The dragon hobbyist is walking out the door with his group. I wonder if he’ll go to the ruins despite my warning.
Halvard refills some patron’s cups with water. I grab his elbow and lean close to his ear.
“Eh, do you really think the ruins are cursed?” I ask.
The orc’s eyes widen, and his meaty hand grips the pitcher so hard that a crack runs from the handle to the lip. The folks seated at the table next to us glance our way, then go back to their game of cards.
“Aye, Cyrus. I saw a ghost up there when I was helping Delixian free that goat trapped in the old fencing.”
“A ghost?”
He grimaces around his tusks. “It was a light and it screamed at us. Ask the healer. He’ll corroborate.”
“I believe you. I remember passing by during that drought when we were trying to find wishberries. It was Kaya, Tully, and I. Awful sounds came up from the ground near what’s left of the gates in the walls.”
“Why do you ask?”
I shrug. “A customer was talking about going up there for research.”
The pitcher cracks the rest of the way and water gushes onto the back of a female orc seated at the table.
“Oh!” She whirls and glares at Halvard, but then her face melts into a saucy grin. “You could have simply saidhello.”
Halvard smiles politely. “I’ll get you a towel. Apologies.”
The female orc is still eyeing him as we make our way to the linen closet beside the bar. Halvard digs out a small towel and tosses it over his shoulder.
“I don’t think she’s too upset about that,” I say, snickering. “I will say, that’s a clever way to get a date.”
Halvard gives me a withering look, but then he sobers as we return to the table. The female accepts the towel and my apologies as pub owner. I promise her a free meal, then I start toward the door.
“Do you think we should alert Rustion?” Halvard asks.
“Maybe. I’ll take care of it. You all right here? I need to give Kaya a hand at the bakery.”
“Sure. We’re good.” Halvard is already turning away to serve a party of humans.
Outside, the weather is just about perfect. Tree seeds float through the air, maplecats curl under flowering bushes, and the town is pleasantly busy with tourists and residents alike out enjoying the soft breeze. It’s a short walk to Rustion’s estate and once I’m inside his gates, I find him quickly. He’s talking to his beekeeper, who wears a white tunic and a hat draped in gauze.
“Good afternoon, Cyrus,” Lord Mayor Rustion says, giving me a smile. The old lion shifter helped me get the pub started years ago. He invested in me, giving me the funds to build out the kitchen and purchase furniture.
“Morning, Mayor. How are the bees liking this weather?”
The beekeeper—I forget his name—nods. “It’s ideal as long as the wind doesn’t get too wild. The dandelions, crocuses, and daffodils are out in force.”
“Don’t let me forget to put in my order when you have the honey ready.”
“I will reserve your usual,” the beekeeper says. “Don’t worry.”
“Thanks.”
“What brings you here, Cyrus?” Rustion is studying my face and likely sees the concern there.
“There are some folks heading up to the ruins,” I inform him.
Both males’ faces fall.
I hold my hands up. “I know. I told them not to go.”
