The crowd after midnight was always a nightmare, and Gray was getting too old for this shit.

His boss, Barin, tapped Gray on the forehead.

His manager badge glinted in the warm lamplight of the tavern, crooked on his massive chest. Sweat beaded his thin upper lip. Auburn stubble was beginning to show on his jowls, and his crow-black eyes narrowed.

He pressed his mouth to Gray’s ear, so Gray could hear him over the roar of the post-midnight rush and the kitchen.

‘Earn your keep,’ Barin said. ‘Go back out there, apologise for being rude, mop up the mess, and make her a new drink.’

Her was sitting in their back booth.

She reclined like she was sitting on a throne, not a peeling leather seat with old beer stains. Her platinum hair fell over her eyes, catching on her lashes. Rare lion’s fur trimmed the collar of her jacket.

Gray knew the type. Spoiled lordlings and alchemists’ kids would sometimes stay at the tavern on their way to the north coast. They’d throw their wealth and power around, making everyone scramble to please them.

This girl had gotten drunk off half a drink, had a horse in their stable worth more than the town mayor made in a year, spoke southern Lismerian like a politician, and had poorly forged stat papers claiming she was twenty-one.

Gray wrung out his dripping apron and shoved his shaking fists into his pockets. His leather wristband snagged on his frayed hem.

‘She was talking about Alistair,’ he said. ‘You didn’t hear her –‘

‘I don’t care if she insulted the damn king,’ said Barin. ‘You make sure she leaves a good tip.’

Gray stalled.

‘Go on,’ said Barin. ‘Go.’

Barin pushed Gray between the shoulder blades, and he stumbled out onto the busy floor.

There was a royal wedding in three days, and the king had given every town in the kingdom free mead to celebrate.

Everyone was taking celebrating very seriously.

The flagstone floor was puddled with spilled mead. The Tipsy Stag was the largest tavern in town, but with the dark overhead beams, the sweating, too-hot crowd, and three huge barrels taking up the far wall, it felt claustrophobic.

Gray sidled through the crush, ignoring the rapid pulse fluttering in his ears, and stood before her.

She stared at Gray through her platinum lashes, her eyes overly bright, her mouth suppressed into a sneer. She tapped her long fingers on the table, displaying manicured, highly polished nails and gold rings. Cocked a pale eyebrow.

Tightly laced boots.

Tightly buttoned shirt, right up to the neck.

She had the lean build of someone who’d had daily horse riding lessons since they were ten.

This girl had called Gray’s stepbrother, Alistair, a houseboy. She’d offered to pay Alistair one silver coin for the night.

If she’d done this with any of the other servers, it likely wouldn’t have been a problem. Not that they would’ve accepted … well, some of them might’ve. But, not Alistair.

Never Alistair.

This girl had, metaphorically, hit Alistair right where he was tender.

Alistair had melted away, face like thunder, and that’s when Gray had come over. The girl had clapped eyes on Gray and her attitude had turned up a notch. She’d said things, Gray’d said things. Gray’d told the girl where she could shove her silver coin. That’s when she threw her drink on him.

Gray unclenched his jaw and fixed his glare on her overstuffed rucksack stashed in the booth beside her, and then down to the three empty plates on her table.

She’d eaten three huge meals of slow-cooked beef with chilli on mashed potatoes.

The Tipsy Stag’s specialty.

He couldn’t bring himself to apologise, so he snatched up the rag tucked into the knot of his apron and began mopping up the spilled drink from the flagstone floor.

‘It suits you,’ she said, barely loud enough for Gray to hear her over the chatter of the crowd. ‘Dumb, and on your knees. I expected nothing less from a northerner.’

Better than a southerner, Gray thought. Those bastards will sleep with anything that stays still long enough.

Mess cleaned up, Gray stood.

‘I wanted,’ Gray said, ‘to apologise to you.’

Silence.

