Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
An artifact. “Fancy. From the king, I suppose?”
The barmaid nods proudly. “Owner here did a favor for the king once and was rewarded. Everyone comes here for the free onions with their beer. We have fried onions, too, if you’re more into that. Pickled ones, too. Baked, breaded…”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She offers me a wry smile and leans in again. “Just between you and me, I’d avoid the privy, though. It’s pretty rank and oniony.”
Ew. I wrinkle my nose and nod.
Just then, I see a feathered purple hat bobbing as it moves through the crowd, and I know immediately who that is. Barnabus has always had a taste for the most ridiculous, showy hats. I take a large gulp of my beer to brace myself, then grab the onion and take a huge chomp out of it, because fuck Barnabus. If he wants to talk to me (or worse), I hope I reek of onions.
“Atta girl,” the barmaid says.
I nod at her, eating the onion like an apple, and get to my feet to approach my former betrothed. Is he going to be glad to see me? Beg me to run away with him and leave this place? Or is he going to threaten me somehow?
Knowing what I know now—that Father has no money and we’ve no artifacts left—it’s tempting to consider leaving with Barnabus. To marry him and let Honori Hold become his problem. Let him figure out how to pay for the knights and their annual fees. Let him figure out how to get more artifacts.
But I’m already married, so I can’t do that.
And even if I did, he’d probably murder me in our marriage bed once his claim on Honori Hold was secure. He wouldn’t need me any longer, and a widower can marry again, of course. So no, marrying to solve my problems isn’t the answer, much as I might entertain the idea for a brief, shining moment.
I chew on the last of the onion, hoping that my breath is fragrant and terrible, and raise a hand in the air to signal him. He can come to me, I decide, and not the other way around. So I sip my beer and watch as another magical onion rolls into the basket. The barmaid grabs it off the top, slices it into quarters with a deft knife, and then wedges them onto the rims of four more mugs and sends them flying down the counter. She knows her stuff, and I’m impressed.
Then Barnabus is standing in front of me, a look of regal horror on his face as he eyes my rumpled, damp clothing and my frizzy hair that’s probably fallen completely out of its knot at my nape. I smile tightly at him, wondering if we’re going to bother with a polite hug and cheek kiss of greeting as all holders do.
He moves toward me and oh, I guess we are. “Barnabus,” I exhale as I say his name, brushing my cheek against his and making sure to get a lot of oniony air into my words.
Barnabus recoils, gazing up and down at me. “My gods, Aspeth, look at you. How has it come to this? What are you doing in this cesspool of a city?”
“Come to what?” I flutter my lashes and decide to play it stupid. “And I’m just visiting friends. What are you doing here?”
“Visiting friends? In that? Hardly.” He flicks a hand at my clothing. It’s creased from sitting in my trunk and covered in cat hair, and the colors are unflattering, but I didn’t think it was that bad. “Are you actually working with the guild? In the dirt?”
It’s more a matter of “excavating” than digging in the dirt. And I haven’t even gotten the chance to go excavating yet. Not that he needs to know that. “You set up this meeting. What is it you want?”
The look of incredulousness on his face turns to one of sheer calculation. “I want to know why you’re here. We were supposed to be married.”
Is he still going on about that? I broke off the engagement months ago. “You’re not in love with me, Barnabus. We both know this. So tell me what you want by dragging me here, because it’s obvious you want something.”
“I want Honori Hold.” His voice is soft. “It was in my grasp and you took it from me.”
“It’s not yours—”
“I’m a second son,” he continues. A mug with an onion decorating it is shoved in front of him by the barmaid and he draws back with a look of disgust. He nudges it away from him and turns back to me. “My brother is ridiculously healthy and his wife is pregnant. There’s no chance I’ll inherit my family’s hold. So I want yours.”
“You can’t have mine.” Not that I want it much at the moment, but I’ll be damned by all the gods if I just hand it over to this arse. “How did you even know I was here?”