The Wayward Cup and the Midnight Trade

• Chapter 1 The Kettle's Whistle at Dawn
• Chapter 2 A Dash of Luminescence
• Chapter 3 The Traveler from the Iron Road
• Chapter 4 Unsavory Aromas and Unexpected Guests
• Chapter 5 The Spiced Tea of Forgetfulness
• Chapter 6 Midnight at the Pantry Door
• Chapter 7 A Pixie in the Flour Barrel
• Chapter 8 The Ledger of Whispering Shadows
• Chapter 9 Stew for a Wandering Knight
• Chapter 10 The Broken Hearthstone
• Chapter 11 A Merchant's Secret Spice
• Chapter 12 Moonlit Barter and Stolen Spoons
• Chapter 13 The Goblin's Afternoon Tea
• Chapter 14 Cider, Songs, and Enchanted Strings
• Chapter 15 The Wayward Cup Appears
• Chapter 16 A Trade in the Dark
• Chapter 17 The Missing Recipe Scroll
• Chapter 18 Yeast, Flour, and Spellcraft
• Chapter 19 The Storm Beyond the Shuttered Windows
• Chapter 20 An Uninvited Guildmaster
• Chapter 21 Brewing the Midnight Remedy
• Chapter 22 Secrets Across the Kitchen Counter
• Chapter 23 The Feast of the Crossroads
• Chapter 24 A Deal Struck by Lantern Light
• Chapter 25 Warm Hearts and Full Plates
• Chapter 26 The House on the Busiest Road

The Wayward Cup Inn did not wake up so much as it exhaled.

Long before the sun cleared the eastern crags of the Iron Teeth Mountains, the heavy oak beams overhead settled with a deep, wooden groan that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of resignation. Below them, Nora stood in the dark taproom, wrapped in a thick woolen shawl that smelled faintly of dried lavender and hearth smoke. Her fingers were stiff with the early spring cold, but she knew the exact floorboards to avoid if she wanted to let her staff sleep fifteen minutes longer. Three steps past the main desk, a quick leap over the squeaky pine board near the linen closet, and a smooth slide into the kitchen.

The kitchen was the heart of the inn, though at five in the morning it felt more like a tomb made of soot and cold copper. Nora blew on her hands, tucked her dark hair behind her ears, and knelt before the massive iron range.

"Alright, old boy," she murmured, tapping her knuckles against the stove’s blackened rim. "Let’s not have a fight today. The merchant caravans from the southern lowlands are due before noon, and I need twelve dozen barley biscuits before the frost melts."

She reached for the spark-box, but before her flint could strike steel, a faint orange glow flickered beneath the grate. A small plume of purple smoke curled out from the draft door, smelling pleasantly of roasted chestnuts. The stove’s fire-elemental—a tiny, stubborn spark of salamander essence Nora had bought three seasons ago from a passing hedge-wizard—was stirring. It was lazy in the mornings, much like Nora herself, but a pinch of dried salamander-dust mixed with sulfur usually did the trick.

Nora sprinkled a tiny thumb-pinch through the grate. The stove let out a soft, contented whoosh, and bright crimson flames licked up around the heavy cast-iron stove rings.

With the heat rising, Nora moved to the long deal table in the center of the kitchen. Her first real task of every day was always the same: filling the Big Copper.

The Big Copper was less a kettle and more an architectural monument. It sat upon the hot plate, holding nearly four gallons of water, hammered out of thick, burnished metal that had survived three generations of innkeepers before Nora bought the lease. It possessed no grand enchantments, no high-magical runes registered with the Capital Guild, but forty years of brewing dark mountain teas and steeping dried rowanberries had given the metal a memory of its own.

Nora filled the heavy iron pail at the brass pump, dumped three full buckets into the kettle’s wide mouth, and fitted the heavy lid into place.

As if on cue, the pantry door swung open with a dry clack. Out stepped Jasper, his whiskers twitching furiously against the cold air. Jasper was a knee-high kneazle-ferret hybrid with fur the color of toasted rye bread and an attitude that suggested he held the mortgage on the entire county. He cast a critical look at Nora’s apron, gave a short, disparaging squeak, and immediately marched toward the hearth to curl up on the warm brick apron.

