Page 56 of The Blight of Hollowmire

Her jaw tightens, brown furrowing in confusion. “But it is here. How? How do you think it found its way up through the mountains when Hollowmire has remained largely untouched?”

I exhale. “I don’t know. It must be spreading somehow.”

“I suppose everything finds a root eventually.” She says it absently, attention still on the woman with the bread. I frown at her answer, considering.

Near the center of the village stands an inn beneath a faded painted sign depicting a white stag. Age and weather have worn the beast’s face into something solemn and rather unwelcoming.

“Let’s try in there first,” she says. “Maybe they can point us in the right direction.”

Immediately, we’re met with a wave of warmth that smells of woodsmoke, sour ale, hot stew, and years of travel-sweaty bodies packed together. Conversation lowers when we enter, then rises again by cautious increments.

The innkeeper glances up from behind the counter, his gaze moving over my sword, our travel-stained clothes, Vireth’s hood, and finally Nibblebones peering out from beneath her cloak. He pauses just long enough to decide he is not being paid enough to ask questions—then again, perhaps the swords have more to do with it. By all rights, a sensible man.

“We need rooms,” I tell him.

“How many?”

“Two,” Vireth says immediately. “Two rooms. A bath, if you have it, and whatever meals may be added on.”

“I have a horse outside, as well, if you’d point me in the direction of the stables.”

The innkeeper blinks. “We only have the one.”

“Stable?”

“Room.”

“What utter nonsense,” Vireth scoffs. “This is an inn!”

“It’s a small inn. Not many travelers on the eastern road these days. We’ve the one room, and our other one we turned into a second storeroom. We’re bringing in lots more preserved foods these days, gotta have room for it all.”

“Poor harvests this year?” I venture. “Or something more serious?”

The innkeeper’s expression turns suspicious, and he merely shrugs at my question by way of answer. Vireth’s brow furrows, and she opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off before she can offend the man.

“We’ll take whatever you’re willing and able to provide.”

Vireth’s gaze snaps to me, but I ignore her simmering outrage. I also ignore the thrill winding through me at the thought of another night spent close to her.

The innkeeper nods and retrieves a key for the upstairs room. I place coins on the counter before either he or Vireth get into any kind of argument—idly, I think about Vireth’s sister and her easy merrymaking, and feel I am beginning to understand the appeal.

Of course, Nibblebones chooses that exact moment to flow from beneath Vireth’s cloak, snatch a sausage from a plate near the bar, and vanish beneath a bench.

The innkeeper stares after her.

“That,” he says slowly, “is not allowed.”

“She will remain with me,” Vireth insists. “And we’ve had an arduous journey.”

The innkeeper scowls until I add another coin.

“For the sausage,” I say.

“And the emotional distress?”

“Hmph,” I grunt. “That seems harder to calculate.”

The man snorts and gestures to a staircase tucked in the back, next to a stack of barrels that threatens to topple in a stiff breeze. Vireth whistles for Nibblebones, and I corner the stable boy at the entrance to slip him some more coins to ensure Magnar is well cared for.