Lily stopped before the Dancing Dragon Inn and pulled down her black hood, revealing her pale, doll-like face and the long platinum hair that had begun sticking to her slightly sweaty, salty cheeks. Annoyed, she gathered the silky mass behind her head and tied it into a quick ponytail before looking up at the sign hanging over the entrance.
A large western-style dragon had been carved into the wood and painted a deep red. Beneath it stretched the name of the inn in long, elaborate letters.
Old Man Al had already told her this place was called the Dancing Dragon Inn, so Lily knew what the sign was supposed to say.
That did not mean she could actually read it.
The first letter was probably a D, but it looked more like a backward C with several unnecessary lines attached to the open side. More strokes crossed through the middle until it almost resembled an O that had suffered some kind of magical accident. Everything after that became an even greater mess of curls, hooks, and decorative lines.
To Lily, it looked like the fantasy Elvish writing she remembered from her previous life, mixed together with some painfully fancy old Anglo-Saxon handwriting. Even the word Inn was barely understandable. The two narrow letters had been written so close together that they looked like a single m.
Lily stared at the sign for several long seconds before the terrible truth became impossible to ignore.
She could not read for shit.
Maybe, if she sat down and studied every symbol one at a time, she could slowly begin figuring it out. But it would be like watching a six-year-old practice reading for the first time, sounding out each letter while everyone else waited.
The thought horrified her.
Old Bruce had known how to read. He had written reports, studied case files, followed game guides, and read enough useless internet arguments to qualify as a scholar of human stupidity. Now Lily could not even understand the name of an inn when she already knew exactly what it was supposed to say.
This knowledge had to remain secret.
If anyone discovered that she, the brilliant president of Lily's Lake, was completely illiterate in Albion, she might never recover from the embarrassment.
Then again, this was a medieval world. Most ordinary people probably could not read either. Farmers farmed. Blacksmiths hit metal. Inn workers carried food. Nobody had time to sit around studying twisted decorative letters.
That made her feel slightly better.
"Ah, who cares," she muttered. "Learn later. More important mission now."
Food came first.
Lily pushed open the inn's large double doors and immediately stopped.
Warm candlelight flooded her eyes. Dozens of flames burned from wall brackets, tables, and hanging wooden frames, filling the enormous room with flickering gold. There had to be at least fifty people inside, perhaps more. Men, women, old people, young people, and children crowded around the tables, laughing and speaking over one another as though the entire village had gathered here to celebrate something.
Some drank ale from large wooden mugs. Others ate soup with thick pieces of bread or drank water from clay cups. At one table, several men played cards while betting small metal pieces that looked like copper coins. Elsewhere, children crawled beneath benches while tired parents tried to catch them.
Lily stared.
She had never seen so many people gathered together in this life.
Until now, she had only properly spoken with Mama, Papa Rob, Art, Reinheart, and Old Man Al. She had watched soldiers and mercenaries from a distance, but that was different. Those had been threats to observe and avoid. This was an entire room full of ordinary human beings simply living.
For a moment, nobody paid attention to her. They continued eating, drinking, laughing, and arguing as though a small forest girl had not just entered wrapped in an oversized black cloak.
That gave Lily time to study them.
They seemed happy enough, but there was one thing that immediately bothered her.
Most of them looked rather ugly.
The younger children looked decent, but many of the adults resembled Old Man Al: weathered faces, crooked teeth, scars, broken noses, rough skin, and hair that clearly had not met proper shampoo in its entire life. Their clothes were stained with mud and smoke, and several men looked as though washing had become a personal enemy.
Lily did not mean to be cruel. They simply looked unhealthy. Injuries had healed badly, teeth had grown crooked or gone missing, and years of hard work without medicine had left marks everywhere.
Why had Art looked so good compared with everyone here?
His teeth were straight. His skin was clear. His hair shone. His face looked almost unfairly balanced, and his body appeared strong enough to wrestle a horse.
Did nobles possess secret toothbrush technology?
Were rich people hiding soap from the poor?
Before Lily could investigate this injustice, she noticed that people had begun looking at her.
One person stared, then another. Whispers spread from table to table as more heads turned. A few men laughed after glancing in her direction, clearly making some joke she could not hear. Several women stared even more intensely, their expressions carrying something Lily could only describe as greed.
Her stomach tightened.
