The autumn sky grew dark, and the wind shifted: a storm was on its way. Maggie Carlyle stopped sweeping the worn wooden floor of the dining hall and peered out the open window at the encroaching clouds. Knowing that the coming rain would blow directly inside and make more work for her–with the mop instead of the broom–she began to close all the windows.
It was a quiet afternoon, before the Thornton Inn would come to life during the evening meal rush. The familiar voices of Maggie’s mother and her kitchen maids were muffled by the door that hid the kitchen from view of the patrons. At the moment, though, the dining hall was empty, save for Maggie’s father, the innkeeper. He sat in his usual spot at a small counter nestled beside the stairs, going over the inn’s ledger.
The town of Thornton saw a good amount of business, thanks to a nearby port city, and the Carlyle family was doing well, but Maggie knew that running the inn was harder than her parents made it look. She had spent all of her 20 years growing up in the rooms above the inn, watching her parents, and still she had much to learn about caring for the inn and its patrons. Someday, Maggie would take her parents’ place as proprietor–a daunting, but exciting, prospect. She loved the inn dearly and couldn’t bear to let it leave the family when they were gone. Until then, she dutifully performed every task she was given.
Just as she closed the last window, a lone man entered the inn. A hard wind full of the smell of rain blew in behind him. Maggie’s father, Bernard, smiled and welcomed the guest. Maggie resumed her sweeping, but watched the newcomer from the corner of her eye. The travel-worn young man was in desperate need of a bath. He wore a black cloak, tattered at the hem, and there were multiple stains upon his shirt and trousers. He appeared to be perhaps a few years older than herself, with a lean and strong form. But his handsome features were marred by a worried look, and he had not stopped scrutinizing the room since stepping foot inside. He also had a wound of some kind on his side that had been hastily attended to and was partly hidden by the cloak.
Bernard made no comment on the man’s appearance or behavior, however. Instead, he set down his ledger, opened a large book, took up a quill, and asked, “What’s the name?”
She saw the man glance warily in her direction before approaching the counter. “Jack Ford,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Bernard paused, almost imperceptibly, before jotting down the name.
“And how long will you be staying?”
“Just for the night.”
Bernard nodded and finished noting the guest’s information, then looked up as Jack slid a silver coin across the desk.
“I need a private room, and dinner.”
“That is more than enough,” Bernard said, not collecting the coin. “Let me see if I have some change-”
“No need,” Jack said.
“It’s too much,” Bernard said, but Jack shook his head.
“Not to me.”
Bernard reluctantly slid the coin into his pocket and handed over a key. “You’ll be in number three. It’s just up the stairs there.”
Jack thanked him and immediately went up to his room.
As soon as she heard the door close, Maggie turned to her father, who beckoned her over.
“He’s wounded,” Bernard said in a low voice.
“I saw that,” she whispered back.
“Take some bandages to him. And some of your mother’s salve, too.”
Maggie nodded and headed to the kitchen to fetch supplies, wondering exactly what manner of man they were hosting. One with a false name, no doubt, but there could be many reasons for that. They saw all sorts pass through the Thornton Inn, and while her father took pride in the integrity of their establishment, and would never dream of harboring criminals under their roof, she knew that he gave people the benefit of the doubt far more frequently than she would. You never know what people are going through, her father often reminded her.
A few minutes later, Maggie left the kitchen with a pitcher of warm water for the room’s basin and a basket full of clean cloths, bandages, and a jar of salve from her mother. They didn’t know how bad Jack’s wound was, but it was sure to help. The salve was an old recipe, given to Maggie’s ancestor by an elven healer long ago. It had been passed down through the generations, and someday it would pass again from mother to daughter.
Maggie ascended the creaky old staircase and made her way down the narrow hall. Though all their guests were out for the day, she walked quietly out of habit, and knocked gently on their newest guest’s door. She heard a slight shuffling sound before the door suddenly flew open, and Jack stood before her with two daggers drawn, braced as if for a fight.
Maggie flinched away with a gasp, sloshing water from the pitcher onto her dress. They stared at each other for a breath, and then the man’s shoulders sagged. He let out a long exhale and sheathed his daggers.
“I, erm… I thought you were someone else,” he said, clutching his side and carefully lowering himself to sit on the bed.
She stood silently for a moment, her heart still pounding. There had been such a strange look in his eyes… it was not that of an angry or malicious attacker, but rather like a cornered animal–the wild, desperate look of a hunted man.
