"Come on, we need to hurry, or I'll be late." She tugged on his hand.
"Atzil can manage by himself for a few minutes." Din gestured at the sky. "It's such a beautiful night. The moon is almost full. We should take a moment to appreciate it."
"We can appreciate it after my shift." She pulled on his hand again, but he seemed determined to dawdle. "Din, seriously. What's gotten into you?"
"Nothing. I just think we rush too much. Always hurrying from one thing to the next without stopping to?—"
"You're stalling." The realization hit suddenly.
Was he reluctant to share her with her audience, wanting to have her all to himself for a little longer?
"I'm not stalling. I'm being philosophical about the passage of time and?—"
"Din."
"I'm serious."
"Right." She stopped pulling and stepped closer, reaching up to touch his face. "Are you jealous? Do you want to keep me all to yourself?"
"You caught me." He leaned into her touch. "Am I being ridiculous?"
"A little bit." She rose on her toes to kiss him quickly. "But it's sweet. Now come on. I don't want to be late on my last day."
When they reached the Hobbit, Fenella noticed something odd. The windows were dark, as usual, the shutters preventing the light from leaking through to the outside, but it was also quiet. The Hobbit wasn't soundproofed like the residences in the village, and usually she could hear chatter and music as soon as she turned into the pathway leading to its front door.
"That's weird," Fenella said as Din reached for the door handle. "Is anyone even there?"
"Let's see." He opened the door, and as they stepped into the dim interior, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. But then, the lights suddenly blazed on, and the bar erupted in whistles and applause.
"Surprise!"
Fenella gaped, processing the scene.
The bar was packed—fuller than she'd ever seen it before. Banners reading 'Good Luck in Egypt' and 'Don't bring back any Cursed Mummies' hung from the ceiling. Every regular was there, plus faces she didn't expect to see.
"Oh my God," she breathed. "You knew about this?"
"I may have been informed that my stalling services were required."
"I'm going to kill you later. Slowly."
"I look forward to it."
Atzil walked over, his chiseled jaw squared in an almost comical grin. "The guest of honor has arrived." He pulled her into a brief embrace before letting her go.
Still reeling, Fenella let herself be pulled into the crowd. Hands patted her back, voices called out greetings and jokes. Someone pressed a drink into her hand—whiskey, neat, just how she liked it.
"Speech!" someone called out, and others took up the chant. "Speech! Speech!"
"Oh no," Fenella said. "I don't do speeches. I do psychometric readings."
"Then read something!" Morrison suggested, producing a bar spoon. "Tell us what this spoon thinks about your trip!"
Laughter rippled through the crowd, and Fenella felt herself relaxing. These were her people, her community. The panic receded, giving way to warmth.
"Fine." She took the spoon with exaggerated ceremony. "Let's see what wisdom this spoon has to share."
She closed her eyes, making a show of concentration. The now-familiar tingle of the brooch seemed to pulse against her chest, and for a moment, she felt something from the spoon—countless hands, endless stirring, the satisfaction of creating something that brought pleasure.
