Page 11 of Homeward for a Spell

“Wait.” Now it’s Sage’s turn to furrow her brow. “Araphi, what exactly do you think you’re auditioning for?”

4

Araphi

Oh no.

Araphi has made a mistake. A terrible, unthinkable mistake.

How could she have believed this was a party party, with food, music, dancing, flirting…and a place for her, of all people?

She wants to crawl under the table and hide.

At Sage’s puzzlement, it becomes clear that Clara and the bard were talking about an adventuring party when she overheard them last night at the Dragon’s Bane. Gods. Is Araphi really so preoccupied, or so desperate for distraction, that she missed such a crucial fact? Or was it just the socialite in her coming out in full force, perceiving the world as she’s been trained to do?

Not that seeing Sage again is unwelcome. It is, in fact, the exact opposite of unwelcome.

If she is being honest, Araphi has thought about Sage far more often than any engaged woman should have.

She studies Sage now: her short, sharply cut blond hair, the careful casualness of her long limbs, the pale ghost of a scar above her left eyebrow, and the way she’s looking up at Araphi from across the table. As though she’s thunderstruck that anyone might prefer a proper party over a rough trek through cold, beast-riddled woods. As she waits for Araphi’s answer, Sage quirks a knowing half smile, which makes a dimple pop on her cheek.

Araphi feels her own breath hitch. How can such an irritating person be so attractive? It shouldn’t be allowed.

“I imagine your adventuring party”—Araphi emphasizes the word to show her understanding even as Sage’s half smile becomes a full smirk—“is hiking to the Northlands for some precious resource, which will be obtained through ridiculously dangerous means that only a crack team of skilled adventurers could manage. Perhaps it’s best I leave you to it, then, and return to my shopping.” She’s determined to get out of this tavern with as much of her remaining dignity as possible. “There’s a barge I can take back to Harrow tonight, if I hurry.”

“The magical one that costs most people a month’s salary to ride?”

Araphi flinches at the mention of money. She shouldn’t have brought up the barge. From the state of Sage’s boots—sturdily made but dreadfully battered—and the fact that she’s working with an adventure party this late in the year…Well, Araphi just shouldn’t have said it. The enchanted barge, which traverses several hundred miles of the Willowthorn River between Ashaway and Kingfisher in a scant few hours, is used all the time by her family, whether for business or pleasure. Her parents board it when they feel like having dinner in Kingfisher, but want to return home later that evening. Araphi hasn’t ever given much thought to the fact that it’s a luxury well beyond the means of most people in Harrow. She took it last night, arriving in Kingfisher in the early hours of the morning, where she promptly checked in to a lavish inn and fell asleep until lunchtime. It took her the better part of the afternoon to prepare for this audition and work up the nerve to find the Pearl and the Grit.

Shame fills her and she clears her throat. This is all going so terribly wrong. She’s got to get out of here. But before she can say anything else, a tall, red-faced woman in a barmaid’s apron comes over to the table.

“Something to drink, love?” she asks Araphi.

“I was just going,” Araphi says, starting to stand.

Sage rests a hand lightly on Araphi’s arm, the contact making her stomach flip. “Have your tea. I’m not here to chase you away, I promise. And I won’t judge you for how you got here. Stay?”

Araphi’s spine straightens at the challenge in her words and the teasing look in Sage’s eyes. “Very well, I’ll stay. Just for tea.”

“We don’t have tea here,” the tavern server says flatly. “Ale, cider, and wine, and none of them fancy, but they do the job.”

Araphi wasn’t planning on drinking today, but if there isn’t to be a party after all, she might as well stay for one drink. “I’ll have a cider, then.”

“Excellent choice,” the barmaid says, and hurries away.

“Well,” Sage begins a few seconds later. It’s only then that Araphi realizes Sage’s hand is still on her arm, her fingers lightly resting above the bones of Araphi’s wrist.

She swallows. “Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to audition?”

It takes Araphi a moment to understand Sage’s meaning. When she finally catches on, heat flushes her cheeks. “Oh no. I think your party will be just fine without me.”

Sage takes a sip of ale, withdrawing her touch. “You never know, Bard; we might need you. What are your applicable skills?”

It’s a fair question—one that Araphi desperately wants to answer correctly. She can’t say flower arranging, or knowing the exact shade of gemstone to wear with what outfit, or which wines go best with fish, or really anything that Araphi Clauneck would know. Instead, she tries to think about what Phi Runesong—the prize-winning bard who enthralled a whole tavern in the Rookery with a ballad, for gods’ sakes—would say to this question.

Her cider arrives and she takes a long sip, grateful for the chance to clear her throat and arrange her thoughts. “Well, I can talk to people.”