Jack gestured for her to enter. Maggie eyed him warily as she crossed to the small dresser where she set down the basket and pitcher beside the basin.
“You’re in some sort of trouble, aren’t you,” she said, turning back to him.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “It’s none of your concern.”
“It certainly is my concern,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “My family and I live here. If you’re putting us in any sort of danger by staying–”
“The less you know, the better,” he said, but then his face softened. “Your family won’t come to any harm, I swear it.”
Questions of what this man could be hiding swirled in her mind. But her father had trusted this stranger enough to let him stay, and her father had always been a good judge of character.
“Very well,” she said finally. “As long as it’s just one night.”
He gave her a weak smile. “I’ll be on my way in the morning, don’t worry.” He turned his gaze to the basket on the dresser behind her. “What’s in there?”
“Bandages, for your wound. My father noticed you were hurt.”
“Your father is a very kind host.”
She cleared her throat, trying to focus on her usual hosting duties. “Shall I light the fire?” she asked, gesturing to the fireplace.
“I’ll manage.”
“Do you need anything else? Perhaps we could draw you a bath, or wash your clothes?”
He looked down at himself. “I don’t have anything else to wear.”
“Well, I’ll be downstairs, if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
Maggie left feeling both confused and intrigued by the man. That look in his eyes was burned into her memory… she had never seen anything like it.
~~~
Once the innkeeper’s daughter had gone, the man going by “Jack” locked the door behind her and turned to the old mirror hanging above the dresser. He winced as he lifted his shirt to get a better look at his side. The room was dark, save for the single candle he’d lit just before his solitude had been interrupted, but it was enough to see that his side was worse than he’d thought.
As he tended to his wound with the salve and bandages, the enticing aroma of dinner began to waft into the room from downstairs. His empty stomach groaned at him. He needed to eat if he wanted to have the strength to complete his journey, but he had to be careful.
Before leaving the room, he peeked out his window at the street below. People bustled about, finishing their daily business before the storm, but that was all. He breathed, closed the window, and cautiously emerged from his room to head back downstairs.
In the dining hall, he found an empty table where he could sit with his back to the wall, giving him a clear view of both the front door and the door that led to the kitchen and, he presumed, to the stableyard beyond. He was glad for the new beard that he’d begun to grow since he left home. If anyone who knew him laid eyes on him, he ought to have a head start before they recognized his face.
The innkeeper’s daughter was the only one who noticed his arrival.
“What can I get you?” she asked, approaching his table as if nothing had happened earlier.
“Anything you’re trying to get rid of before it spoils.”
She gave him an amused half-smile. “I’ll be right back.”
He scanned the room, keeping a watchful eye on the doors and the activity inside and outside of the inn.
“Here you are,” she said upon her return, setting a bowl of steaming stew and a hunk of bread in front of him.
“Thank you,” he said. It was the first hot meal he’d had in days, and he said as much.
She pursed her lips slightly, but didn’t press him. Instead, she just asked, “Is there anything else you require?”
He shook his head, already filling his mouth with bread, and she left to tend to other customers.
The man took his time eating, grateful to have shelter for the night as the storm rolled in, pelting the windows with cold rain. He had been sleeping outside for a fortnight… was that how long it had been? Nearly two weeks of running, and the days were all blurring together. He was so very tired.
The man had almost finished his stew when he realized he was allowing his gaze to follow the innkeeper’s daughter around the room rather than watching the doors. The dining hall had filled up for the evening meal, and the young woman expertly wove through the crowd as she carried food and drink to patrons. She seemed to be well-liked by the locals, who spoke to her as friends. He noticed her cheeks had become rosy in the warmth of the dining hall, and he caught himself staring when she rolled up her sleeves and tied her brown curls back with a piece of twine. She did have a sweet face, he had to admit.
Maggie, he heard someone call her. He wanted to remember the name.
Although the dining hall was indeed busy, there were still plenty of seats for everyone, and he did not need to give up his seat after he had finished. So there he remained, slowly sipping the ale Maggie had brought him and trying to keep focused on anyone new entering the inn. The storm continued to rage outside, but the Thornton Inn was lively, warm, and dry. Cozy. The inn was old, but lovingly well-kept, and he imagined the innkeepers must have a very comfortable life there. Perhaps he could stay longer…
He fought the urge to let his guard down.
When Maggie came by to clear his dishes, he asked, “How far is it to Queens Port?”
“The outskirts of the city are just beyond our village,” she said, pointing northeast.
“And if I had business at the docks?”