Shit. Is there something on my face? Why are they all looking at me like that?
A loose strand of platinum hair slipped across her right eye. Lily pushed it away, and the pale little hand that rose before her face made the answer suddenly obvious.
Her skin was smooth, clear, and fair, touched only by a light golden tan from years beneath the sun. There were no scars, pox marks, rough patches, or cracked knuckles despite all the climbing, digging, fighting, and forest work she had done. The light-heart always healed everything before it could leave much evidence behind.
Then there was her hair.
Most of the people around her had brown, dark-blond, or nearly black hair. A few were properly blond, but even theirs was darker and duller than Lily's. Hers was almost white beneath the candles, threaded with pale gold whenever she moved.
And nobody else had violet eyes.
Now that she looked properly, the villagers appeared like people from some old painting of northern Europe: broad farmers with sun-darkened faces, fishermen in wool and leather, hunters wearing patched hides, thick-armed craftsmen, blacksmiths stained with soot, and women in long dresses, aprons, shawls, and braided hair. Many were fair-skinned and blue- or gray-eyed, with the heavy features and sturdy builds Lily associated with Vikings from history books and movies.
Among them, Lily looked completely wrong.
A smooth-faced forest child with platinum hair, strange purple eyes, bare feet, and an expensive black cloak hanging around her like stolen noble clothing.
She might as well have been an alien.
"That why," she whispered. "I look suspicious."
That was not comforting. Small communities noticed outsiders, and Lily had already learned that being noticed could become dangerous very quickly.
She pulled Art's hood back over her head and slipped to the side before even more people could stare.
Stealth mode activated, sort of.
Round tables filled the common room, crowded with families, workers, travelers, and groups of men passing mugs between them. Lily weaved between stools, chairs, heavy boots, and swinging elbows, feeling as though she had entered a world inhabited entirely by giants. Children sat beside their parents or crawled beneath the tables, while adults ate, drank, laughed, and argued above them.
Then Lily noticed the stage.
It stood against the right wall, slightly raised above the floor, with enough room for a singer or a few performers. Resting beside it was a lute.
The instrument looked forgotten. Dust lay across its curved wooden body, and thin spiderwebs clung between the neck and the wall.
Lily slowed.
"What a waste," she murmured.
The sight pulled her backward into another life.
Bruce had loved The Witcher game series in her past life, especially the character named Dandelion and his talent for turning every disaster into a song. Eventually, inspired by the games and possessing far more confidence than musical ability, Bruce had bought a lute of his own.
Because of this his musical skills were quite good with the lute, his singing not so much. Frank had informed him of that almost immediately and with unnecessary honesty. Sarah usually laughed whenever Bruce attempted a dramatic ballad, though she still let him play at their house. Frank's children had loved it. They did not care if he missed notes or sang like an injured farm animal. They clapped, demanded more, and sometimes tried to sing along.
Frank usually sat nearby wearing the pained expression of a man being embarrassed on behalf of someone who lacked the sense to be embarrassed for himself.
Amber had been less patient. For whenever Bruce played at home, she generally told him to stop before the first song was finished.
Still, Lily remembered the children smiling.
Her fingers twitched beneath the cloak. Maybe she could still play. Perhaps only a few notes, just enough to hear music again. Perhaps the children here would enjoy it too. Maybe it was something useful she could offer.
She took half a step toward the stage. Then she remembered Old Man Al's warning.
Ask before taking.
The lute belonged to someone, probably the innkeeper, and touching other people's things without permission was exactly the sort of behavior that turned innocent travelers into berry thieves.
Lily reluctantly looked away.
Food first.
Music later.
Beyond the crowded tables stood a long wooden bar. Through an open doorway behind it, Lily could see firelight, steam, hanging pots, and servants moving through what had to be the kitchen. To her left, a staircase climbed toward the upper floors, where the guest rooms were probably located.
Lily fixed her eyes on the bar and marked it as her objective. Food first. Questions second. Lute permission third.
She pushed through the crowd, squeezing between stools and dodging people who seemed enormous from her height. One man nearly stepped backward onto her bare foot. Another swung a wooden mug close enough to her head that she had to duck.
Civilization was surprisingly hazardous.
