Something about slow nights wore on Grant like the helpless dread of a man watching a house fire. The restless urge to do something warred with the reality of there being nothing to be done, which pushed against every instinct to look busy. An inn boy could only polish the same glass so many times before someone noticed, after all.

  Only a few unfortunate guests from out of town had joined them for dinner service, as every Iorian had already heard the legends about the fish stew and knew to give the inn a wide berth every Sunday.

  It was well past last bell when Grant shook the dustpan empty on the ground of the back alley. As he made one more round of the restaurant to make sure the ants wouldn’t be joining them in the night, his boss poured himself another drink, beginning his routine rant about being too old and wanting to sell the inn so he could finally retire. Soon he would be slurring his words with his head on the table. Grant recognized this as his cue to leave.

  He approached the innkeeper hesitantly, hoping that the drink had put him in a better mood. “All done, boss. May I go to bed?”

  Mr. Fletcher gave a brusque wave, signaling he was done with him for the night. With one final nod, Grant excused himself to his room.

  “Wait, boy.”

  Grant froze.

  “Drink with me.”

  His head snapped back. On a normal night, the old man would rather pour a barrel of ale into the storm gutter than share even a thimbleful with him.

  Trained reflexes kicked in, and knowing better than to make his boss say anything twice, Grant grabbed an empty mug and sat across the table. Mr. Fletcher filled it with ale from the pitcher, and the two sat in awkward silence. Seconds stretched on as Grant listened to the noise of his boss’s labored breathing, howling like a cracked window on a windy night. He debated whether he should say something or keep his mouth shut, but eventually, the decision was made for him.

  “Boy, what do you want?” The harsh voice came from across the table, more command than question.

  Grant coughed. “Sorry?”

  Mr. Fletcher shook his head. “Not with me. Not at this inn. I know you hate it here. Can’t blame you for it, either. I’m an asshole of a boss.”

  Grant didn’t know how to respond. “I don’t hate it here,” he said diplomatically. Wary of traps, he elaborated with caution. “Some nights are tough, but there are good ones too.”

  “No there aren’t.”

  Another silence.

  “I knew your mother.”

  Grant’s breath caught in his throat, and his fingers stiffened around his mug. “You did?”

  “You look like her.” The man’s eyes were distant, as if he were trying to remember an old dream. He nodded slowly as he spoke again, like it was all coming back. “Looked more like your father when you were a lad,” he said, taking a long pull from his ale.

  “You knew him too?” Grant reeled as fragmented memories reemerged.

  The front of an orphanage in Iori.

  His mother’s hair, an inky black mess that flowed past her shoulders just like his, swaying as she walked away.

  Waiting by the window.

  He pushed away the images, burying them where they belonged. How did he know my parents? And why now?

  Mr. Fletcher’s eyes wandered towards the door.

  “What do you want, boy?”

  There was a silence as he considered the question. He didn’t imagine his boss’s comments about his parents were untruthful, but perhaps the man had finally drunk away the last of his faculties. They’d never lived in Iori, and Mr. Fletcher did not seem like the traveled type. Either way, he was glad to be off the topic.

  “I want to be good at something. Something that matters,” he eventually said, hoping it would be good enough an answer.

  Mr. Fletcher scoffed and then leaned forward. “You’re going to have to give me more than that. Out with it.”

  Grant still didn’t know what to make of any of this, but the words came easily enough. “When I was in school, there was a problem on a test. It was about organizing a caravan filled with exports destined for multiple surrounding towns.” He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, making sure he wasn’t rambling. “We had to describe how we’d fit as many goods into as few wagons as possible, the route, how many drivers we’d need, loaders, unloaders, and the like. I filled three pages, both front and back. My teacher liked it so much that she sent it to the Merchant’s Guild for review.”

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  Mr. Fletcher tapped the table, signaling that Grant should get to the point. “And?”

  Grant’s shoulders slumped. “They found dozens of holes. By the time they were done, the paper was covered in more red ink than black.” He looked up towards the candlelight chandelier, a wistful sigh escaping his lips. “I just think it would be nice to be good at something like that.”

  He looked back down at Mr. Fletcher to find a thoughtful smile plastered across his face. It would have been terrifying if it hadn’t reached his eyes.

  “It would, wouldn’t it?”

  They sat in silence for a while longer.

  “Go to bed, boy.”

  Grant didn’t need to be told twice. He thanked the man for the drink and took his mug back to the kitchen, rinsed it well, and placed it on its rack. On his way back through the common room, he found the inn owner still at the table, staring thoughtfully into space.

  “I’m just an old man who owns an inn,” Mr. Fletcher said. Grant stopped mid-step, waiting for him to finish. “I’ve got no kids, no cousins, and the family I’ve got left either hate me or I hate them.” A sad look crossed his face. “Anne hasn’t been right lately. She’s as ornery as an ox with a branch up its ass and twice as dull. She used to be as sharp as a nail, that one.”

