you want,” I said, scooting to the edge of the booth. “I can help with the dishes.”

“Oh!” Elle made a noise of surprise, but just as quickly shook her head so hard her pointed ears flapped a little. “No no no, I couldn't make you do that, you're a guest!”

“Not yet, not technically,” I said, hopping to my feet. “I still haven't paid anything to stay here yet, lending a hand with some dishes is the least I can do.”

“Mmmm… okay, just this once,” Elle relented, turning and beginning a careful march towards the kitchen. I went to follow her, but was stopped by Mel calling my name.

“Huh?” I asked, looking back.

“You make sure she stays focused, alright?” Mel said, the seriousness of her tone making it sound like she was entrusting me with a sacred mission.

“Right,” I said, nodding resolutely and hurrying to catch up to Elle.

I was a little worried Felda would also try to stop me from helping out as I moved past her, but she just smiled at my passing, and then I was back inside the kitchen. I found Elle at the far-left wall, having just offloaded the stack of dishes into a very wide, very deep two-compartment sink.

“Okay, stand back. I know you’re not scared of the water, but I still don’t want to splash you,” Elle said, and I backed up a couple of steps, curious to see what she meant.

I watched as she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and held her hands out above the sink, palms facing down.

“Water Jet!” she said, her voice sounding like it was layered over itself two or three times, and my curiosity gave way to amazement as twin streams of water began pouring out from her palms like faucets, flooding both of the sinks’ compartments.

“Woooah…” I whispered, taking a single step closer for a better look. I’d heard, from Bentley, that his friend Laurence was a mage, so I’d already known magic to be a thing here in this world, but I didn’t expect to get to see it so soon.

“Pretty cool, huh,” Elle asked, having cracked an eye open to look down at me, a grin plastered across her face again.

“Yeah, I uh, I didn’t know you were a…” Was it still correct to say “mage”, or was there some stupid system in place where only guys got to be called “mages” and women were “witches” or something.

“Oh, I’m not a mage or anything,” Elle said, giggling. “I’ve just picked up a couple easy spells here and there. You know how it is with elves, we’re so stuffed full of mana, it’s healthy to have an outlet.”

I nodded along to her explanation, up until about halfway through, then I just stared at her, my eyebrows flying upwards.

“You’re an elf?” I asked before I could stop myself. Sure, that explained the ears, but was that also the reason behind her being lemon scented? And was Mel also an elf, but of a different kind?

Elle turned her head, apparently no longer needing to concentrate or focus on her spell, and stared back at me.

“Yeah? What did you think I was?” she asked, incredulous.

Shit, right, that would be common knowledge wouldn’t it.

I scrambled for an explanation, and recalled how I’d played off my shock upon meeting my first dwarf, Nils.

“Oh, well, yeah, I mean I knew you were an elf, what I meant was… I’ve never actually met one before?” I blurted out, hoping it was enough to cover my slip up.

Elle continued to stare at me, taking a moment to look at her hands and, with some unseen trigger, cut off the supply of water now that both sinks were filled a little over halfway full.

“Wow, really?” she asked when she turned back to me, wiping her hands on her apron. “I knew things were way different up there but I didn’t think it was possible to have never met an elf before…”

“Oh, uh…”

Shit, she was probably talking about the same nebulous “up there” that Bart and Felda seemed to think I came from. I still hadn’t puzzled out where they meant. Maybe that was their way of saying “up north?” If I didn’t figure it out soon, someone was bound to catch on, weren’t they?

“Oop, shoot, sorry!” Elle said, breaking me out of my worries. “Felda told me not to ask about any of that, so just forget I said anything!”

“It’s, uh, it’s fine,” I hastily assured her, waving my hands. I didn’t want her thinking she’d upset me, so I quickly brushed off the topic and moved to another topic, figuring this was a good chance to ask a couple questions without suspicion. “So… Elves are good with magic?”

“We can be, yeah,” Elle said with a nod. “Mostly because we’re born able to hold a lot more mana inside us than the average person, so we get a little bit of a head start.”

“Right, uh, mana,” I said. I’d heard the term before, of course, it was impossible not to if you grew up playing the kinds of video games I did. It was, typically, the blue stuff next to your health that you used to cast spells with, and it sounded like that was the case in this world too. Which made it all the more interesting that they had the same name for it.

“Do you not know about mana, either?” Elle asked, cocking her head.

“I mean I’ve heard of it, it’s the stuff you use to do magic,” I said, hoping that was a good approximation of what someone who’d only ever been told about it in passing would say. “But I’ve never really had it explained to me.”

“Oh!” Elle said, smiling excitedly. It seemed like, of all the people I’d met so far, she was the one most likely to take me not knowing stuff at face value. She’d probably prove an invaluable source of information, as long as I was able to word my questions right.

“Well, it’s simple. Mana is this… stuff,” she began, waving her hand in the air in lazy circles. “It’s like, this energy stuff, that’s everywhere, all the time. It’s in the air, it’s in the dirt, it’s in the water, the ocean is overflowing with it, like I said, everywhere! And so it, like, gathers in living things, like people and plants and animals, and especially fish and stuff, because they spend so much time in the ocean.”

“Huh…” I said, looking down at my hands. So, I had mana inside me already, just by virtue of being in this world? “Okay, so, does that mean everyone can do magic?”

“Yeah!” Elle said, bouncing on her toes again, before stopping and furrowing her brow. “Well, no, I mean, everyone can cast spells, yes, if they’ve got enough mana for it. The simplest spells take barely any, but if you try to cast a spell that uses waaaay more mana than you have, you can make yourself sick, or like, die.”

“Oh…” I said, resolving to be very careful not to do anything like that. “How, uh, how are you supposed to cast those then?”

“Well that’s what becoming a mage is all about!” Elle said, giggling at my distress. “Everybody starts out only able to hold so much mana inside them, like I said, but when you start learning magic and using up your mana a lot, the amount you can hold slowly gets like, bigger or deeper or something, so you can start doing bigger and cooler spells.”

“Oh, so, it’s like a muscle,” I said, rebounding from my initial worry and rubbing my chin in thought. When I’d heard about the “Royal Academy,” or whatever it was, from Bentley, I’d been worried that magic would be entirely unattainable, but this conversation had reignited my hopes. Sure, I’d set my sights on learning to fish, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t become a magic fisherman. Fisherwoman? Fishercatgirl?

Shaking my head, my eyes fell on the sinkload of dishes, which remained untouched, and I remembered what Mel had said to me.

“Ah, shit, the dishes,” I blurted out, and Elle jumped.

“Oh, right!” she said, laughing and stepping up to the sink. She reached up to open one of the cupboards overhead, revealing several rows of tall, opaque glass bottles made of milky white glass and sealed with corks. Selecting one which had an image of a flower painted onto the front, she pulled the cork out with a pop and tilted the bottle, pouring a generous amount of a thick, green liquid into the sink with all the dishes. It hit the water and reacted very suddenly, expanding and frothing up until the entire sink was topped by a pillowy mountain of what I quickly realized were soap suds.

“Ready?” Elle asked, re-sealing the bottle and replacing it in the cupboard. “I’ll wash and rinse, and you dry and stack, okay?”

“Ready!” I declared. The area to the left of the sink already had several half-full racks of trays, plates, bowls, cups, and glasses, as well as a bin of utensils. I found a stack of folded towels waiting for me, and picked one up, waiting for Elle to begin.

I had no trouble matching Elle’s pace in terms of how quickly I could get the dishes she passed to me wiped dry, but I quickly discovered that, since only my head and shoulders were above the countertop, I had to stand on my toes to reach some of the racks. Elle, of course, noticed, and let out a few good natured giggles before pausing, telling me to wait there. She disappeared into the store room, and came back with a wooden crate, placing it in front of the counter. I balked, initially, but had no choice but to accept that, if I wanted to help and not just slow things down, I would have to use the step stool.

The work was, well, it was boring, but at least I’d been given the easiest job. After that momentary hiccup, things proceeded smoothly, though I did have to keep stopping to ask Elle where certain types of plates or cups were supposed to go. Once I got those down, we were able to work up to a decent rhythm, though I still found myself zoning in and out from the mundane task, especially when a pair of voices drifted in from the doorway.

“Where'd Sam get to?” Bart's voice came first, and drew my attention to the conversation.

“She's in the back, helping Elle with the washing up,” Felda replied, her tone tired but peaceful.

“Huh…” Bart said. “So she really doesn't have a problem with the water…”

“Seems that way,” Felda said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “You've really changed your tune on her since this morning, haven’t you. Only took a day for her to win you over, huh?”

“I will, and have, admitted that I was wrong about her. She's… not like any catkin I've ever met,” Bart said, then lowered his voice before continuing. “I can't help but wonder why, but I fear the harm it would cause to press her on it. Perhaps it’s best just to let things lie until she’s ready to speak of it on her own.”

“I think that would be best,” Felda said, mirroring Bart's hushed, serious tone. “It's clear to me she hasn't lived the kind of pampered, carefree life you described before. She was convinced I would be cross with her because of the incident at the bakery. She acted like she expected me to start shouting at her at any moment, or like I was about to strike her…”

“Soliel's grace,” Bart breathed, and I bit my lip at the mention of my previous breakdown in the middle of the kitchen. It hadn’t been that bad, had it? Sure, my life growing up back on Earth hadn’t been perfect, but I really didn’t want Felda and Bart to get the wrong idea about me, to start pitying me or something.

“I know,” Felda said, sighing. “Gods help them if I ever find out who tossed her into the ocean…”

I'll have a couple choice words for them too, I thought, smirking to myself. As large and intimidating as Felda was, I couldn't really picture her actually hurting anyone, not with how kind and caring she seemed.

“Sam?”

With a jolt, my attention was brought back to the kitchen, Elle’s questioning voice accompanied by her poking me in the shoulder.

“S-sorry, I was just… spacing out a little,” I said, sheepishly, realizing I'd been wiping down the same plate for half a minute.

Elle chuckled at me, and we quickly got back into the rhythm. Shaking my head, I did my best to tune out the rest of the conversation, refocusing on the dishes. The sounds of wood and glass and metal clattering mixed together with Elle’s faint humming, and the gentle splashing of water as she worked, the whole thing having a surprisingly calming effect. I took a deep breath, breathing in the lingering scents of all the meals that had recently been cooked in the kitchen, as well as the floral scented soap and Elle’s own curious lemony smell. The combined sounds and smells helped to ground me, and to push away the impulse to start eavesdropping again.

And just like that, the dishes were done.