"Good morning to you, too," Nora said, grabbing her wooden paddle and the big stoneware bowl of bread dough that had been rising overnight under a dampened cloth. "I suppose you expect cream today, even though you let a field mouse escape behind the larders yesterday evening."

Jasper did not open his eyes, but his long, tufted tail gave a single, dismissive thwack against the floor tiles.

Nora chuckled, punching down the dough with her knuckles. The dough yielded with a soft, sour-sweet sigh. Cooking in an inn sitting right at the junction of the King’s Highway and the Whispering Pass required speed, scale, and a healthy tolerance for magic. You couldn't just bake bread; you had to bake bread that would stay soft inside a courier’s saddlebag for three days without turning into cobblestones. You couldn't just brew tea; you had to brew something strong enough to wash the dust of three kingdoms out of a dwarf's beard.

By the time Nora had divided the dough into forty plump round rolls and set them on grease-rubbed iron pans, the temperature in the kitchen had turned from bone-chilling to pleasantly balmy. The fire in the stove roared merrily now, its purple smoke fading into the sweet, clean scent of dry birch logs.

Then came the sound.

It started as a low, musical hum deep within the belly of the Big Copper. The water inside began to roll, sending small, rhythmic vibrations through the iron cooktop. A tiny plume of steam whistled from the copper spout, thin and shrill at first, like a far-off songbird.

Then, as the boil caught hold, the kettle found its pitch.

It didn't just whistle; it warbled. It was a jaunty, slightly off-key tune—a regional tavern song known along the southern coast as The Sailor’s Pint, though the brass spout tended to flat the third note whenever the kettle was filled past the three-gallon mark.

"Right on time," Nora whispered, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron.

The door to the back stairs creaked open, and a heavy set of footsteps thudded down the wooden steps.

"If that copper brass-pot sings that cursed song one more morning, I'm going to take my sledge to it and turn it into wall sconces," a voice rumbled from the doorway.

Barnaby squeezed his wide frame through the archway. He was a half-orc who stood six-foot-six in his soft leather boots, with tusks that poked neatly over his lower lip and a face that looked like it had been carved out of a knotty piece of oak with a dull chisel. Despite his formidable size, he wore a pair of knitted pink woolen socks—a gift from Nora two winters ago—and carried a feather duster under one arm with the delicate grace of a court nobleman carrying a rapier.

"Good morning, Barnaby," Nora said brightly, ladling three scoops of crushed dried tea leaves into a stoneware pot. "The kettle only sings when it’s happy. And it’s happy because the water is good today."

"The water is cold today," Barnaby grunted, though he immediately set his feather duster on the dresser and reached for the heavy iron coal bucket to stoke the second fireplace in the main taproom. "The frost reached the cellar windows. I had to scrape ice off the ale casks before I could check the spigots. Winter doesn't want to let go of the road."

"It never does at the Crossroads," Nora replied, pouring the boiling, singing water over the tea leaves. The rich, tannic aroma of black amber leaf and dried orange peel burst into the morning air, chasing away the last lingering chill of the night. "How are the roads looking from the upper balcony?"

Barnaby paused at the taproom door, his broad shoulders filling the frame. "Clear enough for horses, too thick for heavy wagons until noon. The morning fog is hanging low over the northern bend. We'll have early travelers—the ones who slept in their wagons rather than pay for a bed down at the River Ford."

"Then they’ll be cold, grumpy, and broke," Nora said with a satisfied smile. "Which means they’ll want four-copper porridge and hot tea. Put two extra benches near the hearth, Barnaby. And unbolt the front doors. It’s time."

Barnaby let out a low rumble that might have been a laugh or a groan, then disappeared into the taproom. Moments later, the heavy thunk of the iron deadbolts sliding back echoed through the wooden house.

The Wayward Cup was officially open for the day.

Nora carried a tray of warm pewter mugs and the smoking teapot out into the taproom. The room was grand in a homely, mismatched sort of way. The ceiling was low, held up by ancient beams that still bore the faint marks of woodsman's axes from two centuries ago. The tables were wide and thick, scarred by thousands of knife points, spilled ales, and forgotten dice games. Along the back wall hung a massive, faded map of the realm, its borders rendered somewhat inaccurate by three decades of minor border disputes and one notable wizardly mistake that had turned a small duchy into a permanent swamp.