  It took Grant a moment to realize he was talking about Mrs. Fletcher.

  “I’m tired. It’s a good tired—a tired from 60 years of work.” He ran a hand through the few thin hairs remaining on the top of his head, as though to remind himself of his age. “But I’m serious about being too old for this, you know. The only reason I’m still here is cause I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

  Grant found himself staring, speechless, as a look of regret crossed Mr. Fletcher’s face. Everyone who ever heard the inn door’s creak knew that the man never wanted to be there, in that dusty and stale building jutting out from the corner of its dark and grimy alley, as if it had been stuffed in its spot as an afterthought, its owner stuffed in with it.

  In the dim light, the man Grant had spent the past four years cowering away from had never looked so small.

  “I’ve got no real sway or power, but if there’s something you want to do, I’ll put in a good word for you,” he continued. “Least I could do.”

  “I think that’s the only nice thing you’ve ever said to me,” Grant reluctantly responded.

  Mr. Fletcher snorted. “Don’t push your luck, boy.” He snapped the words, the sound of wood cracking in his mouth, but the humor in his eyes blunted the tone.

  Grant paused for a moment. Before he could talk himself out of it, he opened his mouth.

  “I got a job offer today.”

  Mr. Fletcher’s hazy eyes focused. “Where?”

  “Do you know the Nerelot Forge?”

  “Take it.”

  Grant nearly choked on his own spit. “What?”

  “Take it, you fool. You are talking about Edem’s place, right? I’m true to my word, boy. I’ll march down there myself and piss into their forge coals if they reject you.” He stopped, went to stand from his booth, but then thought better of it and sat back down. “Here, I’ll do you one better: you’re fired. You have a week to get out of my inn. Take the job or find yourself a cup to beg with.”

  Grant could only gawk. “How can I repay you?”

  “Not everything is about debts and payments, boy.” Mr. Fletcher’s eyes grew sharp, and he pointed at Grant accusingly. “The second you start weighing good deeds on a butcher’s scale is the second you start being one of them.”

  There was no need to elaborate on who them was.

  “Get to bed. Tomorrow may be your day off, but I don’t want you sleeping past sunrise.” He took another long drink and leaned his head back, his way of settling the matter, like a judge might strike his gavel.

  “Thank you,” Grant whispered, unsure if the man heard him.

  He excused himself and made his way to the service stairs. They creaked under his careful steps. His hands trembled as he pushed against the walls for balance. By the time he was halfway up, he could hear his boss softly snoring.

  Grant unlocked his door and ducked into the small dusty room, careful not to wake any of the guests sharing a wall with him.

  His repurposed storage closet was far too small to be called a proper bedroom. It didn’t have a lock to protect anything Grant owned, but to prevent drunk guests from barging in looking for the bathroom. But despite its flaws, he felt an odd familiarity with it, like a workman might his favorite pair of broken-in boots. It was the closest thing to home. He closed the door behind himself and double-checked that it had latched.

  After a full shift, the last thing on Grant’s mind should be staying up late. He lay on his bed, sinking into the thin, lumpy mattress as his mind wandered.

  Expectations were dangerous. It was one thing to work at a dingy inn, and it was a lot better than many in Iori had.

  But despite everything—from Dan’s recommendation to Mr. Fletcher’s insistence that he take the job—people had stations. Some built castles. Others lived in them. Some drove carriages. Others rode in them. It was the way of the world, and fighting it was as senseless as fighting a wave.

  Yet he couldn’t stop fantasizing.

  Keeping books, handling orders, talking to Dan during breaks—that would get him up every morning. Maybe in six months’ time, he’d look back on today and laugh that he was so excited about 20 minutes of freedom.

  Grant looked down at his hands. They were trembling. When was the last time he had been excited about something? Tomorrow, he would go to the forge and have a talk with Dan’s dad. He didn’t expect to get hired, let alone work there long, but stranger things had happened.

  Never to him, of course. Hopes and dreams were long buried in the yard of Grant’s idle thoughts, right between expectations and aspirations.

  But maybe, he would wake up a new man.

  You don’t deserve this.

  The voice reared its ugly head. It had been a while.

  “No. Dan said I’d be a great fit, and he’s been working there since he was six. Even Mr. Fletcher told me to take the job.” You won’t last a day, it persisted. He focused on a spot on the ceiling, hoping to drown it out through sheer willpower, but the voice would not relent. You’re not good enough. Dan only feels like he owes you. She didn’t want you.

  Grant squeezed his eyes shut. “Not now. Not tonight.” He clutched his blanket, and after a long war of attrition, succumbed to sleep in the early hours of the morning.