She sprinkled flour and salt in a large bowl. “Grab that wooden spoon and mix the butter and sugar, Quentin.”

He did so, mashing them together, feeling like he was grinding sand with the wooden spoon. As he mixed, Ophelia cracked one egg and an egg yolk. There was a small bottle of something that she grabbed from the counter. When she brought it to her nose she squealed in delight.

“Where did you get vanilla?” She added a tiny amount of amber-colored liquid to the bowl and told Quentin that a few drops would go a long way.

She instructed him to pour the wet ingredients into the dry ones carefully. What resulted was a thick, soft, sweet-smelling, greasy dough. Ophelia plucked dried raisins from the satchels she carried and folded them carefully in that dough.

“Cover that with a dry cloth and let it rise for a few hours before putting them in the fireplace."

“My first recipe,” Quentin said.

Ophelia smiled. “You’ll find patrons soon enough.”

They wiped the flour coating the counter. Quentin thought it was nice to have someone work with him in the inn for a change. “What a curious contraption your inn has,” Ophelia said, pointing to the faucet. Quentin turned a knob and showed Ophelia how water poured out of the tubes. Quentin washed the bowls and spoons as Ophelia dried them with a clean towel. “I wonder where it draws water from.”

Without missing a beat, Quentin pointed to the sink. “There are hollow tubes connected to that and its source. The source can be in a moving river. I don’t quite know how things work in this inn.”

“How smart,” Ophelia simply said before turning away.

Once done, Ophelia and Quentin flopped onto the floor near the dough, resting their bones. Ophelia smiled contentedly and wiped a streak of flour from Quentin's chin.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” She retrieved a mirror from her pockets and showed it to the young lad. "I was going to bring it to you later, down by the alley, but since you somehow transported your entire inn to this place...." she turned the mirror around so that Quentin met his features. "Thought that you wanted to arrange yourself when you have guests.”

Quentin grabbed the mirror and stared at his reflection. The first thing he noticed was his eyes; black with silver specks on them. Ophelia commented once that it was like looking at a moon's lake when she stared at them. He had fine dark hair and dark thick brows. He didn't even notice that he tied his long hair at the back. His lips were a subtle shade of red. He looked older than the lad Ophelia healed but younger than Ophelia herself. She appeared in the mirror behind Quentin, smiling. She winked. Her features were a contrast to his.

They pinched loose small clumps of the dough and lined them on a metal tray that Quentin found. He brought a candle with him to the fireplace. It would be the first time he would light these curious logs. When he brought the candle's flame to the logs, Quentin thought he heard giggling. But when he turned around, Ophelia’s lips were firm, her hands pressing down the remaining mixture. She brought them over.

“Now we bake and watch them brown,” she said.

The smell was mouthwatering. Quentin and Ophelia both closed their eyes. It was like a scarf wrapping around their noses and necks. There was life in the inn. The fireplace crackled and Quentin saw how the dough bubbled and fell, flattening on the surface. Ophelia suddenly gasped as she turned her nose towards the fireplace.

"I remember their names now. Cookies! How could I have forgotten? You can add almost anything to them. Chocolate. Raisins. Any sweet things. You can dip them in fresh cow’s milk.”

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When Ophelia took them out to cool, Quentin said, “So this is what an inn is supposed to smell like.”

Ophelia chuckled. “Yes, mixes of sweet spice and salty meat. You watch for your patrons, take their orders, and offer something on your daily menu. If your guests have any special requests, they pay you extra." She smiled and waved at his dining area. "I remember playing table games and resting for the long road ahead. Inns and taverns are a traveler’s delight in every town.”

When the cookies were done, Quentin found it adorable. He pinched them and brought one small piece to his mouth, closing his eyes again. The taste exploded on his tongue. “I could eat nothing but this all my life.”

“I thought the same before. You can stock them up for days.”

Quentin opened his eyes. “I can make another batch, Ophelia. Take them to your children. Yes, I am sure. Don’t even fight me on this.”

Before the cleric could properly react, Quenitn grabbed her sack and placed all the cookies in it. Ophelia hugged him and stroked his head. “May the goddess smile upon you, Quentin.”

The next night, there was a letter slipped under his door. Quentin grabbed it and smiled. Ophelia had sketched her students. They were happy holding their cookies. He pinned the drawing to his room on the empty bulletin board. There was a note on the back of it.

No one notices your inn but me. One of my students asked me what I was looking at. When I pointed, they told me they saw the houses between your inn, but not the inn itself. You can see the nunnery from there. There’s a spire atop a hill with the sigil of the goddess.

Quentin craned his neck. The sigil was just at the edge of his windowpane. He stepped out into the night, quietly, dimming the candlelights as he did so. The night wind tickled his bare neck. There was a soft glow coming from one of the old open windows. He imagined Ophelia carrying a lantern up and down the steps of the old brick tower.

The first thing Ophelia did, when she returned, was touch Quenitn's wrist and place her ringed hand on his chest. “Ah, a heartbeat. Just making sure you’re not a ghost. Though, it wouldn’t be the first time I've befriended a mysterious spirit.”

“Have you encountered an inn like mine?” Quentin asked.

“I’ve seen mysterious unexplainable things, Quentin. We live in a world of gods and monsters after all. But truth be told, no, I hadn’t ever rested at an inn like yours or met a person like you. You and your home are special, indeed.”

___

Quentin knew something was wrong. One moment, he was wiping the empty wooden bowls to occupy his time even though it was clean. Perhaps he just missed Ophelia. Perhaps he was practicing for when people arrived and dined in this inn. He had also just baked another batch of cookies, the sweetness filling the inn.

Then all the candles dimmed and he heard Ophelia’s quick breaths from the fireplace and her rapid steps outside. Quentin opened the curtains and saw that the hill where the nunnery stood was awash with unwelcome light. Two shadows, dark cloaks billowing, ran into the alley. The familiar face of Ophelia looked straight at him. He squinted, realizing that Ophelia was half-carrying, half-dragging the other figure.

“Her guest is welcome,” he said to the inn. Quentin rushed from the door, feeling the strain of the few steps he was allowed outside, and helped Ophelia take her companion inside. They smelled of fire and singed skin. The door shut behind them. The curtains closed. The candles dimmed even lower. The inn held its breath.

Not long after came the harsh steps of the red soldiers. They stopped near the inn.

“How does she keep eluding us?” A familiar voice growled.

“She can’t have gone far. Go to the main street. You four, split into the other streets. Corner her to the gate.”

Quentin stood and brightened the place when he was sure they were gone. He looked down to see a boy, barely older than the one Ophelia healed the night that they met, slumped on his floor. His torso had scorchmarks and his leg was a striking pink; the color of raw cooked flesh.

He grabbed two mugs of ale from the barrel and placed it on the floor. Ophelia was murmuring to the boy that they were safe now. She looked up at Quentin.

“This one is Lyke. He’s one of the talented students at the nunnery. They were forced to play games and sports to see his strength. We thought it was another simple yet barbaric spin to our games today. We sometimes hold friendly matches, you see, to keep their spirits up. But I knew there was something wrong when a lower-ranking red priest from this district came up unannounced. They call themselves the Gul. I smuggled my staff and hid it near the bushes where I stood, watching the games unfold.”