I smiled as I turned to face Oscar, whose bright green cycling shirt blinded me. “Morning. New colors today?”
“Present from my paisley prince. He hopes it’ll scare off the cars.”
It would scare off something, for sure. “At least it’s not paisley.”
Oscar laughed—a hiccupy giggle. “Oh, the horror. Don’t give him ideas.”
I’d never met the man. From everything Oscar told me about him, I’d bet we’d get on like milk and beans. A tap on my shoulder made me turn around. Daryl handed me a to-go cup with Oscar’s name on it with a smirk. Behind him, Justice snickered, and I almost sighed. Oscar’s spouse wasn’t an actual prince, but my wayward baristas were way too invested in the rumors of runaway royalty hiding away at the hotel across the plaza. Layla, my boss and the owner of the Renversé Hotel and Café Magnifique, kept a tight lid on the truth behind those rumors, but Daryl and Justice were unstoppable, scoping out every new customer as if they’d whisk them away on their steeds.
“Thanks. Mark it as a comp.”
Oscar beamed. “It’s the shirt, right? Oh, he’s going to love hearing he earned me a free coffee.”
“Blinding shirt discount. Valid only today. But tell him if he gets you to wear a paisley one, you’ll get free coffee for a week.”
“You’re as bad as him.” Oscar shuddered. “I guess it really is on you if he does.”
I’d gladly pay for it, too. “Have a good one, Oscar. See you tomorrow.”
“Thanks. See ya.”
I shook my head as Oscar walked out. The green was even worse in the sun. I blinked against the glare, and that was when they walked in—a tall stranger in a long, hooded tunic. At first glance, nothing about them stood out enough to draw my attention. But there was something off about the way they moved—too smoothly, too fluidly, as if theyfloated more than walked. It clashed with their timid posture. Their hair was whiter than white beneath their hood.
I forced myself to keep moving, stacking cups and double-checking syrup levels—anything to keep from outright staring as they glided toward the counter. Daryl and Justice were busy with customers, and before I could stop myself, I approached to serve them, smiling like a goof. “Good morning. Welcome to Café Magnifique. How can I help you?” Was that really my voice?
Their gaze met mine, and for a moment, I forgot what I was doing. Their eyes, bright blue like cut jewels, blinked rapidly as if adjusting to the light. Their skin shimmered in a way that felt wrong or maybe too right, like holographic paint. Holographic purple paint. This person resembled the Niren in those reels Quinn had shown us. But it couldn’t be, could it? What would a Niren be doing in Princedelphia? In my café?
“I’d like an espresso, please.” Their voice was low and smooth, carrying an odd resonance, as though two synchronized frequencies overlapped—rich and melodic—with a subtle hum beneath every word. Soft but impossible to miss. They spoke English so fluently it was disarming, yet the precise way they shaped their words marked them as not American.
I couldn’t stop grinning. A Niren—this beautiful ethereal being—wanted espresso. They were my kind of customer. “Do you want it to go or drink it here?”
“Here, please.”
“Do you want anything with it?”
They gave me a quick shake of the head, then paused. “No, thank you.” Their voice was careful and measured.
A strand of white hair slipped loose from beneath their hood, and I itched to tuck it back. I’d never been more grateful for the counter separating us.
I logged their order into the system. “One espresso. That’ll be three dollars.”
They placed their card on the reader—not hovering over it like most people did, but pressing it down with one of their three fingers on the machine instead of the card. They were slender and elegant, with tapered nails shimmering like pearls under the LED light. The transaction clicked through instantly, jolting me out of my thoughts.
“Thank you. I’ll get that going for you now.” I wished it were busier, so I could tell them to find a seat and then call them when I was ready. But there was no need for that yet. So, I threw them a smile—as if I’d stopped grinning—and turned to my favorite espresso machine, which I called Gandalf. It might be old and a little temperamental, but whatever the others called it—Gandalf the Roasted, Gandalf the Brown—it was a powerful machine that worked like magic. The others just complained about its personality because they didn’t know how to handle it. A few taps, a perfect tamp, and it rumbled to life—hissing, creaking—delivering the richest espresso in the café. I fought the urge to inhale the shot before handing the cup over. “Here you go. Enjoy.”
“Thank you.” They took the cup as if it were something fragile and settled into the corner booth people only used if they wanted to be left alone. Were they here for pleasure or business? Maybe Layla had finally managed to hire a Niren to help with the glitches in the west wing she’d been grumbling about. It made more sense than royalty visiting the café for my espresso.
I should get back to the office, finish my accounts. Instead, I lingered, wiping the same spot over and over as I stole glances at the gorgeous stranger. Until Gandalf made a racket and forced me to turn my back to the stranger. Lucy’s sheepish smile couldn’t hide the froth clinging to her apron. I hadn’t even noticed her coming in.
“Let me guess… you skipped the purge again, didn’t you?”
“It’s so touchy.”
I raised my eyebrow and shook my head. I flushed the group head, gave the panel a soft tap in a ta-da-da-da rhythm, wiped down the wand, and set the machine back to idle. “You’ve got to purge it before every shot. That keeps the temp stable and the shower screen clean. Otherwise, Gandalf will throw a tantrum. Just ask Daryl.”
“Thanks. I get why you don’t want to get rid of it… but it’s so hard to work with.”
It wasn’t, but it did require careful attention. “Patience is key.”