“Thanks for the help, Sammie,” Elle said, grinning at me. “Maybe we should ask if Felda would consider hiring you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, laughing off her suggestion and shaking my head. “I don’t know about that, I was never very good with getting my chores done on time. Plus, I’m… not actually that great when it comes to interacting with huge crowds of people, and it looks like this place gets pretty busy.”

“Aww, that’s a shame,” Elle said, plunging one arm into first the right side of the sink, then the left, removing a pair of plugs and allowing the water to begin draining. “I bet you’d look positively adorable in the uniform!”

The mental image entered my mind, unbidden, of myself, looking as I did now, in the same long-sleeved white shirt and short black dress combo that the two of them wore.

Stop that! I shouted at my own brain. In retaliation, my mental picture did a little twirl and a cute curtsy.

“Sammie?” Elle asked, and I realized I’d squeezed my eyes shut. I opened them and looked at her, finding her smirking at me. “What’cha thinkin’ about?”

“Nothing!” I protested, hopping down from the wooden crate and scooping it up, pushing it into Elle’s arms.

“Are you sure?” Elle giggled, shifting the box to hold it on her hip and waving a hand at me. “Your face is all red.”

“Nyach!” I yelped in frustration, bringing my hands up and clapping them over the lower half of my face. She was right, my cheeks felt like they were on fire.

“I’m fine,” I mumbled through my fingers.

“Okaaaay,” Elle sighed dramatically, walking past me to return the crate she’d borrowed to the store room, which gave me time to get myself, and my face, back under control.

What was I getting so worked up over? She obviously hadn’t been joking when she’d said she thought I might look cute, and hell, I was pretty sure I agreed with her, with how I looked now. It wouldn’t raise a single eyebrow from her, or anyone else for that matter, if I did decide to wear something like that. So then, why was just the thought of it making my heart flutter and my stomach do cartwheels?

“Sorry if I embarrassed you,” Elle said when she returned from the store room, beating me to the chase.

“N-no, it’s not that,” I was quick to assure her, shaking my head. “I just… well, I’m not used to thinking about myself like that.”

“Like what?” Elle asked, curiously.

“As, y’know… ‘cute’. Or ‘adorable,’ or stuff like that,” I explained, which seemed to only confuse Elie more.

“Why not?” she asked, and I realized the hole I’d dug for myself. I couldn’t exactly explain that I’d had an entirely different body for my entire life until literally that morning. But I had to say something.

“Let’s just say…” I began, tapping my chin and scrambling my brain for something that sounded like just enough of an answer to satisfy her. “That I wasn’t always this cute, so I’m still getting used to it.”

Elle just blinked at me, seeming completely flummoxed by my answer. And, thankfully, before she could try and press me for what exactly I meant, the door to the kitchen opened, and Mel stuck her head inside.

“You two about done back here?” Mel asked, and Elle jumped, spinning on her heels to face her friend, motioning at the stacks and rows of freshly cleaned dishes.

“Yup, we knocked ‘em out in no time!” Elle declared, bounding over to the kitchen door and, thankfully, leaving the conversation behind.

“Huh,” Mel said, her eye roaming from the dishes, to me, to Elle. “Nice job, I was half expecting to find you two completely goofing off.”

“Me? Goof off? Never!” Elle gasped in mock offense, and Mel let out an amused snort before backing out the door, allowing us to follow her back out to the bar area, where I found Felda waiting for us. I also noticed that Mel was now wearing a simple leather satchel off one shoulder, and had donned a cloak of her own, with a second one slung over her arm.

“Great work tonight, you two,” Felda said, reaching out and scooping up one of two identical stacks of coins from the countertop; one large coin with the unmistakable glitter of gold, and five smaller silver coins. Elle and Mel, obviously familiar with this routine, had produced a pair of drawstring coin purses from their pockets and satchel, respectively. The first stack was passed to Mel, the second to Elle, who deposited the coins into their pouches and stowed them.

However, that still left a third collection of coins on the counter, made up of several stacks of mostly silver and copper coins, and a couple of the larger gold ones. I couldn’t see Viktor anywhere; I assumed he must have already taken his pay and gone home, so I was left wondering who that pile was for.

I didn’t have to wonder long, before Felda turned to me and smiled.

“And this,” she said, putting one hand on my back and motioning to the stacks with the other, “is all yours.”

“Huh?” I asked, looking back and forth from Felda to the coins, several times, before I was certain I’d heard her right. “Mine?”

“That’s right,” Felda confirmed, and I approached the counter, picking up one of the coins and turning it over in my hands while she continued explaining. “From the customers. It started with just one or two of them leaving a little extra, saying they wanted it to go to you, to help you get on your feet, but then everyone heard about it and, well, as you can see.”

“Ah, geez,” I sighed, looking over the stacks of coins. Now that I was seeing them up close, I could tell there were actually two different types of silver coins; one like the kind I was holding, with a stylized image of a clam on one side, and a slightly smaller kind with a picture of a spiral seashell on it, both with an unknown face in profile on the opposite side. Then, there were the even smaller copper coins, which bore a trio of lumpy circles on one side, and the large gold coins, which had a picture of a crab on them.

“I… I can’t—” I started, moving to place the coin I’d picked up back on the stack, only for Felda to shake her head and place her hand on top of mine.

“I know, after everything you said about earning your keep, this might seem like charity,” Felda said, and I nodded, that was pretty much exactly what I’d been thinking. How could I prove I was capable of taking care of myself if I were to accept a bunch of money people had just given me?

“But,” Felda continued, patting my back again. “There’s nothing shameful about accepting help, especially when you need it.”

“Yeah,” Elle ventured from my other side, reminding me that she and Mel were still there. “Everybody needs a little help, sometimes.”

“I knooow…” I sighed, trying to keep my tone from turning petulant. I wanted to protest her feeling like she needed to explain something so simple to me, as though I were a child, but I couldn’t deny it was a lesson I needed to learn, whether or not I wanted to admit it out loud.

“I guess,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I guess I can use this tomorrow to help Bart pay for supplies.”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate that,” Felda said, chuckling a little. “But, if I could make a suggestion, it might also be best to save a bit of it for buying some clothing that actually fits.”

“Ah, right,” I said, looking down at my only other possessions besides my sandals: an ill -fitting borrowed shirt, and a pair of pants so oversized I had to roll up the legs several times to keep them from dragging in the dirt. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to pick up some new clothes.”

“Yeah!” Elle cheered, and I marveled at how she could still be so chipper and energetic that late at night and after a full work shift. “Oh, oh, you have to let me and Mel take you, we can go before our shifts start!”

“O-oh,” I stammered, and my first instinct was to turn her down. But, thinking it through, if I didn’t take her up on her offer, that left me to either shop for clothing on my own, or to ask Felda to help, and in the face of those choices, Elle seemed like the ideal option.

“Sure, okay,” I said, and Elle squealed with delight and bounced in place.

“Why do I have to go?” Mel asked, yawning into the back of her hand.

“Because!” Elle declared, spinning around and grabbing her friend by the arm, pulling her towards the front door. “It’ll be fun, and if I don’t you’ll just mope around the house without me.”

“I like moping around the house,” Mel replied, unslinging the second cloak she’d been carrying and throwing it over Elle’s shoulders.

Smiling to herself and shaking her head, Felda moved out from behind the bar, following them to the door. There was a round of “goodbye”s and “see you tomorrow”s and then the pair were gone and Felda was re-latching the door behind them. Felda sighed pleasantly and returned to the bar, stopping and propping herself up on her elbows across from me.

“Do you really have to start tomorrow?” Felda asked, and I got the feeling she’d already asked Bart the exact same question, but probably a little less gently.

“I think so, yeah,” I said, nodding. “The sooner I get started, the sooner I can start improving, and if I’m gona win that competition, I’ll need all the training and practice I can get.”

Felda just looked at me with her warm, ever present smile, and I felt my face heat up a little. Eager for a distraction, I looked down at the stack of coins that still needed to be dealt with.

“I, uh… I don’t have anywhere to put these yet,” I said, and Felda laughed.

“Oh, of course,” she said, standing up and circling the counter, heading for the kitchen door. “I have plenty of jars and empty sacks. I’ll take care of them, you can go ahead and head on up to bed.”

“Uh, bed?” I asked, and she paused at the door, turning back to look at my confused tone.

“Yes, you need to rest if you’re going to get up early, don’t you?” Felda asked, and I looked towards the far set of stairs.

“Yeah, I do, but, I mean… which bed?” I asked, hesitantly, though I suspected I already knew the answer.

“Mine, why?” Felda asked, genuinely confused, and confirming my suspicions.

“But,” I started, tilting my head towards her. “Where are you going to sleep then?”

Felda stared back, further furrowing her brow, before she let out a bark of laughter and shook her head.

“It’s plenty big enough for both of us, Sam, you don’t have to worry,” Felda said, and with that, pushed her way into the kitchen.

I stood, rooted in place, as the weight of her words crashed down on me. She thought I’d just been worried about us both fitting in the bed, with no hint of a thought that it would be in any way unusual for us to share the bed. Which, the more I considered it, was likely true, as far as anybody but me was concerned. I’d meant to bring up the possibility of moving into one of the guest rooms, but to do so now would seem rude, would give Felda the impression I had some kind of problem with sharing the bed with her or something, which I definitely didn’t. Not that I especially wanted to, either, just that I… I…

“Nyaargh!” I groaned, once again bringing my hands to my head and running my claws through my hair, scratching lightly at my scalp as though that might help untangle my thoughts.

“I’m too tired for this…” I sighed, then bit my lower lip. “And I’m talkin’ to myself again. I’m definitely too tired for this!”

I resolved to just leave it all alone for the night, I could bring the subject up again later. Turning on my heels, I hustled towards the short set of stairs around the corner from the bar, bounding up the steps and heading for the door to Felda’s bedroom.

I found the bedroom much as I remembered it, the huge bed, the wardrobe, the writing desk. I closed the door behind me and waited while my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and while I did, I was hit with another dilemma. I only had the one set of clothes, and they were definitely not pajama material. If I took them off, that would leave me with only the pair of shorts I’d put on under them, and nothing else. Nothing to cover my… top half, which until that very day, had literally never been an issue.

“Uuuuugh…” I groaned to myself, taking my back off the door I’d been leaning against, and starting to circle the bed. I was all set to pace and worry and overthink until Felda arrived, at which point I would probably scramble to come up with a terrible explanation for why I was so hesitant to even look at my own body, but something resting on top of the blankets caught my eye.