A soft knock sounded at the heavy oak front door, followed immediately by the latch lifting.

The first guest of the day stepped through the threshold, accompanied by a swirl of gray, freezing mist. He was a lean man wrapped in a travel-stained mantle of dark wool, his boots coated in thick, drying yellow clay. A heavy brass messenger's badge gleamed at his collar.

"Praise the hearth," the man muttered, his teeth chattering so hard the words barely came out straight. He immediately made a beeline for the taproom fire, dropping a heavy leather mail-satchel onto the nearest table with a solid thud. "I thought my toes were going to snap off three miles back."

"Sit, sit," Nora said smoothly, sliding a mug of reeking, steaming amber tea across the table before he had even managed to unbuckle his cloak. "Hold onto that. Don't drink it all at once or you'll burn the roof of your mouth, Master Courier."

The man grabbed the pewter mug with both hands, closing his eyes as the warmth seeped into his frozen palms. "You're a saint, mistress. A absolute saint. The post-house at Oakhaven was locked up tight—said they were out of dry oats."

"They're always out of dry oats," Barnaby remarked from the corner, where he was methodically dusting the wooden banister with his pink-feathered duster. "They spend all their grain money on bad brandy."

The courier blinked, taking in Barnaby’s towering, tusked form and the tiny, fluffy feather duster in his giant hand, but he was far too cold and tired to question it. In the Crossroads country, you learned quickly not to judge an inn by its doorman's accessories.

"Hot porridge will be out in five minutes," Nora told the courier, gesturing toward the fire. "Barley rolls are in the oven."

"Bring me two rolls," the courier sighed, sinking onto the bench. "And whatever you've got in that kettle."

Back in the kitchen, the Big Copper let out one final, trilling high note before settling into a gentle, simmering purr. Outside, the fog began to lift from the King’s Highway, revealing the dark line of trees that bordered the ancient forest. A farm wagon rumbled in the distance, its iron-shod wheels crunching over the frozen ruts.

Nora looked around her kitchen—at the bubbling kettle, the rising bread, the half-orc dusting the lintels, and the warmth slowly filling every corner of the old wooden house.

The day had begun, and at the Wayward Cup, that meant everyone had a place by the fire.

The breakfast rush at the Wayward Cup was less a structured meal and more an exercise in controlled chaos. By eight in the morning, the frozen fog outside had fully dissolved into a watery, yellow sunlight, revealing a steady stream of traffic trudging down the King’s Highway. The front door swung open and shut in a cadence of icy drafts and cheerful iron-latch clatters, welcoming peddlers, woodcutters, and two weary drovers who smelled strongly of goat milk and damp wool.

Nora swept through the taproom like a small ship in full sail, balancing a tray loaded with steaming stoneware bowls of barley porridge, fat pats of yellow butter, and jars of dark plum preserve.

"Mind your boots near the hearth, Master Gidley," Nora said briskly as she set a bowl down in front of a burly local cooper. "Barnaby just finished scrubbing the stone, and if you get river-clay over his fresh wax, I’ll let him dust your hat with his feather duster."

The cooper gave a gravelly laugh, tucking his napkin into his collar. "Wouldn't dream of it, Nora. Though I reckon Barnaby’s duster is cleaner than my hat anyway."

Over near the window, the messenger from Oakhaven was already on his third barley roll, looking significantly less like a frozen corpse than he had an hour ago. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and motioned to Nora’s belt, where a brass ring held three large, ornate keys.

"You got room for a couple of heavy crates in the lockup, Mistress?" the messenger asked, lowering his voice slightly. "The master at Oakhaven paid for safe passage, but the Guild road-guards said there’s been odd folk lurking up near the Whispering Pass. Mischievous types. Small, fast, and fond of bright things."

"Goblins?" Barnaby growled from where he was hanging fresh tallow candles on the iron wall-sconces.

"Or pixies," the messenger offered with a shudder. "Or just plain thieves with a pocketful of illusion-glamour. Either way, I'd feel better if my secondary pack wasn't sitting out in the stableyard while I tend my horse."