When she finally reached the bar, she found a long row of stools occupied by tired, red-faced men drinking ale. Behind the counter stood a broad, heavyset man with thinning brown hair and thick arms, wiping wooden mugs with a cloth that looked only slightly cleaner than the cups.
Lily approached and discovered another problem.
The counter was several centimeters above her eyes.
She rose onto her toes.
Still not enough.
At best, the bartender might have seen the top of her hood drifting along the other side like a small black shark fin.
Lily frowned.
"Stupid tall furniture."
She looked along the stools until she found an empty one, climbed onto the lower support, and pulled herself onto the seat. Her bare legs dangled high above the floor as she leaned over the counter and waved fiercely at the bartender.
His back was turned.
Lily waved harder.
Nothing.
At last, she called out, "Excuse me, sir! Excuse me!"
Her high, bright voice carried farther than expected. Several men nearby turned toward her, followed by the bartender.
The man stopped.
For a moment, he simply stared at the small figure perched on the stool: the oversized black cloak, the pale face beneath the hood, the loose strands of nearly white hair, and those enormous violet eyes.
Then he glanced past her, searching the room as if expecting guards, servants, or some worried noble escort to appear.
No one did.
His manner grew careful as he approached.
"Well now," he said gently. "I have not seen you around here before, little miss. What can I do for you? Have you lost your family? If so, then my daughter can help you find them."
Lily's eye twitched at little miss, but she let it pass. Food first. Gender arguments later.
She shook her head and opened the front of Art's cloak.
"No lost. I come trade."
The word made the bartender pause.
"Trade?"
His eyes swept behind her once more, as though this might be some strange joke. Whatever noble child he had first imagined, Lily's broken speech and serious little expression did not fit the picture.
Lily noticed none of this. She reached into the leather pouch at her waist and discovered, with some distress, that she had eaten nearly everything during the journey. Now only four strawberries remained.
With a heavy heart, she placed them carefully on the counter.
The bartender's expression froze. So did the thick-haired man drinking beside her.
Each strawberry was almost as large as Lily's fist, perfectly shaped and brilliantly red, its glossy surface shining beneath the candlelight. The leaves around the tops were deep green and fresh, without bruises, rot, insect marks, or any other flaw.
They looked less like wild fruit and more like treasures taken from an enchanted royal garden.
The bartender stared for half a heartbeat too long before forcing his face back into calm merchant politeness.
"Those are strawberries?"
Lily lifted her chin proudly.
"Obviously. Very good strawberries."
The hairy man leaned closer, ale forgotten. "Never seen berries that size."
"You touch, you buy," Lily warned.
The man immediately pulled his hand back.
The innkeeper picked up one berry with surprising care, turning it between his thick fingers. "Where did you find these?"
"Forest."
"What part of the forest?"
"Deep part."
His eyes sharpened.
Lily noticed.
She had spent enough time questioning criminals to recognize when an innocent question was not entirely innocent. The man was not only interested in the strawberries. He wanted to know where they grew and how many more might exist.
That information belonged to Lily's Lake.
Classified agricultural intelligence.
The innkeeper studied her for another second, then took a small bite from the berry.
Juice ran over his thumb.
His eyes widened before he could hide the reaction. He chewed slowly, swallowed, then glanced down at the fruit again with a new kind of respect.
The hairy man beside Lily leaned over eagerly. "Well?"
The innkeeper ignored him.
"These are good," he admitted. "Very good. What are you asking for them?"
Lily opened her mouth. Then stopped, because that was an excellent question.
She looked toward the tables. Copper coins sat in little piles beside card players. A few men carried heavier pouches that probably held silver, perhaps even gold. She knew the basic idea. Copper was cheap, silver was better, and gold was serious money.
But how many copper coins equaled silver again? How much did bread cost? What was a normal strawberry worth, and what about four magical fist-sized strawberries?
In her old world, a box of strawberries might cost a few dollars. These were much larger and better, so perhaps ten dollars each? Twenty, if the buyer was generous? But dollars were useless here unless Albion had secretly invented the United States Federal Reserve.
Lily stared at the berries.
The innkeeper watched her thinking, which was bad.
In negotiations, silence could be useful, but only if the other person believed you knew what you were doing. Lily suspected she currently looked like a hungry child trying to remember whether numbers existed.
The innkeeper tapped one finger against the counter.
"Well?" he asked. "I've customers waiting."