It was another folded pile of clothing, made of something white that caught the moonlight coming in from the windows. Gingerly, I picked it up, unfolding it and lifting it up before me, finding myself holding a cotton sleeping shirt, and one that was clearly meant for me. It was light, and felt much softer than the shirt and pants I’d been wearing all day, with short sleeves and a hem that would come down to my hips. Under the shirt I found a matching pair of shorts made of the same soft fabric, with a drawstring waist and, crucially, a hole for my tail already cut into it and sewn up around the edges.

I felt a prickling sensation at the corners of my eyes as I realized that Felda must have recognized, and remembered, my reluctance over wearing the dress, and had procured these for me, rather than a nightgown like I’d been expecting when I saw the folded garments.

“Two times is enough for one day,” I reprimanded myself, brushing at my eyes. I quickly slipped out of the oversized shirt and pants and into the comparatively heavenly pajamas, finding the soft cotton much more airy and breezy and easy to move around in.

Mindful of the fact that Felda would be up shortly herself, I only spent a few seconds looking at myself in the mirror in this new outfit. No more than ten, I swear.

Then, just in time to hear Felda’s heavy footfalls ascending the short staircase, I dove under the covers, getting myself situated with my head resting on one of the many pillows by the time the door opened again.

“Did you find the—” Felda started to ask.

“Yes!” I blurted out, cutting her off in my over-eagerness to express my gratitude. “I mean, y-yes, I did, they’re very very comfortable, thank you…”

Chuckling tiredly, Felda crossed the room. She’d come in carrying a lit lantern, the light momentarily too bright for eyes, accustomed to the dark as they were. Setting the lantern on her desk, she moved to her wardrobe, and I knew that was my cue to roll over in the bed and look the other way. It might not be that big of a deal for me to spend the night sleeping in her bed, but I was definitely not going to just watch her undress.

Eventually, after whatever was happening behind me, I felt the bed shift, and Felda’s no doubt substantial weight settling into place beside me. True to her word, the bed was more than wide enough to accommodate her and me, with even a generous gap between us if I kept myself up against the edge.

“Uhm…” I whispered, unsure. I felt like there was so much I should say, could say, needed to say.

“Mmmh?” Felda hummed softly. “What is it, Sam?”

Did I thank her, again, for everything? Did I spill my guts and tell her who I really was and where I really came from? Did I solemnly vow that, no matter what it took, I would repay her kindness and generosity a hundred times over?

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Goodnight,” I said, chancing a glance over my shoulder to find Felda, smiling patiently at me.

“Goodnight, Sam. Sera watch over you in your dreams,” Felda replied, lifting one of her hands from her chest and reaching over, gently bringing it down on top of my head. She kept it there for only a few seconds, lightly patting the space between my ears, but in that time I felt so flushed with warmth and contentment that I could have drifted off to sleep in seconds. It was almost as good as biting into some delicious fried fish.

Just before she pulled her hand away, I became aware of a dull rumbling noise, the source of which I initially couldn’t identify. It was deep, and I could feel it vibrating inside my chest, like the feeling of standing next to a car that was playing music with the bass turned all the way up. It was only after Felda stopped petting my head, and I felt the thrumming slowly start to dwindle, that I realized what it was, and where it was coming from.

It was purring, and it was coming from me.

With a yawn, I pulled the blankets up, making a lazy mental note to save the freaking out about that for tomorrow.

■

It seemed like no time at all had passed before I was being gently nudged awake by Felda, cracking my eyes open and finding her standing over me.

“Bwuh…?” I groaned out, confused. The sun was still down, and Felda once again held a lantern in her other hand. I squinted at her while she chuckled at my grogginess.

“Bart's waiting downstairs,” she explained quietly, and I groaned again, freeing one of my arms from the blankets so I could slap at my forehead.

“Riiiiight, fishing…” I huffed, remembering our arrangement.

“I told you you should wait a day or two,” Felda said, shaking her head. “I'll tell him to come back a little later.”

“No!” I yelped, scrambling to sit upright and untangle myself from the blankets. I jumped to my feet and immediately regretted it when I felt how chilly the wooden floors were. The room was cold in general, a consequence of it still being so early and the tavern being right up on the water, I assumed.

“Have to buy some socks,” I muttered as I found my clothes from the day before waiting on the side table. I started to pull the pajamas off, but paused, turning my head to find Felda still standing there, Lantern in hand.

“I’ll go tell Bart you’ll be right down,” Felda said with a smile, turning and proceeding out of the room.

“Thanks,” I called after her, then resumed changing. I was going to have to ask about getting a room of my own, but at least Felda was very accommodating and understanding in the meantime.

Shortly after, I stepped off the staircase into the eerily quiet, moonlit front room of the tavern, finding Bart seated at the bar waiting for me. I couldn’t see Felda anywhere, but as I approached, I became aware of the sounds of clattering and bustling from the kitchen.

“Might as well sit,” Bart said, nodding to the stool next to his. “Felda said she won’t let me take you out without breakfast first.”

“Oh,” I said, hopping into the offered seat. Bart was already reading his book, so rather than trying to force my still half-asleep brain to try and come up with some small talk, I just slumped forward and let my head rest on the cool countertop.

I was able to catch a few more minutes of sleep before Felda was nudging me awake again, this time with a plate piled high with scrambled eggs, and a mug of something steaming. Sitting up, she placed both in front of me, and I gave each a quick sniff. The eggs caught my attention first because mixed in with the smell of, well, eggs, was something extra, something sweet and buttery. The contents of the mug were more surprising however, as I immediately identified it from the smell alone.

“Is that coffee?” I asked, failing to keep the surprise out of my voice.

“Indeed,” Felda confirmed, and I saw she had a mug of her own cupped in her hands, as did Bart beside me.

“Huh,” I said, shaking off the shock. It wasn’t that surprising, really, considering all the other stuff that I’d already seen to exist in this world. Really, considering how old it was, it would actually be more surprising if this place didn’t have coffee, or some kind of equivalent.

However, there was still one more obstacle in the way of me being able to enjoy it.

“Er…” I began, once again unsure if the question I was about to raise would be the one that gave me away as a complete stranger to this world. “I don’t usually drink my coffee black, could I get some milk, and, uh, sugar?”

“Oh!” Felda said, a laugh bubbling up in her throat. “Of course, after the lemonade, I should have figured you wouldn’t like the bitter taste. Let me get those for you.”

She set her mug down and returned to the kitchen, and returned before I knew it with a small corked jug and a round ceramic container, white with a blue stripe around the top.

“I don’t have milk on hand but I do have cream,” Felda explained, setting the containers down on the bar.

“That’s perfect,” I said, picking up the jug first. It was cold, but that wasn’t remarkable; Felda almost certainly had someplace cold to store things, she ran a restaurant. I poured a generous few dribbles of the rich-looking cream into my mug, then lifted the lid of the round container, finding it full of sugar that was faintly tinted blue. It even seemed to be slightly illuminating the inside of the container, I noticed. Using the spoon I’d been provided, I scooped out a couple generous spoonfuls and stirred them into my now much paler coffee, and finally lifted it to take a sip.

I’d been expecting to be surprised by the taste, for it to be in some way alien, to not taste quite like what I was used to from my past coffee drinking experience. Instead, in what was either my most or least surprising discovery so far, it tasted like any other cup of coffee I’d ever had, and I let out a long, low sigh of contentment as I swallowed that first sip. With my eyes closed, I could almost imagine I was back home, sitting in my kitchen, eating my breakfast and drinking my coffee before I had to catch the bus.

Then, Bart made a noise beside me, and I opened my eyes, finding myself still inside the Crooked Hook. Once again, I expected to find myself feeling melancholic, or homesick, yearning to return to my old life on Earth after being reminded of it so strongly. Instead, I simply… wasn't, and I had no idea why.

With a sigh, I resolved to shelve the issue for later. I had a busy day ahead of me.

Leaning forward, I finally tucked into the pile of eggs, and discovered what was different about them. Mixed in with the fluffy, airy scrambled eggs were sweet, savory chunks of lobster meat, or something similar. The buttery taste combined with the eggs perfectly, the hints of sea salt and pepper tying the whole thing together into a wonderful breakfast.

And, since I'd been made aware of it last night, I was able to notice the second I started purring from the delicious taste.

Have I been doing that the whole time?

It was a little embarrassing to think about, that any time I was feeling too good, I might start projecting that information to everyone within earshot. I liked to think I played things close to the chest, and the purring was definitely going to make that harder.

Another thing for the shelf, I decided, and just kept on enjoying my eggs.

“That was delicious, thank you,” I said, once I was finished. “But you didn't need to go to that much expense just for me.”

“You're welcome,” Felda said, smiling and taking another sip of her coffee. Then, she looked up, confused. “What expense? The eggs?”

“Uh, no,” I said, just as confused.

“The coffee?” Felda put forth, and I shook my head.

“No, no, the lobster. Isn’t it expensive?”

Felda thought for a moment, then let out a gentle laugh.

“Lobster isn't an expense,” she explained, and felt my eyes going wide and my ears perking up. “I can see how you might think that, you wouldn’t see them much up there, but that’s not because it’s expensive. Lobsters are overly plentiful bottom-feeders, so folks that think too highly of themselves don’t like to eat them. Their loss, wouldn’t you say?”

“O-oh, right,” I stammered, nodding. “I must have been getting it mixed up with something else.”

“Ah,” Felda nodded in understanding, and I sighed internally. That had been an easy one to brush off, but I continued to worry that it was only a matter of time before I made a major slip-up.

“Well, finish your coffee, we've got to get going,” Bart urged me, earning a look from Felda.

“R-right!” I replied, lifting my mug and polishing off the last of the coffee in several gulps.

Full and energized, I hopped to my feet and moved to follow Bart to the door, but paused, and spun back around.

“Oh, right, Felda, where's the money from last night?” I asked.

“I have it right here,” she said, bending down and reaching under the bar, producing a small brown sack, setting it before me.

“Thanks,” I said, opening the sack and peering inside. I didn't want to take the whole thing, especially since I didn't have anything to carry it in but my own hands, and I also didn't want to spend it all in one place. I plucked out one of the gold coins, and two mixed handfuls of the other silver and copper coins, dropping them into my pockets and jangling my way over to the door where Bart was waiting.

“What's this about money?” Bart asked when I arrived.

“A bunch of people last night, uh, donated extra money when they paid their bills,” I explained. “I didn't want to keep it, but I figured using it to help you pay for the supplies we'll be buying is better than keeping it for myself.”