‘So,’ Gray said, fisting his hands in his pockets, ‘Sorry for what I said. I overreacted. I’d like to make it up to you, by giving you a complimentary drink.’

‘I want,’ she said, ‘the tall one to serve me. Go get him, little boy.’

‘He’s unavailable.’

Carefully, she slid the silver coin back across the table. ‘Make him available.’

Gray dragged his glare away from the coin. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘he’s not available, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. Unless you’d prefer to leave?’

‘To the flea-bitten bed and breakfast down the street?’ she said. ‘Or the alehouse run by the goblin? Such great choices. However will I choose?’

‘The alehouse,’ Gray said, flexing his hands inside his pockets, ‘is run by May Gunstall, and she’s a nice lady.’

‘Lady?’ she said. Her tone was smooth. Her gaze was wide and assessing. It was a waste to have such bright hazel eyes on such a spoiled brat.

He kept his temper.

‘You can go make my drink now, little boy,’ she said, tilting her chin up.

‘No problem,’ Gray said hotly, before he could stop himself, because honestly, that was the second time she’d called him little boy, and it wasn’t like he was some kid fresh into upper school. ‘I’ll add a little something extra in it, for you.’

A muscle in her jaw twitched.

The girl dropped her gaze, her lips parted. She flexed her fingers, twisting a ring with a stag emblem on it.

‘I’d like to speak to the manager,’ she said.

Gray hesitated.

‘Now, little boy,’ she said.

Barin would skin him. Gray stayed rooted on the floor.

The girl pushed past him. The crowd parted for her, as though sensing a poisonous snake slithering across the floor.

Gray watched her speak to Barin, and Barin fixed his hot glare onto Gray.

Gray braced himself.

‘Gray,’ said Barin, from across the room.

Barin had a voice like a thunderclap when he wanted. It would come out of nowhere and was so powerful it made everyone jump.

‘Scrubbing duty,’ Barin said.

The room fell silent. Even the five-woman fiddle band jammed in the corner ground to a halt.

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‘And the next time there’s vomit,’ said Barin, ‘it has your name on it.’

A hot flush crept up Gray’s cheeks.

Someone snickered.

The girl leant against the counter, her ankles casually crossed, and a curl on her lips as she examined her nails.

‘Now, make this fine lady a new drink,’ said Barin. He turned to the girl. ‘I’ll watch him make it, ma’am.’

Gray turned on his heel, ignoring the heat twisting in his stomach.

Barin followed him into the kitchen, and stood over Gray while he ducked into the pantry.

‘Smarten yourself up,’ Barin said.

Gray adjusted his wet apron low on his waist, wiped his sweaty forehead on his sleeve, and straightened his crumpled clothes while Barin watched.

‘Hair,’ said Barin. ‘Fix it.’

Gray’s unruly hair had slipped free of its leather tie and was sticking to his sweaty neck. Gray pulled it back, biting the inside of his lip.

Barin hated Gray’s hair. Gray kept it tied back, so it was out of the way, but Barin would take scissors to it himself a couple of times a month.

‘What’s her drink?’ said Barin.

‘Spiced clementine mulled whiskey,’ Gray muttered.

Together, they grabbed clementine juice, ginger beer, cinnamon sticks and cloves, and poured them into a saucepan. When it started to bubble, Gray tipped in whiskey, and waited for it to warm through.

Barin snatched Gray’s sleeve as he darted past him to grab a glass. ‘Where’s Alistair?’ Barin said.

Gray shrugged, anxiety flickering in his chest.

Barin cursed. ‘Find him,’ he said. ‘Alistair can serve the girl while you scrub the pots. I’ll keep an eye on him.’

Gray flexed his fingers. Making Alistair serve the girl who’d called him a houseboy was, emphatically, a bad idea.

‘Gray?’

‘Yes, Barin.’

‘Quickly, before the drink spoils.’

Gray found Alistair in the sooty alley that backed onto the kitchen. Raven Drive.

