The tavern is full. And loud. It was quiet when I arrived, but that was three hours ago, and I’m still here, waiting. This had better be the right place, Gods be damned.
No one looks twice at me in my chosen shadowy corner. Anonymity is key to my purpose. That and patience, though mine is wearing thin.
I pass the time watching the barmaid with fascination as the chaos around her gradually unfolds. Even when it was quiet she didn’t stop moving, always finding something to be doing. Cleaning the bar, shining the glasses, restocking the ale.
She sees all. She anticipates everything. She’s kept me topped up all this time, with a nod and a smile, eager to earn her tip at the end of the night, even as the bar fills.
The distinctive ring of a broken glass cuts through the din. When you spend enough time in places like this, you learn the difference between a happy broken glass and an unhappy one. This is the latter kind.
A hush falls over the crowd, but the barmaid is already moving. She vaults the bar, landing between two men who were just squaring up against each other. She looks between the two. Both of them are a head higher than her and twice her width, and yet, even as she looks up, she is somehow staring them down.
She doesn’t say a word—no one does—but as her eyes drift between the two their shoulders slump.
“Sorry, Nancy,” one of them mumbles.
A rare smile tugs on the corner of my mouth. My source was right. She’s the one I’ve been looking for. She’s revealed herself, and she doesn’t even know it yet.
And even better, I finally have a name.
By S.L. King
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