The Hidden Crystal

Chapter 2

"Hey!"

Iris smiled at the familiar faces in the inn, raising up their mugs with their roared greeting to her entry from the back room. "Good evening, everybody." She scanned the room as she tied her apron behind her back. As had been the case as of late, there were a lot of strangers tonight, most of them soldiers. The man in black was nursing a mug in a corner by the fireplace, his sharp green eyes flicking to hers. She suddenly felt intensely uncomfortable.

"Iris, I swear, you're the prettiest thin' in the whole worl'," slurred Mr. Jones, tipping his mug back and sloshing his drink down his shirt.

"And that means you've had enough," she said, taking his mug from him.

"Aw, Iris-"

A booming laugh echoed from behind the bar. "You know the rule, Jones," the barkeeper said, his gray eyes twinkling as Iris deposited the mug on the bar and grabbed a washrag.

"Why don't you go home to your pretty little wife?" she asked, wiping up the mess on the table. Mr. Jones stumbled to his feet and threw his arms around her. His table mates were laughing. Iris rolled her eyes. This happened almost every night, although it usually came a bit later than this. Mr. Jones had started drinking early today.

"Alright, come on," she said, slipping free from his clumsy embrace with ease and taking his thick arm in hers. "Time for you to go."

"Mollie is a pretty thin', isn't she?" he slurred, weaving too and fro as she led him to the door.

Maybe in his drunken eyes, or maybe when she was younger. But Iris went along with it, as she did every night. "Yes, Mr. Jones, she is. Better not keep her waiting," she said, removing her hand from his arm at the doorway and giving him a good push. He stumbled out the door, regaining his balance and singing drunkenly about his fair maiden as his portly frame wove a broken path down the street.

"Alright. Who needs a refill?" she asked, turning back to the crowd.

This was how she'd spent her nights for the past year. The regulars were easy enough to handle. They teased and flirted, but none of them actually meant anything by it. They were the only ones she allowed to get close to her. It was the strangers, whether they be travelers or soldiers, that she was careful to keep at arm's length. Mr. Tumes, the barkeeper, kept a close eye on her, but it was easier if there wasn't any trouble in the first place. Sometimes she felt like she was dancing, weaving in and out of the tables, serving food and ale to one group while being ever mindful of the table just behind her.

It was more exhausting than running around town all day.

"Iris, take this up to the last room on the right," Mr. Tumes said, depositing a plate of freshly cooked food and a mug of ale onto the bar top. "But be careful. The tenant's a mage."

"A mage?" she asked, her brown eyes widening. "Are you sure it's safe?"

"I wouldn't send you if it wasn't," he replied with a reassuring smile. "Besides, I can see the door from here."

She looked up at the railing surrounding the walkway above, and that door was, indeed, in plain sight of the bar. "Then I'll be right back," she said, picking up the plate and mug and heading for the stairs. The old wood creaked under her feet with each step up, though raucous laughter down below in the tavern drowned out the sound to everybody but her. She reached the landing and turned to the right. The last door on the right. That was the best room in the inn, reserved for special guests. A mage was special. She couldn't remember the last time a mage came through town.

She shuffled her load around so she could knock at the door, but stopped with her fist raised. The air was snapping and crackling like static electricity in the winter. A chill ran down her spine, like when she met the green eyes of the stranger down by the fireplace. She swallowed hard and knocked on the door. Maybe she was just tired. It had been a really long week.