Her stomach growled loudly. Several men nearby laughed.
Lily's cheeks warmed, and what remained of her patience died.
"Just give food," she said. "Bread and soup. Make fast. I hungry."
The innkeeper's eyes flicked toward the four strawberries. Then he smiled, not the soft smile from before. This one was a merchant's smile.
"All four berries for bread and soup?"
Lily hesitated to answer as she had no idea if that was a fair deal.
Still, she was hungry enough that fairness had become an advanced problem for Future Lily.
"Yes," she said. "All. But good food."
The innkeeper swept the strawberries into his hands before she could reconsider.
"Done."
Lily's little fists lifted in victory.
"Yes! First medieval trade!"
The men beside her laughed again, but Lily did not care. She had done it. She had entered civilization, approached a merchant, offered valuable goods, and successfully purchased a meal.
Capitalism unlocked.
The innkeeper disappeared through the kitchen doorway with her strawberries. Lily sat straighter on the stool, her bare feet swinging back and forth beneath her without her noticing.
The hairy man watched her legs move.
"First trade, was it?"
"Yes," Lily said proudly.
He took a long drink from his mug. "Could tell."
Lily frowned at him.
Before she could ask what that meant, the kitchen door opened again. A girl came through carrying a small clay bowl and a piece of bread.
She was perhaps a little older than Lily and only slightly taller, with brown-blond hair tied back beneath a cloth. She moved quickly between the customers, reached Lily, and placed the bowl before her.
"There you are," the girl said brightly. "All done."
Lily looked at the bowl. Then at the girl. Then back at the bowl.
"This for me?"
"Yes. You ordered soup and bread."
The bowl was scarcely half full. A watery broth covered a few chopped vegetables and one piece of fish no larger than Lily's thumb. Beside it lay a slice of bread small enough to disappear beneath her hand.
Lily glanced toward the nearby tables.
Other customers had full bowls. Proper bowls. Bowls containing enough food to qualify as meals rather than evidence that food had once passed nearby.
She looked down at her portion again.
"Maybe rest coming?"
The girl blinked. "The rest?"
"More soup. More bread."
"That's what Father told me to bring."
Before Lily could question her further, the girl hurried back toward the kitchen. The innkeeper returned a moment later and placed a wooden spoon beside the bowl. He wore a deeply satisfied smile.
Lily stared at him.
Then at the tiny meal.
A cold realization entered her mind.
Had she just been cheated?
"Hey," she said. "Where rest of food?"
The innkeeper shrugged his broad shoulders. "What rest?"
"I give four giant strawberries. You give tiny sad soup."
"You asked for bread and soup. There is bread, and there is soup."
"You know what I mean!"
"Do I?" His smile widened. "You never said how much you wanted, what kind of soup, or how large a piece of bread. I even had my daughter add fish. Very generous of me, considering we never agreed on it."
The men seated nearby burst into laughter.
One slapped the counter. Another raised his mug toward the innkeeper as if honoring a victorious general.
The hairy man beside Lily reached over and patted the top of her hood.
"Well done, little merchant. You've learned your first lesson already."
Lily knocked his hand away.
"What lesson?"
"Always settle the price before handing over the goods."
The men laughed harder.
Lily's face tightened into a deep frown.
The innkeeper had known exactly what she meant. He had seen the berries, tasted one, realized they were valuable, and then let her make a vague offer so he could give her as little as possible.
Sly fat bastard.
Old Bruce would have argued. He would have demanded the berries back, called for a manager, threatened legal action, or at least written a review so angry it became performance art.
Lily had none of those options.
She had no money, no allies, no knowledge of local prices, and no idea whether she had any rights inside this village. Everyone nearby seemed to know the innkeeper. They were laughing with him, not her. If she made a scene, she would become the strange barefoot forest child causing trouble on her first night in town.
That would be tactically stupid. So Lily stored the man's face in the quiet revenge section of her mind.
Later, maybe one day, when she was rich and powerful, she would buy this inn and replace every chair with one slightly too short for him.
For now, she needed food. Lily pulled the bowl closer and began eating.
The soup was terrible.
Not poisonous. Not rotten. Merely weak, watery, and disappointing. The vegetables had been boiled until they had surrendered their identities, while the fish tasted mostly of salt and old smoke.
Still, Lily ate every drop. Hunger had low standards.