The light from the kitchen showed him clearly. Tall and athletic for his eighteen years. He’d inherited cliff’s edge cheekbones and long eyelashes from his mother, Elona, who’d been so fiercely beautiful she’d been a royal consort in her youth, and then on to her third marriage before she passed away.

Alistair sat, leaning against the overflowing bin, his long legs crossed at the ankle. He pet the ginger stray that liked to hang outside the kitchen. His left hand was covered in black ink naughts and crosses – he’d drawn on himself in class this morning while their alchemy teacher had droned on about firebreath explosions.

He blinked up at Gray.

There was a tightness around Alistair’s eyes.

‘Barin says I have to go back in there, doesn’t he?’ said Alistair.

Gray thought of the mulled whiskey on the stove, and what Barin would say if he let it spoil.

But, he couldn’t just drag Alistair back to serve that girl.

It was a special kind of misery, having to go back, smile, and be polite to the entitled rich kids.

He pushed down the urgency racing within him and made himself lean against the doorframe, like the clock wasn’t ticking and the whiskey wasn’t bubbling, and like Barin wasn’t waiting for Alistair to serve the girl in the booth that very minute.

‘Nah,’ said Gray. ‘I just missed you and your stupid face.’

‘You love my stupid face.’

‘Love is a bit strong.’

‘Please,’ said Alistair. ‘You want to write a sonnet about my stupid face.’

‘This is getting too weird for me,’ said Gray.

‘You want to be my stupid face.’

‘I,’ said Gray, regretting every life decision that had led him to this moment, ‘I’m uncomfortable now.’

Alistair shot Gray a strained smile and ruffled his hands through his curly hair. ‘You trying to soften the blow, huh?’ said Alistair. ‘I heard Barin. His voice carries like a foghorn.’

‘Yeah,’ said Gray. ‘You’ve got to serve the princess in the booth.’

Alistair cursed, fisting his hands in his lap, and said, ‘oh, I’ll serve her,’ while turning an angry red colour that was so unusual for him that Gray faltered.

‘But, you know,’ Gray said, eyeing Alistair, and stepping fully out into the alley and kicking the door closed behind him. He pushed down the rising anxiety in his chest, that Barin would charge out there any minute and shout himself hoarse, for ruining good whiskey and for making that girl wait. ‘Barin also always says we need to keep this rubbish neat.’

Alistair narrowed his gaze, climbing to his feet. ‘Huh?’

It was true.

Barin did harp on about the rubbish.

‘Krydon council’ll slap us with a huge fine if we leave rubbish on the ground.’ Gray rocked onto the balls of his feet, gestured to the bin, and made his voice as close to a pompous version of Barin’s baritone as he could. ’Surely fixing the bin is a priority right now. The customers must wait.’

It was better they waited.

Just for a minute.

Sending Alistair into the tavern when he was about to throw hands was like rolling a ticking curse-bomb into the middle of a crowd. It was better to have a yelling Barin than a triggered Alistair. Hell, a triggered Alistair would lead to a yelling Barin. Guaranteed.

‘Oh yeah.’ Alistair, his gaze still narrow and his shoulders stiff, but starting to play along. ‘We better fix it. I have an idea.’

Gray knew Alistair too well. ‘Does it involve fire?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then, better not.’

Alistair smiled grimly and then swung himself up into the bin and started stomping and compacting down the rubbish. He slammed his fist through a box. He ripped apart an old hessian potato sack. Gray jumped in and started helping him destroy things.

He kept his gaze firmly away from the door.

Barin would slam through it any second.

The whisky absolutely would be spoiled now -

‘Can I ask you something?’ Alistair said.

Alistair was a little breathless, and he was still red, but it was less I’m-going-to-mess-everyone-up red and more I-just-kicked-my-heel-through-a-plywood-crate red.

Gray pinned him with an exasperated stare. Alistair, he was always so dramatic. ‘We have no secrets. Ask.’

‘Don’t we, though?’ said Alistair.