“I… see,” Bart said, shrugging after a moment. “If that is what you wish, I won't stop you.”

With that, he bent and picked up three objects that had been left beside the door: a squat, rectangular wooden case with a pair of handles on top that resembled a toolbox, a larger cube-shaped container made of some shiny black material I couldn’t identify, and a much longer, thinner case that was taller than he was, which he slung over his shoulders. I hurried to open the door, since he had his hands full, and once again Bart and I headed off together, this time continuing along the docks instead of turning left and heading into the village.

As we walked, I had a chance to observe this new segment of the village: the docks, and all the other shops and facilities located right up on the water, as well as the bay itself. The docks themselves were far from bustling, but they weren't deserted as I’d been expecting. Other early risers—fishermen preparing for their days, dock workers bustling onto and off of the docked ships—were everywhere, and I could feel their stares on my back as we passed by.

In a way, it was almost like being back in high school. I suspected most, if not all the fishermen, at the very least, had heard about me challenging the mayor's son, and I wouldn't be surprised if word was spreading across the whole town.

“I guess I should have expected this…” I mumbled to myself.

“Hmm?” Bart asked, turning his head slightly.

“For everyone to have their eyes on me. I made quite a spectacle of myself last night, even though you warned me not to,” I said, keeping my gaze fixed forward, glad that Bart was once again slowing his pace to allow me to keep up with him.

“Mmmh,” Bart grunted, nodding and casting a glance to the side, meeting the eyes of some of the onlookers. “That you did. Try not to let the attention get to you. You may be an exciting oddity now, but people will grow used to you eventually.”

“Uh, thanks,” I said, unsure if I was supposed to take being called an “exciting oddity” as a compliment or not.

Eventually, thankfully, we reached our first destination, a wide, squat shop crouched on the docks between two taller buildings. Its front featured a door centrally located between two wide display windows, in which I could see several fishing poles propped up on racks, facing the docks. The air that rushed out as I opened the door was heavily tinged with a dozen different scents, most of them pungent and briny, some of them more dank and earthy.

“Ooh, bait,” I said as I got a look at the interior of the shop, which featured racks upon racks of fishing supplies; spools of line, hooks, lures, and more kinds of reels than I even knew existed. One wall of the shop featured two rows of square bins like one might find in a candy store, except they were filled not with sweet treats, but all manner of squirming, wriggling worms and bugs and other things I wasn’t quite sure how to identify. There were even a couple small tanks filled with hundreds of tiny fish, that my eyes were drawn to almost magnetically the instant I noticed them.

“Mornin’, Bart,” called the owner, a large man standing behind the counter. He was older, not quite as old as Bart, but he still looked like he could bench press about ten of me. His hair was a pale blond, the color of straw, and he had an impressive broom-like mustache that connected to an equally impressive pair of mutton chops. The whole thing came together to make him look a bit like a big friendly walrus.

“Morning, Hubert,” Bart replied, leaving the taller case and the black chest by the door and approaching the counter, setting the remaining wooden box on top of it.

“Is this the girl, then?” Hubert asked, fixing his eyes on me.

“Hi,” I said, waving over the counter. “I’m Sam.”

“Heh,” Hubert chuckled, putting his hands on his hips. “Mornin’, Sam. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Y-yeah?” I asked, unsure if he meant that in a positive way or not.

“I hear you’re goin’ to win the Midsummer Fishing Festival,” he said, leaning over the counter and resting on one elbow, scrutinizing me closely. I tried to meet his gaze head on, but a flash of silver in the corner of my vision drew my eye, and I found myself breaking eye contact to stare at the tanks full of tiny fish again.

“Ha!” Hubert laughed again. “Well, she's certainly got the eyes of an angler!”

“Is it ready?” Bart asked, and I managed to wrench my eyes off the fish tank and back to him.

“Aye, I've got ’er in the back, just finished double checkin’ ‘er,” Hubert said, lifting off the counter and turning towards an open doorway behind him. Pausing, he looked over his shoulder at me and then added, “don't let ‘er eat all my minnows while I'm gone.”

“I won't!” I shouted in protest, huffing indignantly at Hubert's receding laughter. I hadn't even considered doing something like that, but now that he'd said it, I found myself wondering if I could actually eat one of the tiny finger-sized fish in one bite.

Thankfully, Hubert wasn't gone long enough for me to leave the counter, and he came back carrying a case similar to the one Bart had left by the door, but a little less long.

“‘Ere she is,” Hubert said, laying the case across the counter and flipping the pair of latches at either end, lifting the lid and revealing, what else, a fishing pole.

“Wow,” I said, because it was still a pretty impressive fishing pole, even I could tell just by looking at it. It had a short handle connected to the main body, a length of pale wood longer than I was tall that tapered to a narrow point, with several thin metal loops spaced evenly along the length. My eyes were drawn to the reel attached at the base, a contraption of polished metal in a cylindrical shape, with a two-pronged crank jutting out to one side. Like the coffee earlier, I was momentarily taken aback by how much it resembled just an ordinary fishing pole from my world, but in the end I supposed that shouldn’t be that surprising; there were only so many shapes a tool designed to hold a line and reel it back in could take.

“Go on, see how it feels,” Bart urged, and I looked up at him, blinking.

“Huh?”

I looked from him to the pole, then back again.

“This is mine?” I asked, and when Bart nodded, I carefully reached into the case and lifted it out, finding it surprisingly light. The handle was comfortable, and felt like it was made from some kind of foam or sponge, the material molding to my grip.

“This… feels way too nice for something I can afford,” I started to say, only for Bart to hold his hand up.

“It’s already paid for,” he said, and I felt a familiar urge to protest well up inside me, but squashed it back down as he continued. “I know you would have liked to pay for it with your own funds, but if you’re intending to take up fishing, if you intend to seriously devote yourself to it, I want you to have a rod that fits you properly from the very start.”

“Bart…” I sighed, the light-weight pole suddenly feeling heavier in my hands.

“He ain’t lyin’,” Hubert cut in, leaning on the counter again and gesturing at the pole. “Woke me up in the middle of the night, offered to pay me double if I could get it done before sunrise. With your, if you’ll excuse me for sayin’ so, unique proportions, none a’ the rods I carry woulda fit you well, I think you’d find.”

Turning my head, I eyeballed several of the other rods hanging from the walls and propped up in the windows. While the one I held was taller than I was, it was only by about a foot or so, while all the others looked to be much longer, and probably that much more unwieldy.

Looking down, I noticed far too late that the handle for the reel was on the right side, as opposed to the left like on all the other poles I could see. Holding the pole in my left and bringing my right hand up, I gripped one of the handles and slowly rotated it, feeling the smooth action.

“How’d you know I was left-handed?” I asked Bart, looking up and finding him looking, of all things, a little embarrassed.

“I, ah, noticed it yesterday, from the way you eat and drink, that you favor your left,” Bart explained, bringing a hand up and scratching at his stubbly face while looking to the side. “I have met a fair few similar folk in my time, those that favor their left when wielding a sword or casting a spell, and I figured it would be no different for handling a fishing rod.”

I turned the crank a few more times while I thought. He’d clearly spent a lot on ensuring the whole thing was top quality, from the soft, comfortable grip to the light yet sturdy body, down to the customized reel. If anything, it showed that Bart believed in me, maybe more than I believed in myself, maybe more than I deserved. If I accepted this gift, I really would have to do my utmost best to ensure that Bart’s trust in me wasn’t misplaced.

With a resigned sigh, I nodded my head.

“Yeeeeeeah,” I conceded with a groan, placing the pole back inside the case. “I guess you’re right, but you have to let me pay you back for some of this stuff sometime.”

“The best reward you can give me is dutifully absorbing my teachings and winning the competition,” Bart declared, straightening his back and clearing his throat. I smirked a little as he resumed his usual gruff attitude, the one I was quickly beginning to see as more and more of an act.

“Thank you, Bart,” I said.

“You are welcome, Sam,” Bart replied, turning to face the counter and opening the other box he’d brought with him, the squat rectangular one, revealing a spacious interior decorated with many compartments. “And, if you still wish to, you may purchase our supplies for the day. We need bait, and you’re going to need tackle of your own.”

“Oh, right!” I said, approaching the counter. “I, uh, don’t actually know the first thing about what I’m going to need…”

“I will collect a few things and let you look them over,” Bart offered, taking a step towards the middle shelves. “In the meantime, you and Hubert can take care of your license.”

I nodded, following along with everything Bart said right up until that last bit, when it felt like my brain had suddenly malfunctioned, because I was sure I had to have heard him wrong.

“My what?” I asked.

“Your fishing license,” Bart clarified, and I was forced to accept that I was not hearing things.

“I can only get ya’ set up with a beginner’s license, I’m afraid,” Hubert continued when I turned back to him as though he might make more sense. “If you want to move up to a full one, you’ll need to speak to one of the druids at the Hunter’s Guild.”

“Oh, right, of course,” I said, playing along while my mind shuffled things around to make room for this new information. It made sense, after a few seconds of thinking about it, for a society as reliant on fishing as this one to have some kind of regulations in place, but I hadn’t expected it to be so… familiar.

“Let’s get started with your name,” Hubert said, reaching into a drawer and withdrawing a postcard-sized piece of paper, an old-fashioned looking sharp-tipped pen held in his other hand.

“Oh, it’s, uh, Sam…” I began to answer, when my already unbalanced train of thought promptly derailed completely, leaving me staring blankly ahead as I realized how much of a colossal mistake I’d made.

How… could I not realize…

I mentally berated myself for, somehow, not realizing both how ridiculous my temporary fake first name paired with my actual last name, and how utterly made up on the spot said last name was going to sound when I was using it to apply for a fishing license.

Well… it’s probably too late to decide to become a farmer or something, I concluded with a shake of my head to clear out my thoughts, looking up to the still expectant-looking Hubert.

“Ahm… My name is… Samantha Fisher,” I finished, and as expected, Hubert’s face went on a complicated journey before he ultimately lowered the pen to the paper and silently scratched out my answer.

“Right then,” Hubert said, looking up again. “Age?”

“Nineteen,” I answered, which seemed to earn me an even more incredulous look than my name.

“You’re nineteen years old?” Hubert asked, and I furrowed my brow. I knew I was short now but was it that hard to believe?

“Yes,” I confirmed, and he shrugged and bent down to write again.

“As you say,” he said, then, flicking his eyes up, added in a quieter tone, “just so you know, when you go to apply for your full license, the druids do have magic to ensure you’re telling the truth…”

“I’m not lying!” I shot back, and Hubert waved his hand placatingly.