When the soup was gone, she picked up the bread. At least bread would be good, she hoped.
The slice felt soft and warm in her fingers. Coarse bits of grain showed along the crust, and the smell made her stomach tighten hopefully. Lily took a large bite.
For one second, she was happy.
Then something scraped hard between her teeth.
Crunch.
Lily stopped chewing, as another tiny hard piece grated against a tooth.
Crunch.
Her eyes widened.
She spat the mouthful back into the bowl.
"What the hell?"
The hairy man looked over. "Something wrong?"
Lily pulled the bread apart and examined the inside. Small gray specks hid among the grain.
Stones.
The bread had stones in it.
She looked around the inn again. Missing teeth. Chipped teeth. Worn-down teeth. Crooked smiles everywhere.
A memory returned from her old life. Historical documentaries. Bad milling practices. Grain crushed between rough grinding stones, leaving small pieces of stone mixed into the flour. People ate the bread for years, and the grit slowly destroyed their teeth.
Lily stared at the slice in horror.
So that was why everyone's mouths looked like failed archaeological sites.
She called toward the innkeeper.
"Hey! Bartender! Why bread full of rocks? Where good bread?"
The innkeeper turned, looking genuinely confused.
Before he could answer, the hairy man beside Lily spoke around his ale.
"What are you talking about, girly? That is Dancing Dragon bread."
"That not answer."
"It's famous," he continued. "Fresh from the kitchen. Light inside, good crust, and a fine little crunch."
Lily stared at him.
"A fine little crunch?"
"Aye. Music for the teeth."
Was he serious?
The innkeeper came closer, took the slice from Lily, and bit into it without hesitation. He chewed, swallowed, and handed it back.
"Nothing wrong with that."
"There stones!"
"A little mill grit," he said, as if discussing pepper. "Less than you'll find in most bread. Our grinding stones are good quality."
Lily's mouth fell open.
The innkeeper continued proudly, "The pieces are small too. Won't break a proper tooth unless you bite badly."
The hairy man nodded. "Exactly. Fine crunch."
Lily slowly looked from one man to the other. These people were insane.
The grit in the bread was not an accident. They knew the flour contained pieces of grinding stone. They simply considered having fewer stones than usual a sign of superior craftsmanship.
Her dreams of medieval food collapsed.
There would be no perfect loaf with butter and peanut butter. No glorious bakery filled with soft rolls. Even pies and pastries would be ruined if the flour came pre-seasoned with geology.
Civilization had invented bread and then sabotaged it.
Lily set the slice down.
Her hunger had not vanished, but her enthusiasm certainly had. At that moment, she wanted her strawberries back more than anything.
Unfortunately, they had already disappeared into the kitchen, probably guarded like royal treasure.
She looked at the empty soup bowl. The meal had filled perhaps one-fifth of her stomach, nowhere near enough. She still needed more food, somewhere to sleep, and supplies for the journey home.
Her legs ached from walking. Her bare feet were sore, and exhaustion had begun settling over her like a second cloak. She could technically leave the village and sleep beneath a tree again, but after Old Man Al's warnings about bandits, slavers, and every other charming danger beyond the walls, she had no desire to walk back to the gate and spend the night alone under the moon, and she wasn't about to beg for help from anyone, she was Lily of the lake after all.
So Lily turned toward the innkeeper.
"What I need do for room and more food?" she asked. "I can work. Kitchen, dishes, sweep floor, carry things. I useful."
The innkeeper raised one eyebrow and laughed.
"Sorry, girl. We haven't got any Princess-sized rooms available."
Several nearby men chuckled.
Lily's eyes narrowed.
"And I've no work for you here," the innkeeper continued. "My wife has the kitchen, my daughters serve the tables, and I manage the bar. We've no need for another pair of hands."
"I have good hands," Lily protested. "Very skilled."
"I'm sure you do."
But he barely seemed to hear her. His eyes had already returned to the empty pouch at her waist.
"Now, if you have anything else to trade…"
Lily covered the pouch with one hand. It was empty, but he did not need to know that.
The innkeeper leaned closer, lowering his voice as though offering her a great secret.
"Better yet, you could return to the forest and gather more of those strawberries. Fruit like that would make excellent preserves. My wife could bake pies, perhaps brew a sweet drink from them. There would be good coin in it."
