Page 29 of Tossing the Caber

The Dun Steorran dancers whirl beneath orbs of light, the sky above darkened by magic to bring out the beauty of their star-lined ritual movements. Beacon usually appreciates them in silence, but right now, he’d give anything to hear Laurel’s thoughts on the celestial celebration.

But Laurel isn’t here. He was supposed to be. Instead, Beacon received a ghastly message on the little compact glass Laurel had him start carrying around, explaining that Laurel got caught up in something and would be missing the dance.

Bereft, Beacon finds himself drifting to the long table covered in drinks, from locally brewed ale to barrels of springwater from the highest Dun Steorran mountain peaks. Beacon’s first mug of ale goes down tastelessly and sours in his stomach. The second sits untouched in his hand while he stares into the murky brown surface.

“Is something wrong with it?” asks a voice at his elbow.

Head jerking up, Beacon says, “What?” He looks around, disoriented.

“The ale,” the owner of the feminine voice repeats, coming into view—short, is the first thing Beacon notices. Shorter even than Laurel. She continues without seeming to notice him blinking twice. “Or is it cider? Is something wrong with it?”

For once, Beacon feels disinclined toward his usual manner. He doesn’t enjoy being rude, he simply wants to be left alone. Well, not by everyone, not anymore. One person in particular has become welcome in his orbit. “Uh, no. I’m—” There’s nothing wrong with thefucking ale. Beacon clears his throat. “It’s just…”

The last attempt at explanation appears to have gone unheard or is of little enough note that she doesn’t interrogate it. “Oh! Good. Because I need a drink. Badly.”

Brushing back her thick red hair, darker than Beacon’s own, the stranger pours, filling her own mug before holding the carafe out to Beacon in silent offering. “Sorry, what were you saying? ‘It’s just’ what?”

“Um. Thanks.” Beacon reluctantly proffers his mug, still half-full. It takes a moment to realize he’s failed to answer twice in a row, but the stranger’s raised eyebrow is directed at his mug.

Indulging in the contents of her own mug, she comments, “Oh. Actually, it’s quite good. Can’t say I blame you forhiding behind the ale table. What with all the”—she sets down carafe to make a vague hand gesture—“annoyingly happy couples.Ugh. I’m Aisling, by the way.”

After a long moment of silence, Beacon decides that he agrees. “The couplesareannoying.” Yes, especially the happy ones.

Mid-gulp, the stranger garbles, “I know,” then coughs. “You’d think everyone would’ve calmed down a little by now that new Market shine has worn off, but they’re just getting more… couple-y.” She takes another, more careful sip. “No wonder you look like someone pissed in your mug, sitting here watching this all night. Wait… is that why?”

“No.” Beacon doesn’t realize how fuzzy the ale has made him until the confession pops out: “My husband is avoiding me.”

“Oh!” Suddenly assuming a rather serious countenance, the stranger sidles up to him. “That would do it. What happened?”

Beacon hesitates, gauging what his pride can handle. “I don’t know.”

“That’s the worst kind,” she says with a sober nod. “I bet that’s what Brook thinks about me right now. She doesn’t know why I’m avoiding her.” The carafe on the table begins to move, and Beacon looks down in surprise to see it float toward her free hand.

No, not float.

The damn woman has atail.

“My fiancée.” She doesn’t appear to have noticed Beacon’s eyes nearly falling out of his head. “My fake fiancée, I mean.”

“Fake fiancée?” He shouldn’t be staring.He shouldn’t be staring.

“Yes. She’s incredibly gorgeous.” Beacon clocks the moment she notices he’s looking at her tail—a thin, spade-tipped thing—but she doesn’t appear offended. “I know, not many tails around, but I think they’ll be the next big thing. It’s so convenient.”

“I, I know. My husband has a—” Beacon goes ramrod straight, ale from his full mug sloshing over his hand.

“A tail? Did he get it from Laurel Lushroot?”

“He—” Fuck. One of Laurel’s clients? This conversation is far too dangerous to continue. “No. Yes. I have to go.” Setting the mug down, he shakes ale off his hand but doesn’t pause to grab a rag before bolting, passing quickly from the artificial dark into the late afternoon sun.

As he hurries toward the street, however, Beacon catches sight of the last person he can handle seeing right now.

Rodney Lushroot.

He tries his mightiest to turn away, pretending he didn’t see his father-in-law, but Rodney saw him as well and doesn’t seem inclined to allow a graceful escape.

“Beacon Sure-of-Foot!” he calls.

Beacon frees an agonized rush of breath before turning to face Rodney. “Afternoon.”