Ophelia came by the inn, in the middle of the pleasant hubbub. She went straight for Quentin and Old Tom when she spotted them, sitting at their table. Quentin, of course, being the good innkeeper he was, placed a wash basin in front of her, then a mug of ale and her plate of cookies.

“I don’t think I’ll get tired of these anytime soon.” Ophelia smiled.

They chatted about Tom’s wife and their growing family. At some point in their conversation, he dug his knuckles into his back, groaning. He waved off Quentin’s worried look. “‘Tis a natural part of aging m’boy. So you better enjoy your youth while it lasts. Get out more and thank every moment you can walk and clean with your body moaning at your o stop." Ophelia massaged the source of Tom’s pain, eliciting a murmur of thanks. “Goddess bless ya, Sister.”

Ophelia smiled sadly. “If only there was a way for healing magic to lessen your pain, but they don't work if it comes from a natural process of life…” She looked thoughtful. “Maybe a holroot ointment could help. Maybe I could find some for you tomorrow.”

“Holroot’s coming at a very steep price,” Tom said. He looked at Quentin. “When I was a lad like you, before this Red Army nonsense, holroots and other medicinal plants grew almost everywhere in the meadows past the walls of this kingdom. Some even made their way inside these walls when green mages started appearing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, anyway. Told the lad here of the thief running around during the night market.”

“Ah, them. Yes. He could teach me a thing or two about sneaking off,” Ophelia said.

Tom looked thoughtful. “When there was still justice, what sentence would you pass when trying a thief? I’m curious since some white mages have landed themselves nicely as law people.”

“Depends, but I like to think this one deserves a second chance,” Ophelia said immediately. “If they didn’t kill anyone out of malice or sport, this thief could excel in other ways.”

___

There was a new face in the inn. Quentin had spotted enough richer folks by now that he recognized when people had money or came from money. The young lad observing the inn was handsome and clean-looking, with wide eyes framed by round spectacles. When he spotted Quentin by the bar, he stepped into the inn's cozy warmth. Quentin smiled and waved him over, offering an empty seat.

“New to town?” Quentin spoke confidently for someone who was in the same position as this newcomer. The lad nodded and offered a strained but genuine smile.

“I came here for the night festival. Your red soldiers told me all the inns were full in the higher tiers from the other travelers, so I ventured here.”

“You a merchant? You don’t look it. What you selling?” Quentin laid down a mug of ale, stew, and a big chunk of cookie in front of him. The lad stared at the pastry curiously.

“I… uh… no, not a merchant.” He flashed a sort of badge or plate hidden under his robes. “I’m a student at the university nearby.” He showed the glowing small vials dangling from his belt. Each vial was protected in small metal cages. “I’m an apprentice in an esteemed apothecary from the other kingdom.”

Quentin nodded. He looked well-dressed, that’s for sure. He was tall, about the same height and age as Gilbert. His robes looked ironed and steamed. His boots were made of fine leather. He was wearing a long mage’s hat, trying to hide his long hair and ears, but Quentin saw the outlines of long half-fey ears underneath. His eyes were still wide, like a doe lost in a new forest.

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“What’s your name, fella?” Quentin was using Old Tom’s personality. He thought it would make him more friendly, and help him blend in.

“Finn, short for… well, short for something longer. Like seven syllables longer.”

“Welcome to Hepfin’s Cradle, Finn. Here, ale and cookies are free for first-timers.”

Finn smiled, gave a little bow, and dug into his stew. He paused, nodding, and continued with his meal. Quentin trained his eyes on the lad as he rotated around the inn, taking orders and cooking. He stoked the fireplace and added more chopped crops and water to the stew. It was a good thing he was watchful, for when Quentin was wiping away the mess of one table, a fair-haired youth entered the inn and scoured the premises. That, and he heard something else in the fireplace...

Quentin stopped and squinted at the recent guest. He looked around, but all the others at the table were too busy clinking mugs, chattering, and laughing. They were too absorbed in their conversations. The fair-haired boy walked silently, avoiding the bright candles as he approached Finn at the bar. This boy was almost cat-like in his steps compared to the nervous teenager earlier. But for all his quiet movement, the fair-haired boy stumbled on Finn’s stool and fell to the floor.

Finn, surprised, helped the boy to his knees, but the boy held his hands up, muttering, “No harm done.” He smiled easily and turned away quickly, Finn watching him leave. The boy was out the door when he bumped into Quentin. The boy stared at Quentin. He looked behind him, wondering how the innkeeper slipped past.

“Another new face,” Quentin said mildly. “Ale for you?”

The fair-haired boy recovered. He smiled politely. “Oh, thanks!” His tone was light, cheerful. There was already a mug of ale ready in Quentin’s hands so he did not need to go back inside. The boy looked at it, trying to mask uncertainty with amazement. Quentin saw him sniff at the liquid before putting it into his mouth. He finished it in a few gulps.

“Would love to have you back,” Quentin said, taking the mug from him, “just so long you return to that poor student his wares lad. Best to behave in my inn.”

The boy froze, acting confused. “I didn’t take anything, mister.”

Quentin kept his smile so that his remaining guests inside wouldn’t notice anything was wrong. He didn’t want to reveal the thief's identity. Still, Quentin hed the boy's gaze.

“Smallest bottle he owned. Tiny enough to fit in the upper left pocket of your jerkin. I believe there’s more in your other pockets, but those you did not loot inside, so I’ll let you keep those treasures.” He jerked a thumb at Finn. “Quick now, before he notices and calls for help. You don’t even know what the vial does, I’m guessing.”

The boy stared at him. He blinked and flashed a crooked smile this time, unashamed that he was caught. “I was going to sell it back at the real crooks at the night market tomorrow. I was going to ask them what it was.” He handed the vial into Quenitn’s open palm.

Quentin said, “This young apprentice is trying to survive like the rest of you. He painstakingly brewed his wares for hours upon hours to sell just for this one night. I have a feel for the type of person that enters my inn. His prices would be fair.”

The fair-haired boy looked guilty for a second. Then he shrugged. “What about me? What have you felt when I stepped inside?”

Quentin gave him a custard bread from Emralle’s chamber. “That you’re talented. And that you’re hungry.”

Quentin headed back inside, bringing it to Finn. He searched his belt, wondering how the vial fell off when it was secured so well. He chastised himself. Quentin thought it fair to warn him about desperate, talented lock-picking thieves running around these nights. Finn gulped and paid for lodging. Quentin made sure there was a secure chest in his room.

When all the customers had gone, Quentin extinguished the fireplace with the snap of his finger. Before the thief came, he had heard the fair-haired boy’s voice in the fireplace, as clear as when he heard Ophelia’s.