Good coin for him, Lily thought.
"I'll make you a generous offer," he continued. "Bring me another full pouch, and I'll give you twice as much food as I gave you tonight."
Lily looked at the empty soup bowl and the small piece of stone-filled bread.
Twice almost nothing was still almost nothing.
The man had no interest in giving her honest work. Maybe there was a floor that needed sweeping or a corner where she could sleep, but he clearly preferred sending her back into the forest to collect rare ingredients for almost no cost. Why pay an experienced worker when a hungry child might gather valuable berries for scraps?
Lily's face crumpled into a dark little frown.
He did not want an employee.
He wanted a cheap berry supplier.
And worse, he seemed convinced she was foolish enough to thank him for the opportunity.
She grumbled under her breath and rested her chin in one hand.
Lily had skills. Plenty of them.
She could track animals, swim across a lake, climb trees, perform flips, shoot a bow with reasonable accuracy, build traps, make pottery, cook eggs in more ways than civilization probably knew existed, grow enormous fruit, negotiate peace with foxes, govern chickens, and survive several varieties of small-scale forest war.
She was not the greatest craftswoman, hunter, or warrior in the world, but she was capable. Useful. She had survived alone for years.
Unfortunately, none of those talents immediately translated into room and dinner at a crowded village inn.
She could hardly offer to perform a backflip and demand accommodation.
Probably.
So Lily looked around for ideas.
The Dancing Dragon was packed. Men drank, families ate, children played beneath tables, and nearly everyone seemed louder and happier than people had any right to be this late at night.
"What they celebrate?" Lily asked.
The innkeeper had already turned away to serve another customer, so she looked toward the thick-haired man beside her. He was slumped over his mug, blinking slowly as though sleep and ale were fighting for control of him.
Lily tapped his arm.
"Hey, Jackass."
The man lifted his head. "What?"
"What special occasion? Why whole village here drinking in middle of night?"
He squinted at her, then grinned.
"You don't know? We finished the new tower mill."
"The windmill?"
"Aye. Been celebrating nearly a week." He lifted his mug proudly. "Fieldwork is mostly done, the old stores are being emptied before they spoil, and harvest will fill them again soon enough. Once the chief and the lord take their shares, there should still be plenty left for winter."
He drank, spilling a little ale into his beard.
"And Einsway is no ordinary village," he continued. "We sit along the road between the Lionheart lands and the Pendragon Crownlands. Messengers, traders, soldiers—everyone passes through here sooner or later. That means we get improvements before most places."
His drunken smile widened.
"New roads. Better mills. A proper messenger post. All thanks to Crown Prince Arthur."
Lily frowned.
"Arthur?"
"The prince himself designed the tower mill, or so we're told. Imagine that—a royal prince using his mind to make life easier for folk like us." The man raised his mug toward the ceiling. "God bless Prince Arthur!"
A few nearby drinkers echoed the cheer. Lily on the other hand went quiet at the thought of it all.
Prince Arthur, King Uther, Camelot, Albion?
It sounded far too much like an old legend from her previous life. Yet this world was not the story she remembered. The details were wrong. The kingdom was young. The technology was strange. The monsters were apparently real.
Still, the names kept piling up.
"Very suspicious," she muttered.
Then she noticed something else. Everyone was celebrating, but there was no music.
People laughed and talked, yet the room felt strangely hollow beneath the noise. No one sang. No one played. The dusty lute still leaned beside the empty stage as though it had been forgotten along with the person who once used it.
Lily stared at it.
She could play. Not brilliantly, perhaps, but well enough to hold a tune. Singing was another matter. Frank had once told Bruce that his voice could frighten criminals into confessing. Sarah had usually laughed, Amber had demanded silence, but Frank's children had loved every terrible song.
Still the children had smiled, and that most of all mattered.
Lily swallowed.
Playing before an entire inn was different from playing for family. There were too many people here. Too many eyes. Too many chances to fail publicly and become known forever as the strange forest girl who could not read, negotiate, or sing.
But she needed food, a bed, and coin would be nice as well. Besides a simple melody should not be impossible, right?
Lily turned back toward the innkeeper.
"Hey, bartender!"
He looked over, already impatient.
"What now?"
Lily pointed toward the stage.
"What if I play music? Sing song. People give coin, you give food and room?"