‘You’ve literally caught me singing My Sweet Rose, naked, making a sandwich in the kitchen.’

Alistair grimaced. Shuddered. ‘You know that wasn’t sanitary. And I still don’t understand why you were naked.’

‘It was dark - it was late - I was so hungry-’

‘And I never will be again.’

Gray clapped a hand over his face, flushing hard.

Alistair lowered his voice, pegging mouldy oranges against the side of the bin. ‘When are we going to get out of here?’

‘We can’t leave,’ Gray said. ‘Not yet. You know.’

Alistair hurled an orange. It thudded and rolled out of sight. ‘Well, I’m ready.’

Gray scoffed. ‘You’re ready?’

‘Flipping oath.’

‘You have money,’ Gray said, ‘fake stats to say you’re twenty-one -’

‘Unimportant,’ Alistair said.

‘Your overall stat numbers need to be above fifty to earn any kind of money-’

‘I’ll sort it,’ Alistair said.

‘We haven’t finished school -’

‘That’s the nerdiest thing I’ve ever heard you say,’ Alistair said.

‘I kind of like it here-’

‘Like it here? It’s boring,’ Alistair said.

‘I think that’s the point of being here-’

‘So, you are bored,’ said Alistair.

‘Barin would come looking for you -’

‘Horseshit.’

‘He would,’ Gray said, using a high-pitched voice he reserved for puppies and babies. ‘He loves his little stepson and his stupid face -’

Alistair burst into laughter and then faded out as the kitchen door creaked open. A dark shadow fell over them.

Barin poked his auburn oil-slicked-haired head out from the kitchen door. Gray stilled. The long, burnt loaf of bread Gray was holding, drooped in half and fell into the bin with a bang like a brick.

‘Wait,’ said Barin. ‘Wait. Boys, do you hear that?’

‘What ..?’ said Alistair.

‘Shh, boys! Listen.’

Alistair and Gray exchanged a glance. A cricket chirruped, and then stopped, as though it also listened. The homeless woman who hung around in Raven Drive turned the corner as though to walk towards the kitchen, noticed them all poised, tense, and then she backed away. There was nothing but the roar of the kitchen in full swing, nothing but the slurring, wild sounds of the post-midnight crowd inside the tavern.

‘I don’t hear anything,’ Alistair said eventually. ‘Are we listening to the sound of you not caring?’

‘No, no,’ said Barin. ‘You’re listening to the sound of people working. And it’s glorious. Get the hell back in here, and if I hear one more complaint out of the customers, so help you, I will give you mopping duty until you’re thirty.’

Alistair waited until Barin had stomped away. He sighed, and swung himself out of the bin.

Gray followed.

‘He loves his little stepson.’ Gray prodded Alistair in the back. ‘He loves you.’

‘Quit it.’

Gray prodded Alistair again. ‘Barin loves his little stepson.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Yes, he does. He loves you.’

‘Wait,’ said Alistair, swatting Gray away. ‘You hear that?’

Gray snorted, thinking Alistair was joking, and then saw his serious expression.

Gray paused, tilting his head. Scampering. ‘Rats?’

‘Yeah. Second time today I’ve heard them,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell Barin we need to get something to get rid of them.’

‘Ratting dogs?’ Gray said, getting a little too excited.

Alistair opened his mouth. Then he clapped it shut and nodded at something behind Gray.

Gray glanced back just in time to see an unfamiliar woman approach their stables with an unusually small horse. The woman’s hips swayed as she walked, and she had hair braided down to her ankles.

She was kind of beautiful.

Alistair and Gray glanced at each other. Gray could literally see the opportunity blooming in Alistair’s black eyes.

Alistair went to help her before Gray could. He shot Gray a half-apologetic glance. ‘Tell Barin I’m busy helping a new customer,’ he called back to Gray.

Gray sighed, bracing himself for Barin, and the girl.

He turned to go back inside the kitchen door.

Only, the girl - the brat from the booth - blocked his way.