“Alright, alright, I suppose I have never met one of your kind before,” Hubert conceded, and I accepted that as the best I was likely to get.

“Now, let’s see,” Hubert continued, looking back and forth from the form he was filling out to me several times. “Hair… orange. Eyes… green. Height, mmm… how tall are you, girl?”

“Oh, uh, I’m not sure, I think like… a little under five feet?”

“Feet?” Hubert asked, and I cursed internally. Was that not a unit of measurement in this world? Had I just said something completely and totally obviously alien? Hubert was once again scrutinizing me closely, his broomhandle mustache twitching slightly.

“We use the span down here,” he said, and I let out a breath I’d been holding for several seconds. “Looks to me you’re about five and half spans, but they’ll get the exact measurement when you go in for your full license.”

“O-oh?” I said, scratching the back of my head. I had no clue what a span was, and I knew that it was likely just because of the way the conversion worked out, but not having my height begin with a four made me feel slightly better.

“Right then, if I could just get you to sign here and here,” Hubert said, turning the paper around and offering me the pen, then hesitating. “Ah, wait, I forgot. I can just put an X for you, if you’ll allow me.”

“What?” I asked, furrowing my brow. Then, when the realization came, I snapped, “I know how to write!”

“Oh, well, pardon me then,” Hubert said, far too casually, passing the pen into my outstretched hand.

Still bristling a little, I looked down at the slip of paper which, sure enough, looked like a temporary license, albeit one printed on paper that was much more coarse than I was used to, and also wasn’t pure white, but a bit of a sandy tan color. Interestingly, there were two copies of the same form, split horizontally down the middle, and Hubert had filled in both of them. The lines of information I’d already given were there in Hubert’s slightly oversized handwriting, while the lines and instructions looked like they'd been typed rather than written. For a few seconds, I could only blink and stare at the paper, as the words on it, both pre-printed and what Hubert had written down, refused to resolve into anything I could understand. Just as I was about to panic at the notion that I couldn’t actually read the language of this world, I blinked one more time, and found the words snapping into focus.

Huh…

Something about the bold, black inked letters felt distinctly off, like looking at them caused a tickle in my brain, but I couldn’t waste time trying to figure out what it was with Hubert waiting for me to sign, so I just brought the pen down and hoped my quick scribble passed for a proper signature.

Turning the paper back around, Hubert spent several seconds looking at what I’d scrawled before silently shrugging, and reaching under the counter again. He came back with a round, wood-handled stamp, which he quickly and smoothly used to mark the bare spaces in the bottom left of both copies of the license that had been left blank, before folding the paper in half and then neatly ripping it at the crease, handing one of the halves over to me.

“There ya are, Miss Fisher,” Hubert said, sliding the other copy back into the drawer.

“Thanks,” I said, pausing only a moment to once again stare at the words written on it before carefully folding it and slipping it into my pockets with all the loose coins. I’d already made a mental note to buy some kind of bag when I went shopping with Elle and Mel, but I quickly went back and underlined it.

“Now, ordinarily, there’s a lot more I’m meant to do before I give you that license, give you a whole rundown on the area, quiz you on the rules, make sure you know which fish you can and can’t keep,” Hubert said, leaning down and lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But, since you’re with Bart, I know he’ll make sure you’re up to speed on all that. Just don’t go tellin’ the druids I let you out’a here without that speech, aye?”

“Oh, uh, sure,” I whispered back. I definitely didn’t want Hubert getting in trouble for helping us out.

“Good,” Hubert said, the corners of his mustache turning up in a smile. Then, his gaze wandered over my shoulders and he made an amused noise, shaking his head.

“Y’know, I got to say, I don’t know how you did it, but I ain’t seen Bart like this in years,” he said quietly, and glanced over my shoulder at the older man, his arms now loaded with several odd items.

“Like what?” I asked, eager for a bit of insight into Bart that didn’t require prying it out of him directly.

“Excited,” Hubert explained fondly. “And happy, happy enough to show it. I’ve known Bart a good long time now, since he first showed up here, but I’ve rarely seen this side of ‘im the last few years.”

“...Really? Are we talking about the same Bart?” I asked, since in the short time I’d known him it seemed like he was just stoic by nature.

“Aye, course,” Hubert nodded, giving me a look. “Still keeps to himself a lot, y’know, and aside from that tavern owner and the dwarf, I don’t think he’s got many other friends.”

“Oh…” I said, a bit less excited about this new information than I’d anticipated.

“But, that’s why it warms me ol’ heart, seein’ him take to you so quickly. Whatever it is you’re doin’, keep it up,” Hubert said, reaching across the counter to clap a hand on my shoulder.

I just nodded my head, and, not for the first time, wondered if I’d made a mistake in thinking I’d be perfectly fine with up and leaving this little village behind if I lost the competition.

By then, Bart returned to the counter, having finished collecting everything he thought I was going to need to begin my fishing career: two dozen plain hooks in various sizes, a pair of larger and more elaborate hooks with bits of metal and small clusters of feathers attached, a handful of metal balls of varying weights (“Sinkers.” said Bart), several teardrop-shaped objects made of painted wood (“Bobbers.”), and a large spool of a delicate looking, glass-colored thread that Bart identified as silk from a ghost spider.

“It’s more expensive, but it will also last you much longer, and is able to handle a much wider range of weights, so you won’t have to switch spools when you start seeking out larger fish,” Bart explained when I asked. I found it kind of charming, how eager he was to explain anything and everything about fishing to me at the drop of a hat. I had to not let Hubert’s fond words get to me, or I was worried I’d start tearing up again.

“Neat,” I said, while Bart continued to load the rest of what he’d picked out into what he called his “tackle box.” He also placed on the counter several containers; three smaller metal tins with slotted lids that were filled with various baits, and a lidded metal bucket about the size of a paint tin, which I quickly realized was filled with water and a generous helping of the minnows I’d been eyeing up earlier.

I should have eaten a bigger breakfast.

“Well then, if that’s all for today, then that’ll be two and a half crabs,” Hubert declared, and Bart obligingly turned to me and motioned with his hands. Grinning, I dug my hands into my pockets.

“Uuuhh…” I stalled, realizing I wasn’t actually sure I could cover that with what I’d brought. I pulled out the two handfuls I had and laid them out on the counter, hoping I didn’t look as lost as I felt.

I had one of the golden coins with a crab on it, and I passed that over, but then I paused, looking over the several remaining silver coins.

“Not quite used to the currency here, huh?” Hubert asked, once it became obvious I didn’t know what I was supposed to hand over next.

“Y-yeah, sorry,” I said sheepishly, but he just chuckled and shook his head.

“Nothin’ wrong with that,” he said, bending forward and pointing at one of the slightly larger of the two kinds of silver coins. “You’ve got enough there, ten clams is the same as a crab, so I just need fifteen more.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” I said, quickly plucking up fifteen clams and dropping them into his outstretched palm before scooping the remainder back into my pockets. It was nice to have one thing cleared up, at least.

“Well, good luck out there you two,” Hubert said as Bart closed up the tackle box and lifted it off the counter.

“Aye,” Bart said, then turned to me and nodded his head at the bucket. “Will you be alright carrying the minnows?”

“I’m not going to eat them!” I said, before realizing that was probably not what he meant. His slight smile told me as much, and after slinging the case with my fishing pole over my back, I hefted the bucket off the counter. I had to use both hands, cursing my much scrawnier arms, and followed Bart back to the door, where he retrieved the rest of his gear.

Once we had everything situated, we set out once more, continuing down the docks.

“Looks like we’ll make it to the river with time to spare,” Bart said, casting a glance at the pale horizon, which was still not showing any signs of lightening any time soon.

“The river?” I asked. “We’re not goin’ out on the ocean?”

“Ah, uh, no, not for your first time,” Bart said, looking sideways at me again. “You’re less likely to hook something that could yank you off your feet in the river, and less likely to drown if you do fall in.”

“What? Drown?” I asked, and once again Bart paused to give me another of his searching looks.

“Well, I suppose some parts of the river might be over your head, but I’ll be there to pull you out,” Bart said placatingly.

I stared at him until his meaning clicked, then started to laugh. I honestly couldn’t blame him; even after my display in the bar last night with the glass of water, it was still probably harder to believe, and not the first thing he would assume.

“Bart,” I said, catching my breath and meeting his confused gaze. “I know how to swim.”

“Oh,” Bart said, confirming beyond a doubt that he had believed the exact opposite. Rolling his shoulders and adjusting the case on his back, he cleared his throat before continuing. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I ask to see for myself first. But, if that is the case, then, I suppose I have one less thing to worry about once we do head out to sea. But, regardless, we still can’t today, the license you have only allows you to fish inland.”

“Huh, really? I guess that makes sense,” I said, conceding the point.

“Was there… any trouble, getting the license done?” Bart asked with a momentary pause that he tried to hide.

“No, why?” I asked, transferring the bucket to my other hand and digging the slip of paper from my pocket, holding it up for Bart to look over. “See?”

“Ah, good, I—” Bart began what I assumed was going to be a perfectly executed brush off, but then he stopped dead in his tracks and pulled a textbook double take at my license before looking me directly in the eye and asking the question I had a feeling I was going to become increasingly tired of answering in the next few days.

“You’re nineteen years old?”

■

Eventually, Bart and I arrived at the river.

We'd followed the docks until they came to an end, disappearing into the rocky beach ahead. Following a footpath, we skirted around the edges of the last few outlying buildings until we came to the wide main road, then started following that, quickly leaving the village behind. There wasn’t anything like a gate to pass through, but one of the last few buildings we passed on our way out was a tall, narrow building which Bart pointed out to me, identifying it as a guard tower and the three figures I could see milling around in front of it as members of the town guard.

We stayed on the well-worn road until it started to bend, at which point Bart led us off the path, into the grassy plains that stretched towards the forests and mountains in the distance. We found the river shortly after, a quick-flowing body of water about fifteen feet across. I expected us to stop there, but, at Bart's insistence, we followed the river upstream for several minutes, until it widened out into a slow flowing pond, stopping beside a large old tree that bent down over the water.

“This place is so… nice,” I declared, taking a moment to catch my breath after setting the bucket of minnows down. I'd taken notice of the picturesque wilderness before, but standing there in the pale pre-dawn light, listening to the gentle rushing of water and taking in the sights of distant snow-capped mountains, the nearby forests, and the few farms I could see, I couldn't help but be overcome with an overwhelming sense of peace and appreciation.