The innkeeper followed her finger toward the lute, then looked back at her with open surprise.
"You can play that thing?"
"Yes."
He studied her more carefully. Lutes were not common instruments among villagers. They belonged to traveling bards, court entertainers, jesters, and people who earned their meals by making louder people stop talking.
Finally, the innkeeper shrugged.
"If you truly know how to play, the stage is yours. Entertain the room, and we'll see what you earn. Impress me enough, and I may even feed you."
"Room too?"
"We'll discuss the room after I hear you."
Lily accepted that as progress.
Then the innkeeper nodded toward the dusty instrument.
"One warning, though. Some say that lute is cursed."
Lily paused.
"Cursed how?"
"It belonged to an old traveling minstrel. Died on that very stage several years ago."
Her eyes widened. "How?"
The innkeeper leaned against the counter, enjoying the story.
"One moment he was singing. The next, he clutched his chest, fell over, started jerking and shaking like a demon had climbed inside him, then died before anyone could help."
The thick-haired man crossed himself.
"Haven't heard music from that stage since," the innkeeper added. "Nobody wants to touch the instrument, let alone step on that stage."
Lily looked toward the lute.
She recognised those symptoms, chest pain, collapse, convulsions. A heart attack, perhaps. Maybe a stroke or another sudden medical emergency. The man had most definitely not been possessed. He had simply been dying in a room full of people who did not understand what was happening.
Perhaps CPR would not have saved him, but nobody had even known to try.
The thought saddened her more than she expected.
"Not curse," she said quietly. "Probably heart stop working."
The innkeeper stared at her.
"His heart stopped because of the lute?"
"No. Forget it."
Lily slid from the stool.
"I honor old bard. I play his lute and make people smile. Then lute not lonely anymore."
The innkeeper gave her a doubtful look.
"Very well."
Lily lifted her chin.
"Prepare be amazed. You see star being made."
She hurried away before he could ask what that meant.
Behind her, the innkeeper and the thick-haired man exchanged confused looks.
The stage came nearly to Lily's chest. She planted both hands on the edge, pulled herself up, and rolled onto it with slightly less dignity than intended.
A few people glanced over.
Her stomach tightened. Standing at the doorway had been one thing. Standing on a raised stage made her visible to the entire room. The crowd suddenly seemed much larger. Every laugh sounded aimed at her. Every wandering glance felt sharp.
Lily drew a slow breath. She knew this feeling.
In her old life, Bruce had struggled with ordinary people, ordinary conversations, and ordinary expectations. But once he put on a vest, carried a badge, and went to work, everything changed.
Then he was not Bruce trying to speak to strangers. He was an officer performing a duty.
The uniform became armor. People who cursed him were not really cursing Bruce. They were cursing the badge, the vest, the role. Praise belonged to the uniform too. None of it had to reach the person underneath.
Lily closed her eyes.
This was work. The stage was her uniform. The lute was her badge. These were not villagers judging Lily. They were simply an audience waiting for a performer. Whatever they thought belonged to the performer, not to the frightened girl hiding beneath Art's black hood.
Her breathing steadied. When Lily opened her eyes again, the room no longer seemed so frightening.
It was only a job.
She crossed the stage and lifted the old lute from where it rested against the wall. Dust coated its curved wooden body, and thin spiderwebs clung between the neck and the strings. Lily blew across it, sending a pale cloud drifting through the candlelight.
The instrument had been abandoned for years.
So had she, in a way.
"Neglected lute and neglected Lily," she murmured. "Good team."
The thought made her smile.
As she settled onto the stool and rested the lute against herself, old memories returned: roaming through The Witcher, hunting monsters, listening to Dandelion turn disasters into songs, and later sitting with a real lute in her own clumsy hands while Frank's children begged her to play again.
She tested each string and carefully adjusted the pegs. The lute was badly out of tune, but it was not broken. There was still music sleeping inside it.
Then Lily noticed several children gathering near the stage. They watched her from below with wide, curious eyes, as if she were about to perform magic.
A song came to mind.
It was simple, cheerful, and impossible for children not to enjoy. Even adults could tolerate it, probably.
Perfect.
Lily placed her fingers against the strings and played a short rhythm to test the instrument.
"One, two… three and four. One, two… three and four."
Pam-pam, pa-pa-pa-pa, pam-pam.
