A Mischievous Tale of Magical Mayhem

5 | Mice and Makeup

The Tularul Tavern perched on an eroding bluff overlooking the channel on one side and a wild little cove on the other. The cove seemed to catch the worst of the current coming down the channel, and waves constantly beat upon the black rocks, throwing up plumes of white spray. On windy days or in stormy weather, the spray sometimes reached high enough to drench anyone who ventured too close to that side of the bluff.

The inn itself was built of old, oily wood, treated to withstand the salted air and frequent rain, and sided in gray shingles. From the outside, it looked rather like a shack, with a wide deck that extended precariously over the open air beyond the edge of the land. Inside, though, it was cozy and clean, with a dark wood floor polished by the tread of many feet, a stone hearth, long tables with bench seats meant for prolonged, communal drunkenness, and a tall bar with well-spaced seats for those who preferred a bit of privacy in which to drown their sorrows.

Past the public area lay a cramped kitchen, in which the innkeeper and his wife took turns toiling in the heat of blazing wood ovens, cooking breads, stews, meats, pies, and other things as supplies allowed, for the enjoyment of their paying customers.

The upper story housed both the innkeepers' private quarters and the guest rooms. A creaky staircase led up to a narrow, dark hall, with four doors on each side and one at the end, providing eight rooms for guests and one for the keepers.

The keepers' quarters were spacious, containing a wide bed, a separate chamber for bathing, and a little private balcony with chairs on which to sit and enjoy the finer weather.

One additional door, accessed via a brass ladder bolted to the wall and often overlooked on account of being more of a hatch in the ceiling than a proper door, led to the attic in which Benethane lived.

It wasn't a bad attic—drafty and leaky in places, but not horrible. It got frightfully hot in the summer, and wretchedly cold in the winter, and sometimes smoke clogged the air when the wind was just right and blew all the soot off the chimneys, but Ben found it comfortable enough. He felt grateful to have the space to himself—even if it was full of mice.

The mice didn't trouble him; they respected one another, and the attic was their home, too. He didn't set out traps when Brixby asked, and the mice didn't leave their droppings all over his things or chew holes in his clothes. In fact, they were very polite and discreet, for mice.

Business at the tavern picked up around sunset, so when Ben got back from his failed foray at the docks, he figured he had plenty of time to get into 'costume' before the mysteriously handsome elven stranger arrived—if he came at all.

It had been Mrs. Blunderdriff's idea, at first. Ben had been about nine when he'd dressed himself in her things and came down to breakfast, announcing that he was 'Benna' for the day. She'd almost died laughing. Afterwards, she took to dressing him in gowns and jewelry from time to time, and he didn't mind. He liked pretty things, and the drunken guests couldn't tell, or didn't care, if the lass serving them wasn't a lass at all. 'Benna' became a regular at the inn, and a favorite attraction.

It wasn't until one night when a guest, who'd taken a special liking to Benna, took Brixby aside and offered him a handful of silver bits that things changed. The guest had gone away with a busted nose and no place to sleep for the night, and Brixby said there would be no more dressing up.

Ben still wore women's clothes, from time to time, but he knew Brixby didn't like it. Nessa did—that was Mrs. Blunderdriff—and occasionally bought him dresses and trinkets to add to his collection, which he kept in an old sea chest at the foot of his bed.

He went to this now and took out a frock—dark green to match his eyes—with long skirts and a collar of white lace, the style of which hid the fact he hadn't a woman's chest. He laid it out on his bed, along with petticoats, stockings, and a set of false emeralds. Next, he coaxed the Sproutling from his hair and set it in a pot of soil on the windowsill before drawing himself a bath.