A Tale of Trouble and Thieves Novel – Tabitha’s Inn thrummed with life after the sun set. Laughter and music sparked like a match, growing warmer with each moment. Cheers rang out, tankards clashed, and wine spilled from round bottles. The whole atmosphere of the tavern was warm and energetic. I sat, quieter than my own beating heart, near the stairs that led up to the attic of the Inn. The book before me was frayed at the edges, its brown cover worn with age.
It was one I’d read countless times, yet never grew tired of: The Pirate and the Prince. The tale told of a young prince and a pirate, a decade his senior, and the bond they forged as they braved a wild storm, narrowly evaded their enemies, and sought the treasure both had sacrificed so much to find. My grandfather read me the story for the first time when I was seven. His eyes lit up as he spoke, and I could tell it was one he cherished.
It was the first story I ever truly fell in love with. Sometimes, I imagined myself as the prince: wanting the treasure as much as the pirate, but moving towards it with quieter steps. The pirate, of course, went about things with a brash flair, dramatics always in tow. And, though I’d never admit it out loud, I also had a bit of a crush on the pirate. I ran my finger along the book’s spine.
At the sound of glass shattering, my head shot up. My eyes followed the commotion and landed on two figures in the middle of a spat. The shorter man stood fuming, a shard of glass clenched in his fist, the rest scattered at his feet. The other wore a smug smirk. “I’ll kill ya! I swear it! If you so much as look—” “That’s enough!” A woman with silver streaks in her chestnut hair stepped between them, her tattered dress swaying as glass crunched under her boots.
Hands raised, she fixed them with a sharp glare. “There will be no brawls or yelling, or killing, in my Inn, you hear?” The shorter man dropped the shard and wiped his palm on his tunic. “Yes, of course, Tabitha. Terribly sorry.” The innkeeper, turned her narrowed gaze to the other. I watched his throat bob as he pushed dirty-blond hair from his eyes. He was younger than his opponent, though looked to be older than me. “My deepest apologies, Tabitha.
It will not happen again.” She exhaled heavily and gestured for a man behind the bar to sweep up the glass. A huffed sound came from behind me. I turned to see a woman packing a lute into a satchel. She gave me a kind smile. “Well, at least my part here is done.” Her light-blue eyes slid to mine. “I’ve seen you here before, but I don’t believe I know your name.” She settled into the seat beside me, reclining with her elbows propped on the table. “I’m Lia.” She offered her hand. I took it, carefully. “Clover.” My voice came out smaller than I meant. “Clover,” she repeated.
“Lovely. What are you reading?” Her gaze fell to my book. I cleared my throat, ready to answer, but she spoke first. “I hear August is playing tonight, if you happen to stick around.” My blank expression must have given me away, because she added, “He’s a traveling bard from Everspire. He sings beautifully, some even call him the finest in all Egrusha.” Her cheeks warmed as she spoke of him. “You know him?” I asked. “Oh, not really,” Lia chuckled. “I’ve only seen him perform a handful of times.” Her voice softened as she fiddled with the strap of her satchel.
Cheers swelled as another bard began to play. I knew it was not the man Lia had mentioned. His voice was pleasant, but hardly the most beautiful in all of Egrusha. Still, he played a fine lute. “Do you like music, Clover? Play any instruments? Sing?” Lia’s eyes sparked with interest as she awaited my answer. “I enjoy it, though I am not gifted with it. I play no instruments, and one would surely prefer the banging of pots and pans over hearing me attempt a song.” Lia stifled a laugh. “Surely you cannot be that bad.” Her eyes flicked over me, studying my face, then trailing down to my dull skirt and worn boots.
“Well, I’m certainly not good.” I took that moment to subtly study Lia in return. She looked close to my age, her long blonde curls were piled atop her head, freckles scattered across her pretty features. The dress she wore was a deep shade of blue that complimented her eyes. “Are you from Trista?” I asked Lia. “Zinnia’s Crossing, near Rosewood Lake. I’ve passed through Trista a few times before.
My pockets have seen better days, but the atmosphere is nice, so I’m not complaining,” she said with a smile. Trista was far from a wealthy city. Modest in size, it was better known for the land around it, some of the finest hunting grounds one could find. Many traveled to Trista solely for its woods. Beyond what it had to offer, though, Trista was home. And a home I had learned to appreciate. As the evening carried on, patrons began to settle, and a comfortable silence hovered in the air.
I had not frequented taverns until recently, but I found I enjoyed the atmosphere of people gathered together, sharing company