“Aye, Torgard is indeed a beautiful place,” Bart agreed, depositing the rest of our equipment beneath the tree and pausing for a few moments to take in the view with me. I was reminded of something that Hubert had said that had stuck out, that Bart had not been born here in Rower’s Rest, but arrived from somewhere else. I couldn’t help but be a little curious, but I knew better than to try and ask where he’d come from, if I didn’t want to end up having to answer the same question.

“Wait until the sun rises, then you’ll be able to see even more,” Bart said, prompting me to look at him curiously. Then, realization struck again and I remembered that I had much better eyes than him, as I could certainly already see clearly across the fields even without the sun. That did make me wonder how Bart himself had navigated us here, but I figured this must be a spot he was intimately familiar with.

I thought about correcting him, but reconsidered. If I drew attention to one of my elevated senses, it might lead him to question how many others followed suit, and I did not want to interrupt the peaceful morning by having to explain how I’d been eavesdropping on him and Felda all day yesterday. I knew that was a conversation I was going to have to have at some point, but I saw no harm in putting it off a little longer.

“Well,” Bart spoke, breaking the comfortable silence. “Speaking of the sunrise, if we want to get underway before it comes, we should get started.”

“Right!” I said, feeling an unexpected excitement building within me as I unslung the case from my back. “So, what's first?”

“First, you need to spool your reel,” Bart said, reaching into the tackle box and drawing out the spool of silk line. I nodded and knelt, opening the case and once again taking the fishing pole into my hands.

“Now, do you see the hole in the middle of that bar?” Bart asked, indicating a small bar that crossed the middle of the empty reel. When I nodded, he unspooled a length of silk and held the end out to me. “Good, take this and loop it through, then tie it to the bar.”

I did as instructed and, upon Bart's prompting, began reeling in the line while he held the spool sideways.

“That's good,” Bart said, explaining, “you want the line going into the reel in the same direction as it comes off the spool, to ensure it doesn't become twisted. That can cause it to bunch up or become knotted, and can lead to problems when you’re trying to bring in the fish.”

Once I’d filled the reel to about halfway up the sides, Bart stopped me, and, producing a knife from his belt, cut the line and returned the spool to the tackle box.

“Next, you'll need to feed the line through those metal loops, and then attach your tackle,” Bart said, reaching into the box. “That is, your bobber, hook, and sinker, though we’ll only be needing two of those today.”

“However,” he continued, not drawing out any of the items he'd listed, but instead a thin length of rope and a metal ring. “First, I need to teach you the first proper knot you're going to need to know.”

“Oh, alright,” I said, setting the pole aside and moving closer while Bart knelt and held up the rope and ring. “My older brother was actually in the Scouts, I remember him showing me some of the knots he'd learned.”

“Your brother was a scout?” Bart asked, and I jumped a little as I realized what I'd said. I’d forgotten, in the peaceful morning calm, to keep my guard up and especially not to let slip details about my past that were likely to lead only to more questions.

“Ah, uh, yes,” I said, shaking my head and getting a hold of myself. Thankfully, Bart seemed to have misunderstood what I'd meant, and I wasn't going to bother correcting him.

“That is… interesting,” Bart said, but didn't press the topic further, instead nodding down at his hands. “Well, allow me to show you another one. This is known as a clinch knot.”

“R-right,” I nodded, settling on my haunches and watching intently as he walked me through the steps.

“First, loop the line through the eye of the hook,” Bart began, passing one end of the rope through the ring. “Then, wrap the end around the line five times. Next, pass it once through the first loop, and again through the last, and finally, pull at both ends until it sits tight against the hook.”

He tugged on the length of rope and the loosely wrapped coils slid down, squeezing tight and holding the metal ring snug.

“Got it?” Bart asked, holding the completed knot up for me to see.

“I think so,” I said, and Bart nodded, loosening and unraveling the setup, passing me the rope and ring.

“Good,” Bart nodded, untying the knot and unraveling the setup, passing me the rope and ring. “Give it a few tries, then we'll try it for real.”

I nodded back, my brow set, and began doing my best to replicate the steps I'd been shown. I had to be reminded once which way to loop the line during the final two steps, but beyond that it was a fairly straightforward knot, and after I'd completed it three times in a row, Bart declared I was ready to move on.

“Now, every part of a fisherman’s arsenal has a purpose, and whether or not to use one over the other, or none at all, will change depending on where and for what you’re fishing,” Bart began, holding up one of the painted wooden bobbers. “Today, we’re fishing a calm pond, for a predatory fish that regularly swims near the surface, so you’ll be using a stationary bobber and live bait. If we were fishing where the water was moving quicker, or at a greater depth, for a type of fish that is more cautious, you’d need a sinker to keep your bait in place and your line from drifting, and you’d use a slip bobber to keep the fish from spooking at the resistance.”

“I… I see,” I said, taking a moment to appreciate how much more there was to know about fishing than I ever could have imagined, and that Bart was willing to share his depth of knowledge on the subject with me.

“There are also many ways to use any given tackle, depending on how you rig it, but we’ll keep it simple today,” Bart continued. As I watched, he slid one of the smaller bobbers onto the end of my line through a hole in the middle of it, pulling a length of it through before doubling back and feeding it through again, tying a simple knot to keep the whole thing in place.

“Now, the hook,” Bart said, holding up one of the hooks I’d just purchased. “Again, knowing your prey is important for choosing the correct size and shape. The fish we’re catching today only grow to be about as large as your hand, so a smaller hook will work fine.”

Finally, he handed me the hook and I, very carefully, held it up in one hand while using the other to guide the line through the eye at the top. It wasn’t too different from threading a needle, not that I’d done that much in the past either, but I found success after only the first two tries, and then it was a simple matter of repeating the knot I’d learned, but on the much smaller fishing line. In the end, the hook was in place, a short length of line left between it and the bobber.

“Hmm,” Bart made a noise of interest as I held up my work for him to inspect. “Impressive. You’re quite fortunate, actually, to have fingers that small and dextrous.”

“Oh? Uh, thanks,” I said, looking down at my slender, claw-tipped fingers, wiggling them experimentally. It would be hard to tell without testing, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I really was suddenly much more dextrous and graceful. Just how many perks came with becoming part cat?

“Indeed, I’ve seen fishermen many years your senior struggle with lighter lines like that,” Bart said, standing up and straightening his back. “In any case, we’re almost ready to begin.”

I stood up as well and watched, curious, as he moved to the tree where he’d left his own tall case. Laying it down on the ground, he popped the latches and lifted the lid. I thought I’d been impressed by the pole I’d been given, but the one Bart pulled from the case was something else entirely. It came in two parts, the handle and the pole itself, that once Bart had fitted them together, ended up being even taller than he was, I’d guess somewhere around seven feet. The pole was made from a thick length of dark, reddish wood, and the handle was wrapped in black leather that showed signs of being molded over time to the shape of Bart’s hands, but the real star of the show was the reel. It was a large, imposing piece of engineering, with a central spool that sat vertical instead of horizontal, a narrow metal arm on a hinge above the spool and a thick single-handled crank attached to the side, and the whole thing made of a dark metal that had a faint blue tint.

“Woah,” I said, after I’d had time to take the whole thing in. “Now that’s a fishing pole.”

“Hmm?” Bart said, looking up from tying a bobber and hook to his own line. “Pole? No, this is a fishing rod.”

“What’s the difference?” I asked, momentarily distracted from the far-too-modern-marvel before me by the correction.

“A fishing rod has a reel, and guides for the line,” Bart said, pointing in turn to the reel and the row of metal loops on the pole, er, rod in his hands. “A fishing pole has no reel, and only a single ring at the end of it, and can be many times longer than a rod. The two are used very differently; instead of casting your line out with a rod, a pole allows greater accuracy at the cost of versatility by letting you drop the line exactly where you want it. They have their uses, but they are not a tool for a beginner.”

“Oh…” I said, imagining fishing with something many times longer than the rod I already had, and feeling my arms ache just from the thought. “A-anyway, that’s not what I meant. I mean, that reel, where did you get something like that?”

“Oh, this?” Bart hummed, tilting his rod slightly and looking at the reel. “It’s dwarven-made, enchanted, just like the rod itself. Much more complicated, and expensive, than a simple reel like yours, but made for fishing much stronger creatures. It’d be a bit unsporting of me to use something like this here, but I’m only using it to teach you how to cast.”

I felt a momentary need to sit down, and instead settled for resting my back against the large nearby tree, running a hand through my hair. That was another double whammy of revelations that caused me to rapidly reassess my mental image of the dwarves of this world, if they were capable of churning out something that advanced-seeming. And, he’d said his rod was “enchanted,” which meant that the worlds of magic and fishing weren’t separate, like I’d foolishly assumed they’d been until moments before. As mundane and, admittedly, a little stale as Bart’s lecture over the past minutes had been, I’d once again let it lull me into forgetting I was in an entirely different world from my own, and not even something as ordinary as fishing was exempt from that.

“Is something the matter, Sam?” Bart asked, and I looked up from the ground, where I’d been staring for several seconds.

“No, no, I was just… needed to think about something for a second,” I said, standing up and taking a deep breath. Right, existential crisis later, fishing now. “You said you’re gona show me how to cast?”

“Ah, right, come, stand here by the water,” Bart said, motioning me closer and stepping up to the edge of the river. I followed, standing a few feet to his left and watching as he squared up, holding his rod before him with his right hand.

“First, start by letting out a couple palms worth of line from the end,” Bart said, turning his reel until he had about six inches of line between the end of his rod and the hook. I ignored the unfamiliar measurement for the moment and just repeated the step, letting out the line on my own rod.

“Next, use your forefinger to hold the line just above the reel like this,” he continued, using his index finger to pinch the line with his first knuckle, holding it like he was drawing a bow-string. I once again did the same, and he nodded.

“Now, these are the two most simple casting techniques you’ll need to know. First, overhand,” Bart said, first raising his rod with his arms out, his left hand on the bottom of the handle. In one smooth arc, he swung the rod over his head and flicked it forward, releasing the line from his finger, sending the hook sailing out over the water, until it came down in the center of the pond with a faint plop. After just a moment he quickly reeled his line back in and got situated again.

“And now, the side cast,” he said, turning his body sideways and, as the name implied, swinging his rod in from the side, flicking the hook out and once again sending it square into the center of the water.

“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed at his accuracy.

“Give each of them a try, then, once you’re comfortable casting, we’ll bait your hook, and you can try to catch your first fish,” Bart said, stepping back from the water.