The melody was rough at first, but the lute answered cleanly enough. Lily repeated the rhythm, corrected one sour note, and nodded to herself.
Good.
Then she realized the room had grown quiet.
The gamblers in the center had stopped playing. Mugs hung halfway to mouths. The innkeeper watched from behind the bar. In the far corner, three hooded figures who looked like low-budget assassins from a video game whispered to one another while glancing toward the stage.
Most importantly, a crowd of children had gathered directly below her.
One little girl bounced excitedly on her toes.
"Do it again!"
"Yeah!" another child cried. "More!"
Lily blinked.
She had not even started singing yet.
Was her playing really that impressive?
Then she remembered where she was. These people could not play music whenever they wanted. There were no phones, radios, recordings, or internet. If no musician came to the village, they simply went without music.
Some of these children might never have heard a lute before.
The thought filled Lily with sudden determination.
Very well.
She would educate them.
She raised one small fist into the air.
"Okay, kids! Let us rock and roll!"
They had no idea what that meant, but they cheered anyway.
Lily began the rhythm again.
Pam-pam, pa-pa-pa-pa, pam-pam.
Then she sang.
"Old MacDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O…"
Her voice came out clear and bright, carrying easily through the quiet inn. The first verse was about a pig, complete with exaggerated little oinks that immediately made the children laugh.
When the melody reached its pause, Lily kept the rhythm going and leaned toward them.
"Come on! Sing with me!"
The children looked at one another.
Lily began the next verse more slowly.
"Old MacDonald had a farm…"
This time, several small voices joined her.
"E-I-E-I-O!"
By the time she reached the duck, nearly every child near the stage was singing. They shouted the animal sounds with far more enthusiasm than musical accuracy, hopping and clapping whenever the song returned to the chorus.
"Oink-oink here!"
"Quack-quack there!"
Soon adults began joining too.
Near the back, one man leaned toward his companion.
"Who's this Old MacDonald fellow? You know him?"
The second man scratched his beard thoughtfully.
"Could be one of those northern clans. Think I heard of some MacDonalds beyond the sea."
"A noble?"
"Maybe. Must own a fine farm, whoever he is."
The first man listened for another moment, then shrugged.
"Doesn't matter. Girl sounds like an angel, and the tune sticks in your head."
He raised his mug and joined the chorus.
Before long, most of the inn was singing about Old MacDonald's increasingly crowded farm. Drunken men shouted animal noises across tables. Women clapped along. Children competed to see who could oink the loudest. Even the gamblers had abandoned their cards.
Lily continued for several verses, changing animals whenever the children demanded it. Pig, duck, cow, sheep, horse, chicken—each one louder than the last.
When she finally struck the closing chord, the room erupted.
Applause thundered against the walls. Mugs struck tables. Children cheered as if Lily had defeated a dragon instead of teaching an inn full of drunk medieval villagers a nursery song.
Heat rushed into her face.
She stood and gave a small, awkward bow.
"Thank you. Very cultured audience."
Then the true nature of what she had done caught up with her.
Grown men were drinking themselves senseless while singing a children's song about farm animals.
Bruce had introduced Old MacDonald to medieval civilization.
Lily cringed internally.
Oh God. What have I done to these people?
Still, she could hardly stop now. They liked it. More importantly, entertainment meant attention, and attention could become food, money, perhaps even a bed.
This might actually work.
As Lily straightened from her bow, Art's oversized hood slipped from her head.
Her platinum hair spilled free beneath the candlelight.
Gasps rose from several women. Men began whispering. The children stared up at her with shining eyes.
To them, the strange little performer on the stage looked almost unreal: pale hair glowing gold-white in the firelight, enormous violet eyes, a clear voice, and a black cloak hanging around her like a magician's costume.
Lily, naturally, understood none of this.
The same little girl from before gazed up at her in wonder.
"Are you an angel?"
Lily assumed she was joking.
"Maybe," she said with a playful smile. "Hihihi."
A thin dark-haired boy near the front lifted both arms.
"Sing it again!"
"Yes, again!" the other children shouted.
More voices joined them until the demand spread through the room.
Lily sighed dramatically and sat back down.
"Fine. But this time, everyone sing properly."
She placed her fingers on the strings and began the rhythm once more.
This time, the entire inn knew when to join in.