“It’s about three hours from here to the docks, going on foot.” She looked as though she was holding back questions, but he had one more question of his own.
“How often do ships leave?”
“Just about every day, I’ve heard,” she said. She waited a moment, but he simply nodded thoughtfully, so she smiled politely and left with his dirty dishes.
Sleep tugged at him, and by the time most of the other diners had left or gone up to their rooms, he finally convinced himself that he was safe enough to get some rest for the night.
~~~
The next morning, after the early breakfast rush was over, Maggie noticed that Jack wasn’t downstairs yet. She had assumed he would be an early riser, eager to get on his way. Wondering if he had slipped away in the night, she took a pitcher of water and freshly cleaned cloths to tend his wound, and made her way upstairs. All was quiet; most of the doors were open as the other guests had already left. His was closed.
Maggie tapped gently on the door. “It’s me,” she said, not wishing to cause him alarm again.
There was only silence.
“Is everything alright?” She held her breath, waiting for any sound, but none came. The door was locked, of course, and her hand hovered over the pocket where she kept the master keys for the guest rooms. “Well, then. I’m coming in,” Maggie said finally.
The keys jangled as she unlocked the door and slowly pushed it open to find Jack lying sprawled out on the bed, his shirt strewn onto the floor and sheets kicked away. His dagger lay at the ready next to his pillow.
Maggie’s stomach dropped, but when she rushed over, she could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. With a sigh of relief, she set down the pitcher and cloths, then sat on the edge of the bed to feel his forehead. As she pressed her hand to his feverish skin, his eyes shot open and he grabbed her wrist with startling speed.
She gasped, then recovered quickly. “It’s just me.”
The wildness in his eyes faded as he dropped his clammy hand away. He was sweating profusely, his hair plastered to his forehead and the pillow beneath his head damp, despite the cold fireplace and chilly morning air.
“I apologize for the intrusion, but you had me worried.”
“I’m fine,” he said, sitting up with a groan.
“You don’t look fine.”
“Just a bad dream, that’s all.”
“You’re burning up,” Maggie said, feeling his forehead once more.
“No need to fuss,” he said. “I’m not ill.”
She pulled her hand away. “We should check your wound and make sure it’s not infected.”
“The salve you gave me last night worked wonders.” He patted the bandages around his torso. “I’m fine,” he said again, reaching down for his shirt.
“You have my mother to thank for that,” Maggie said, “but I still want to be sure you don’t have an infection.”
“That’s… not the problem…”
“Then what is?”
~~~
The man studied her face. He’d had no one to talk to since he left his home. The burden weighing on his heart was making him ill. Surely there was no harm in telling her…
He took a deep breath. “The sheriff of Foxshire wants me dead.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “What?”
“He’s always hated me,” he said, smiling humorlessly and wiping his brow with his balled-up shirt. “He’s been looking for a way to be rid of me for months.”
“What happened?”
The man was from Scarlet, a middling-sized town about a two week’s walk from Thornton, and the seat of the sheriff of Foxshire. The trouble had started a few months ago, just after their newly-appointed sheriff arrived, when a lone young dragon flew in one day and took up residence on a hill on the edge of Scarlet. The residents began suffering from almost-daily attacks, and they looked to their new sheriff for aid. The sheriff sent for assistance from the lord of their province, but as they waited for help to arrive, the dragon continued wreaking havoc.
The man, a bladesmith by trade, finally had enough of watching the dragon carry off people and livestock while the sheriff did nothing, so he rallied the bravest of Scarlet’s residents himself. They set out to bring an end to the terror–and they succeeded, under the bladesmith’s leadership, with blades of the smith’s own making.
Maggie, who had been listening intently, looked astonished. “I heard about this,” she said. “A few weeks ago, some merchants who stayed here were talking about that dragon. They said a group of townspeople managed to slay it on their own. I just never caught the name of the town.” She sat back, assessing him. “So that was you, eh?”
“It was,” he said. “But that’s only the beginning.”
He went on to tell her about how the awaited help from the lord of the province finally came long after the threat was over, and the townspeople proudly told them all about their bladesmith, who had done what their sheriff could not.
Humiliated, the sheriff had tried to make life difficult for the bladesmith by trying to turn the town against him, but the bladesmith refused to be run out of town just for showing the sheriff what a true leader looked like. This infuriated the sheriff even more. Though the bladesmith managed to keep his business afloat, it greatly suffered thanks to the sheriff’s scheming. Then, about a fortnight ago, the sheriff dealt his final blow.