“Fiiiinally” I sighed dramatically, grinning to show that my impatience was only feigned. Bart might not have been the most exciting teacher in the world, but it did seem like he was doing his best to ensure I had a strong grasp on the fundamentals.

So, without any further stalling, I squared my shoulders and made sure I was holding the line with my index finger. I raised my arms in front of me, and swung the rod up over my head and back before flicking it forward, just as I’d seen Bart do.

Only for the hook to not go sailing out over the pond, but to instead come splashing down only a few feet in front of me, hardly having traveled any distance at all. Blinking, I reeled the line back in to try again, only for the same thing to happen.

“Tss…” I hissed through my teeth, starting to grow a bit frustrated.

“It’s alright,” I whispered to myself. “Just take it slow. It doesn’t have to click immediately.”

They were the words of one of my friends from back home, which I’d begun repeating to myself while I was reeling the line in for the third time. She’d been helping me during the period of time when I’d become impulsively obsessed with learning to play the guitar. Since she’d taken violin lessons since middle school, she’d shared enough of her knowhow, and been patient enough, to ensure it was the one time I didn’t let my frustration get in the way of sticking with the hobby. I’d still only learned a few chords with her help, but that was much more than I would have learned otherwise.

It was a selfish thought, but I found myself wishing I had her there to help me out, despite what that would mean for her.

“Wait…” I said, almost slapping myself. I did have someone to help me, I was just ignoring him out of some stubborn habit.

Turning around, I found Bart, watching and waiting, his back nestled into the crook of the old bent tree like it belonged there.

“Bart, what am I doing wrong here?” I asked.

Bart seemed overly pleased about something, the corners of his mouth turning up further than I’d ever seen them, as he rose from his relaxed position and walked over to me again.

“You’re letting go of the string too late,” Bart said, stepping up beside me. “You want to let go a little earlier, but not too early, or the line will go flying into the sky as well.”

“Huh,” I said, looking down at my finger as I pinched the line again. “Okay, got it, so…”

I brought my arms up again, swung back, and flung the rod forward again, making sure to let go of the line much earlier than I had been. It did indeed go flying, but much, much further than I’d intended, almost clearing the pond entirely.

“Better, but you’re using too much power,” Bart said as I started reeling the line back in. Once I was set to try again, he brought his hand up, placing a palm on one of my elbows. “Remember to let the rod do the work for you, keep your elbows down and pointed towards your target instead of raising them up. You aren’t throwing a javelin, you’re launching a trebuchet.”

“A what?” I asked, turning my head to stare at him.

“A trebuchet?” Bart repeated, meeting my gaze. “I suppose if you’ve never seen one it can be hard to explain, it is a siege weapon that uses a swinging arm to sling rocks—”

“Oh, like a catapult?” I cut in, causing Bart to pause for a moment, one eyebrow going up.

“Close, but not the same,” he finally said. “And not what I am here to teach you today. Just remember, elbows down.”

Shrugging, I turned back to the task at hand, keeping both tips I’d been given in mind.

“Right. Elbows down, remember to let go earlier,” I mumbled, and once again tried the overhand cast. I kept my upper arms flat, my elbows pointed towards the middle of the lake, using only my forearms to raise the rod and then fling it forward, putting in much less strength than I had been before.

The hook went sailing out in a gentle arc, splashing down much closer to where I’d been aiming, and I felt myself break into a huge grin, half in shock, half in excitement, as I looked to Bart for approval.

“Very good,” Bart said with a nod, once again failing to hide his own smile. “Try a few more, then give the side cast a go. I will fill the ice chest, I have a feeling we’re going to need it soon.”

“Okay!” I said, honestly feeling a bit giddy as I wound the line back. I was so excited at my success I almost missed what he’d said, but I watched curiously as he moved to the other case he’d brought, the black and green one, lifting the lid and revealing a similarly-colored interior. He carried the box over to the edge of the pond and bent down, dipping it in to scoop up a generous amount of water, then set it down and knelt.

Then, he did something so unexpected it completely pulled my attention away from fishing.

“Frost Touch,” Bart whispered, so quietly I would have missed it if not for my heightened hearing, his voice carrying the same odd layered effect I’d heard the night before. His right hand became instantly crusted in ice crystals, and he plunged it into the chest of pond water, swirling it around for several seconds, causing the water to quickly become filled with large chunks of ice. He continued until it was more ice than not, then drew his hand out, shaking it off and wiping it dry on his pants.

“You know spells too?” I almost shouted, causing Bart to visibly jump, looking over his shoulder at me.

“You’re supposed to be practicing your casting,” Bart admonished me, standing up and closing the lid of the ice chest.

“Looks like you’ve been practicing your casting,” I shot back with a smirk.

I watched as Bart’s face went on a complicated journey, brows knitting together in confusion, before shooting upward in understanding, to exasperated frustration as he brought a hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Very clever…” Bart sighed. “Now, the cast…”

“Seriously though, can everyone in this village do magic?” I asked, not ready to move off the topic just yet. Bart opened his eyes, which he’d clenched shut momentarily, and met my hungry gaze.

“Magic is much more common down here, aye. Most people will pick up one or two small, simple spells, things that are helpful to them in their daily lives,” Bart explained, likely figuring (correctly) that answering me would be easier than getting me to move on.

“That’s so cool…” I breathed, wondering just how many of the few people I’d met had magic spells up their sleeves. Then, like a bolt of lightning, another realization struck me and made my eyes go wide. “Wait! Could you teach me that too?!”

“What, that spell?” Bart asked.

“Yes! Or any spell! All the spells! I would love to learn magic!” I said, breathlessly. I hadn’t thought about asking Elle if she were willing to try teaching me after she’d shown off her magic last night, but with Bart already teaching me one thing, it seemed like an easy leap to get him to teach me another.

Bart put a hand on my shoulder, bringing me back down to earth.

“Sam, calm down,” Bart said, and I did my absolute best to stop vibrating with excitement. “I vow, once we have some time, I will try to teach a few spells.”

“Yes—”

“However,” Bart cut in before I could get going again. “One thing at a time. You still need to focus on learning to fish, don’t you?”

“R-right, yes, sorry,” I said, catching my breath and facing the pond again. I turned slightly sideways, holding my rod in shaking hands, and brought my arms up. Winding up, I turned and swung my arms, taking my first shot at repeating the sideways cast Bart had shown me.

As with the overhand, my first attempt sent the hook way off target, almost sending it into some bushes on the other side of the pond. I reeled it back and tried again, cursing under my breath as the second attempt was eve worse than the first. By the time I’d tried, and failed, a third cast, I knew I had to take a break. I was still picturing myself throwing fireballs and learning to levitate instead of focusing on my form, and it was showing.

Self-concious of my repeated failures, but thankful that Bart didn’t seem keen to jump in and offer up advice unprompted, I set my rod down and took a few moments just to clear my mind, banishing the daydreams and instead replaying Bart’s demonstration of the side cast over and over again. Like the previous cast, I realized I was overdoing the motion; I was turning with my whole body, almost like I was swinging a baseball bat, but I’d been shown already how unnecessary that was.

Emboldened to try again, and with my hands no longer shaking with nervous energy, I retrieved my rod, held it out to my side, and after taking a long, deep breath, casually and carefully swung it out, minding when I released the line, and actually managed to land it relatively close to where I’d been aiming.

“Yes!” I cheered, pumping my fist into the air.

“Very good,” Bart said approvingly.

“Okay, what now?” I asked, and did not enjoy the smirk that Bart gave me in return.

“Now, you keep doing them, until each one is as easy and effortless as swinging a sword,” Bart declared, once again tucking himself up against the crook of the tree to wait.

“Ah… crap,” I muttered, turning back around and sighing, reeling the line back in. Well, I did ask for this, I supposed. I thought about arguing that I also didn’t know how to swing a sword, but I doubted he meant that literally, more likely it was another common expression, and I still didn’t want to risk drawing attention to my lack of worldly knowledge. I already had enough on my plate at the moment anyway.

For what felt like the next hour, but was likely far less, I repeated the same motions over and over again.

Cast. Miss. Reel.

“Fuck…”

Cast. Miss. Reel.

“Damnit.”

Cast. Miss. Nearly land my hook in the branches of the tree overhead.

“Shit!”

Much later, long enough for the last of the darkness to be dispelled and the sky to begin to brighten, after I’d finally succeeded in pulling off both styles of cast ten times each, Bart declared I was ready to bait my hook, and try to catch my first actual fish.

“Now, choosing the correct bait is as important as choosing the right hook, or the proper depth, for the type of prey you’re attempting to catch,” Bart began, kneeling next to the water, having brought over the metal bucket of minnows. I stood nearby, rod at the ready. “However, you can rarely go wrong with live baits, as they’ll do most of the work of attracting the fish for you.”

As I watched, Bart reached up and took my hook between his fingers, lifting the lid off the bucket with his other hand, revealing the countless tiny silver fish darting through the water inside it. He reached in and effortlessly snatched one from the water, holding it up for me to see.

“There are three ways to bait pixie minnows like these; through the lips, through the back, or through the end of the tail,” he explained, pinching the minnow between his thumb, index, and middle finger, bringing the hook closer. “There are different situations for each, but for today the only one you’ll be using is the back hook; that allows the minnow to swim naturally and stay alive longer.”

Then, he smoothly and quickly slid the hook through the middle of the minnow’s body, just behind its top fin, then nodded towards the pond.

I hesitated. It was one thing to know, as a fact, that fishing was done by putting bait on a hook, and another to see it for myself, and to realize I’d have to quickly become comfortable with doing the same myself.

“Doesn’t that… hurt?” I asked, and Bart met my eyes, breathing out through his nose and nodding slowly. Pulling on the line, he lowered the hooked minnow back into the bucket, then looked up again.

“Aye, I suppose it would. If you wish not to, I will continue to bait your hooks today, and tomorrow we may try some non-live baits, but I am afraid if you truly wish to learn the art of fishing, you will have to come to accept that it does not happen without pain and death,” Bart spoke somberly, turning his head and motioning towards the nearby treeline across the pond. “Hunting, fishing, trapping, farming livestock, these are the ways we take from nature the things we need to survive. It is necessary, aye, but that does not mean we must revel in the slaughter.”

I followed Bart’s hand, gazing into the forest, recalling the butcher’s shops I’d seen back in the village that sold meats, the shoe store we’d visited where everything was made from leather including the sandals I was now wearing, and the fish I’d already eaten at the Crooked Hook. It was true, but, then again, it was likely as true as it was back home, and I’d just never had to think about it.

“However,” Bart spoke again, drawing my attention back. “The very fact that harming even a simple creature concerns you so is heartening. It tells me you are not likely to make the same mistakes so many other hunters do of believing they are above nature, rather than a part of it. That respect will serve you well, whether or not you succeed as an angler.”

I thought about that for several seconds, my head bowed. It was kind of embarrassing, having him attribute all that to me not wanting to poke a little fish with a hook, but I didn’t want to try and correct him that I wasn’t all that special or anything, just reasonably squeamish.

“Damn, Bart,” I said finally, shaking my head. “That’s heavy…”

“Heavy?” Bart said, confused.

“Sorry, I mean that’s a lot to take in all at once,” I said, taking a deep breath and looking into the bucket of minnows, where the one I still had on my hook was swimming amongst all the others.

“I think I’ll be okay,” I decided. “I just want to eat fish, and a lot of it. I want to be able to provide for myself. If I get good enough at this, I can do both.”

Bart took a moment to process my answer, nodding his head in silence.

“And besides,” I continued, grinning again and jerking my head in the vague direction of where I thought the village was. “I have to beat Bentley and win that competition, remember?”

Bart opened his mouth to say something, but must have thought better of it, and instead stood up, facing the pond with his arms crossed.

“That is true,” he said, in a way that made it seem like he’d almost forgotten about the bet I’d made. “Just concentrate on fishing for now. As you say, master this, and you’ll be well fed and able to make a living anywhere in the world.”

That… did not speak highly of his thoughts on my chances of winning the competition, but I was not going to let that get to me.

I had fish to catch.

“Hey, yeah, you know what they say,” I said, lifting my hook out of the bucket, winding it in until about six or so inches remained dangling from the end of my rod. “Give a cat a fish and she’ll eat for a day, teach a cat to fish and she’ll eat for a lifetime.”

Okay, nobody had ever said that, but Bart didn’t need to know that.

Squaring my shoulders, raising my arms, keeping my elbows down, I brought my rod up and back, then flicked it forward, letting go of the line at just the right moment, sending the hook flying until it came down directly in the center of the pond, at least by my reckoning.

“Hah,” I laughed in triumph, before realizing I had absolutely no clue what came next. Turning to Bart, I asked, “So, what do I do now?”

“Now,” Bart began, stepping back from the edge of the water, “you reel in the slack so your line is tight, and then you wait.”

“For what?” I asked, doing as I was told and reeling back the line just enough to remove the slack.

“For a fish to bite,” Bart answered, taking a seat on the ice chest.

“How… how will I know when that happens?” I asked nervously, looking from Bart to the gently bobbing, er, bobber in the middle of the pond.

“Like most of what I’ve taught you today, you’ll need to learn to get a feel for it yourself, especially with smaller fish. Just keep your senses tuned; feel the weight on the line, watch for your bobber to start sinking under the water.”

“O-okay,” I said, fixing my eyes on the bobber.

“Then, once you think you’ve got a bite, you’ll need to set the hook,” Bart continued. “At the very moment you feel the strongest pull, use the rod to tug sharply upwards on the line and begin reeling in, not too fast mind, and wait until the fish starts fighting back.”

“Fighting back?” I asked over my shoulder, not wanting to take my eyes off the water. “How does a fish fight back?”

“You’ll see,” was all Bart said, frustratingly. Sighing, I figured that was only fair; he’d just spent nearly an hour giving me the best possible crash course on fishing I could have asked for. Now that it was up to (what I assumed was) the boring waiting part, he probably wanted to take a break, and I couldn’t blame him.

However, before I even had time to think about growing bored, the bobber jerked to the side suddenly, and I felt my already heightened attention shrink to a laser focus. My eyes went wide, then narrowed, my breathing stilled, and I felt my ears stand at attention and swivel forward. Time seemed to slow down and I waited until, sure enough, there was a definite tug that I could feel through the line, one strong enough to cause the wooden bobber to sink below the water. Acting as quickly as I could, I jerked upwards on the rod, turning the crank backwards, and felt definite resistance.

“I got it!” I shouted.

“What?” Bart called from behind me, then, a second later and much more urgently, “don’t hold the crank still like that, let the fish have some line, quick!”

Confused, but having no reason to doubt him, I followed Bart’s instructions, reeling the line out. Bart appeared at my shoulder in an instant, a look of clear surprise still on his face.

“What do I do now?” I asked, continuing to let the fish pull this way and that, spooling out more line to keep it from pulling the rod too hard.

“First, stay calm,” Bart urged, and rolled my eyes.

“I’m completely calm!” I lied. My heart was in fact hammering like a jackrabbit, but there was nothing either of us could really do about that at the moment. “What do I do next.”

“Next, watch the fish. What is it doing now?” Bart asked.

“I don’t know… panicking?” I wasn’t sure exactly what answer he was looking for but that seemed in line with whatever this part of the lesson was about.

“Aye,” Bart nodded. “And fighting back, using all of its energy trying to escape. If I know what sort of fish you’ve hooked there, it’s likely no bigger than my hand, so thankfully it can’t fight very hard, but trying to hold back like you were with a much stronger fish could easily snap your line, or worse, damage your rod.”

“O-oh,” I said, swallowing nervously as I tried to split my focus between listening to Bart and keeping up with the fish’s movements.

“That’s why, once you’ve hooked a fish, you must fight it,” Bart explained, reaching up tentatively and guiding the rod in my hands until it was tilted in the opposite direction the fish was currently pulling. “Just like with casting, you want to let the rod, guides, and line do their work. There are as many ways to fight fish as there are types of fish, but the same principles apply to all: tire them out, keep the line from going slack, and do not let them pull you towards anything that can cause it to catch or break.”

I followed Bart’s gentle nudging, tilting my rod to follow the fish’s movements, and already I could tell it wasn’t pulling with nearly as much force as it had been seconds ago.

“It’s getting weaker,” I noted, looking to Bart for confirmation.

“Aye, no animal can fight forever, not even hum-ah, people, but thankfully you’ve got more stamina than this little fish,” Bart said, nodding. Then, just long enough that it was obvious it only occurred to him that very second, he added, “or just about, anyway.”

“Was that supposed to be a joke?” I asked, feigning shock.

“Don’t lose focus now,” Bart insisted, and I laughed, shaking my head and returning to the task at hand.

Indeed, it was trivially easy now to start reeling the fish in, all the fight having left it after the short “battle.” With my pulse increasing again, I hauled up on the rod when Bart instructed, reeling all the while, and the fish was dragged to shore and eventually lifted right out of the water, and I got my first look at what I’d caught.

It was a puny thing, all told, and as Bart had predicted; it was a little less than half a foot long, and only as wide as a hand. Not my hand, of course, because mine were actually a bit smaller than it, but more like a grown man’s hand. It looked like, well, a fish; scales, fins, tail, and two wide, glassy eyes. Its body was mainly a greenish-yellow color, except for a set of five black stripes that ran the length of its body from head to tail.

I wasn’t sure what I expected to feel the first time I saw a fish, a real fish, up close. Nothing, would have been my first guess. Maybe a little curious, if one school field trip to the aquarium was anything to go by. I was not expecting the sight of the scaled creature dangling at the end of the line, weakly flicking its tail, to fill me with the sudden urge to grab it with my bare hands and sink my teeth, (or fangs, as the case may be) into its belly.

“Quick, give it here,” Bart said, snapping me out of the momentary trance I’d slipped into without knowing while watching the fish struggle. I carefully swung it over into his waiting hand and watched as he first removed the hook from the fish’s mouth and retrieved a new tool from his belt. It resembled an ice pick, with a narrow spike and a wide, T-shaped handle, made from some kind of polished, bone-white material. Bart held it so the spike was between his first two and his last two fingers, his thumb on the handle, and then he drove the spike into a point in the fish’s head, just between its eyes.

All this he did with a speed I found almost dizzying, and I was left stunned, blinking, as the fish he held in his hands flared out its fins, then fell still.

“What…” I started to ask, finding myself lacking the breath to finish.

“If you wish to ensure the fish you catch do not suffer overmuch,” Bart began, withdrawing the spiked tool from the creature’s head, “this is another technique you will need to learn. As soon as you are able, as soon as the fight is over, and you have the fish in your hands, you drive a spike into the brain, killing it instantly.”

“That’s…”

“Heavy?” Bart asked, pre-empting me.

“Y-yeah,” I said, shaking my head. I was more rattled by the speed and efficiency with which Bart carried out the act, rather than the act itself, but then again Bart had probably been doing this for more years than I’d been alive.

“Perhaps, but it is also merciful, and quick,” Bart said, turning and walking over to the ice chest, lifting the lid and laying the fish down on the bed of ice.

“And,” he continued, closing the lid carefully. “It serves another purpose as well. Just as with hunting game, stress and pain before death can seep into the flesh, causing the meat to sour and worsening the taste. If you intend to sell your catch, or even if you want to eat it yourself, spiking as soon as possible will ensure the highest quality flavor.”

“I… did not know that,” I said, truthfully. I knew less about hunting than I did fishing (especially after today’s lesson,) but I knew about stuff like brain chemicals and stress hormones, and it made sense that people who had been fishing for who knows how long would figure something like that out, just through experience.

“So, you caught your first fish,” Bart said, walking back over to me, not bothering to suppress the smile on his face. “How do you feel?”

“I feel… uhh…” I began, tilting my head back and looking up to the sky. At some point during the fight, the sunrise that had been threatening to come for the last half of the lesson had finally broken. I could see the first hints of sunlight starting to peek over the mountains across the water, casting the sky in hues of pale blue, gold, and orange.

I wasn’t sure how I felt, honestly. I was on my second day in a completely unfamiliar world, a world filled with elves and dwarves and magic and probably so much more I couldn’t even imagine yet. I was standing at the edge of a pond, learning how to fish because I’d been turned into a cat person and I suddenly found seafood irresistible. I’d bet a nobleman’s son I’d beat him at a fishing competition or face exile from this place I was rapidly coming to appreciate more than anyplace I’d ever been back home.

I’d been turned into a girl, and so far the only remarkable thing about that was how remarkably easy it was to forget, despite being the one thing I would have expected to be at the forefront of my mind at all times. I didn’t know how to feel about that either, and I didn’t know if I wanted to find out.

Well, at the very least, there was one thing I did know, with one hundred percent certainty.

“I feel like…” I said, tightening my grip on my fishing rod and looking up to meet Bart’s eyes. “I feel like I wana catch another one!”