“He accused me of using… magic.”
Maggie’s expression of sympathy changed to alarm at the mention of the word. The man knew what she must be thinking. Magic had been banned for almost 200 years in Dellivere, where many were distrustful of magic at best, and terrified at worst. He wasn’t sure where she fell on that spectrum.
“I have never used magic in my entire life. But the sheriff claimed the blades from my forge were too perfect,” the man said with a hollow laugh, looking down at the dagger still resting beside him. “He said no one could possibly make such things without magic, and people began to believe him.
“Of course, I had plenty of friends who knew exactly what he was doing, but they had no way to prove my innocence, so they could be of no help to me.” The man shook his head. “First it was just rumors, and then there were ‘witnesses.’ And then my friends warned me that he was sending his men after me. They found out he planned to pretend to send me to the queen to be punished, and the town would think him a hero. But they weren’t going to take me to the queen. They were going to kill me.” He finally met her gaze. “I had to run.”
Maggie let out a long exhale as if she had been holding her breath. “That is quite the story,” she said finally. “And let me guess: your name isn’t Jack Ford.”
“That would be correct,” he said. “I thought I would be safe if I made it here to Wynneshire, but they kept coming after me even after I left Foxshire. I’ve had too many close calls to be mistaken about that. So now, I’ve got no choice but to leave Dellivere.”
Maggie still seemed uneasy. “How do I know that you don’t… you don’t know…”
“That I don’t know any magic?” he finished for her.
“Well, yes.”
He grimaced, undoing the bandages on the wound at his side. The skin was bruised and swollen around a wide gash, which was beginning to scab over. “You think I’d be running around like this if I could do magic?”
“I suppose not,” she said. “How did that happen, anyway? If you don’t mind me asking,” she added quickly.
The man sighed. “It’s not much of a story. I fell down a hill the other night. It was dark and the ground was wet, and I wasn’t careful. Hit a few rocks on the way,” he said, holding up his arms to show several smaller cuts and bruises.
Maggie winced.
“I couldn’t tell how much this was bleeding until the next morning.”
“Goodness,” Maggie said under her breath.
“I’ve had just about everything go wrong since I left Scarlet. It’s not easy to run for your life.”
“It sounds awful.” She cleared her throat, then picked up his shirt to examine where the fabric had been torn in the fall. “I could mend this, if you’d like,” she said.
His face broke into a real smile for the first time in what felt like weeks. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.”
He cocked his head. “Do you always care for guests like this?”
“On occasion, if they need it.” She paused. “Although, none have had quite a story such as yours.”
“That you know of,” he said with a grin, but then he grew serious. “I must ask you to keep my story between us.”
“I will, as long as my family is safe.”
“I understand,” he said with a nod. “How soon can you have my shirt mended?”
“It won’t take long, unless you want it washed as well. But I presume you don’t want to linger here for that.”
“Yes, I’d meant to leave already. I’ll be gone as quickly as I can.”
“Well, then, I shall go get this done right now.” She rose and headed for the door.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
She looked back over her shoulder with a sad smile and nodded, then slipped out of the room.
~~~
Maggie took the torn shirt to her own small room and pulled out a needle and thread. As she began to sew through the bloodstained fabric, she mulled over the man’s story. She couldn’t imagine the crushing loneliness he must have felt since leaving his home, his friends, his livelihood, everything… Perhaps having a mended shirt would at least make his journey a little more comfortable.
When she had finished, she took the shirt back up to the man’s room, shutting the door behind her. He was packed and dressed, save for his shirt, which she tossed to him.
“You can’t just head straight for the port,” Maggie said, before the man could open his mouth to thank her again. “You must make it look as if you’re heading in another direction. Then you’ll have to double back, without being seen.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “You’ve put some thought into this,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile. “Are you sure you want to aid in my escape?”
“I’m just making a suggestion,” she said with a shrug, “but it could buy you some time if the sheriff’s men follow your trail in the wrong direction.”
“I’m not sure they’ll believe I headed away from the port,” he said. “But then again, if anyone here were to be questioned about a man of my description, they would be able to answer honestly that they saw me heading elsewhere…” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It’s not a bad plan, especially if it would protect you. And your family.”
Maggie cleared her throat. “Right. So you’d best be off, then.” She opened the door and handed him the jar of her mother’s salve. “Take this, too,” she added.
“Oh, well, thank you,” he said. He tucked the jar of salve into his pocket and followed her into the hallway.
“Let me get you some food before you go,” she said, suddenly remembering he had not eaten breakfast. “You can take it on the road.”
“You’ve already done so much-”
“It’s no trouble,” she said, waving a hand.
Maggie left him at the front of the inn with her father while she gathered up enough cured meat, cheese, bread, and apples for him to make it through the next day or two. She bundled it into a cloth tied with string and returned as he was thanking her father for all the kindness their family had shown him and casually mentioning a false destination.
“Here you are,” she said with a cordial smile, handing him the food. Then she set about her usual tasks in the dining room as people began to trickle in for the midday meal. She heard him bid farewell to her father, but she pointedly did not look up, determined that no one would suspect that she was connected to him beyond the usual politeness she showed to all the other guests. And yet… she couldn’t keep herself from finding an excuse to be near the window to watch him leave. As she’d suggested, he headed away from the port, and was soon lost in the crowds on the streets. She hoped she hadn’t doomed him.
Mere hours later, Maggie emerged from the kitchen during the evening meal to find her father conversing with a small group of rough and rather unhappy-looking men. Her father was shaking his head and shrugging, but she couldn’t hear what was said, and they left quickly.
“What was all that about?” she asked her father when they’d gone, already knowing what he would say.
“They were looking for someone,” he said. “Sounded a bit like that Jack Ford fellow. Of course, they hadn’t heard that name before, but I’m sure I would use a false name, too, if men like that were after me.” He shook his head. “They were none too pleased to hear he’s been gone for hours.”
“Oh my,” Maggie said, trying to look only vaguely interested. “I wonder what happened.”
Her father sighed. “Whatever’s going on, I want no part of it.” He gave her a sideways glance. “He didn’t say anything to you, did he?”
“No, nothing,” she said, hoping her face looked like she meant it. She hated having to lie to her father, but like Jack had said: the less they knew, the better.
Weeks passed, the trees dropped their flame-bright leaves, and frost covered the dull brown grass each morning. Maggie never forgot the man she had helped, but she did try to put him out of her mind. She couldn’t permit herself to dwell on a man she would likely never meet again… and yet, she could still see his face in her mind, the way he smiled after confiding in her. She wondered if he had found refuge somewhere out there.
Then, one winter evening, her father said she had received a parcel. He held out a narrow box, no longer than her forearm. Puzzled, she took it and turned it over, but the outside was wrapped in a plain brown paper, tied with rough string. The only markings were her name and the address of the inn, and a return address for somewhere in the neighboring kingdom of Colina. Maggie hurried upstairs and stowed it safely in her own room, then returned to finish her tasks for the evening.
It wasn’t until after her parents had gone to bed that she carefully unwrapped the parcel in the light of a single candle, revealing a simple wooden box. Inside was a beautiful, finely-crafted dagger with a note tied to the handle with a ribbon. She removed the note, unfolded the parchment, and read:
Maggie,
Thanks to you, I made it out of Dellivere alive. I did as you said and arrived at the port without any trouble. There I found passage on a merchant ship bound south to Colina. A distant relative of mine lives in one of the port cities here; I sought him out, and he has agreed to forward any correspondence from you to myself, should you wish to write to me. His shop is the address from whence I sent this parcel; however, that is not where I will be staying–just in case anyone decides to follow me here. I doubt it, as the sheriff has gotten rid of me, which is what he wanted, but I won’t risk it.
Enclosed is a dagger–in fact, one of the same daggers I once frightened you with. I don’t believe I ever properly apologized to you for that, so: I’m sorry. I hope you need never use it, but it would bring me great comfort to know that you have a good weapon by your side. I forged it myself years ago, and you’ll not find a better blade in the whole of the kingdom.
As for myself, I have taken steps towards rebuilding my business here with the few coins I was able to bring with me, though this new forge will be nothing like the one I left behind. But, you will be pleased to know, my injuries have healed. Your mother’s salve was a great help, and once I arrived in Colina, I visited a healer and experienced magic for myself. It was incredible.
That is the greatest difference between here and home. I feel like a child discovering the world for the first time. It’s strange to think that Dellivere was once just like this kingdom, with magic as common as bread.
I’m sorry if the sheriff’s men gave your family any trouble. Give my best to your parents.
I never told you my real name, but I suppose I owe you that much.
Your friend,
Jaime Bough
Maggie smiled. Finally, she had a name–a real name–to put to the face in her memory. She put the dagger back in its box, tucked the letter away, pulled out her old quill and parchment, and began to write a letter of her own.
I hope we will meet again.