"Barnaby will fetch it," Nora said, giving the half-orc a nod. "Put it in the dry cellar behind the salt pork. No extra charge for mail-carriers, provided you tell the postmaster at the capital that our cider is better than the swill they serve at the Red Lion."

"Done and done," the messenger grinned, sliding two silver bits across the scarred oak table.

As Barnaby stepped outside, his thick leather coat creaking against the cool air, Nora turned back toward the kitchen archway. Her nose twitched. The smell of hot barley and stewed plums was still strong, but beneath it, hovering right at the edge of perception, was something else. It smelled like crushed mint, ozone, and burnt copper.

Nora sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Marella," she called out softly into the pantry archway. "Tell me you didn't leave the glow-glass on the top shelf again."

From the depths of the pantry came a soft, metallic clatter, followed by a muffled gasp and a tiny burst of pale violet light that illuminated the cracks around the pantry doorframe.

"I didn't leave it on the top shelf!" a voice squeaked back. The voice belonged to Marella, the inn’s kitchen assistant, dishwasher, and self-appointed apprentice scholar. "It was on the middle shelf! It... it just jumped."

Nora walked into the pantry, stepping over a stray sack of dried lentils. Marella was crouched on her knees, desperately trying to sweep up glowing purple dust with a small whisk broom. She was a young woman of barely nineteen, with wild, frizzy auburn hair that perpetually looked as though she had just survived a minor lightning strike. Her linen apron was stained with various shades of berry juice, ink, and what appeared to be scorched syrup.

"Things don't jump, Marella," Nora said gently, kneeling beside her and taking the whisk broom from her shaky hand. "Unless they've been enchanted, and I strictly forbade you from using the glass-grinding spell on anything larger than a teaspoon."

"It wasn't a glass-grinding spell," Marella protested, her cheeks flushing a dark, blotchy pink. "It was just a tiny, tiny heat-seal spell. I was trying to preserve the starlight-lichen we bought from that traveling apothecary last Tuesday. The jar was sweating, Nora! If the moisture got inside, the whole batch would have rotted, and you know how hard it is to get genuine night-bloom lichen this far south!"

Nora looked down at the floor. The broken remnants of a small glass vial lay scattered across the flagstones, swirling with a faint, iridescent powder that hummed like a very quiet bumblebee. Every time the bristles of the broom touched the dust, little sparks of violet light drifted upward, clinging to the hem of Marella’s skirts and turning her woolen hem into a shimmering, starry night sky.

"It's harmless, mostly," Marella mumbled, looking up through her frizzy bangs with big, apologetic hazel eyes. "Just... a bit bright."

"Marella," Nora said, her tone a mix of exasperated affection and stern practical wisdom, "this is an inn, not the High Academy at Oakhaven. We sell hot food, clean beds, and peace of mind. If a merchant sits down to his mutton stew and his spoon starts glowing like a fairy lantern, he doesn't think, 'Oh, what a lovely magical atmosphere.' He thinks, 'My soup is poisoned, and I want my money back.'"

"It doesn't poison soup," Marella whispered defensively. "It actually makes carrots taste slightly sweeter."

"Which is an unregistered magical alteration of food, and the Guild inspector will fine us five gold royals if he catches so much as a speck of glow-dust in the larder," Nora countered. She pulled a tin box from her apron pocket, sprinkled a small pinch of damp river-clay over the glowing pile, and watched as the purple shimmer instantly died down into a dull, grey sludge. Magic in the kitchen was fine for starting fires or keeping tea hot, but anything that sparkled was a liability.

"Clean the rest of it up with the damp rag," Nora ordered softly. "And no more night-bloom spells before the noon rush. If you want to study your books, do it after the dinner dishes are scrubbed."

Marella nodded meekly, taking the rag and scrubbing at the floorboard with sudden vigor. "Yes, Nora. I'm sorry."

Nora patted the girl’s shoulder. She couldn't stay angry at Marella for long. The girl had come to the Wayward Cup two years ago after fleeing a dismal apprenticeship with a harsh glassblower in the lower valley. She had no real aptitude for high spellcraft—her family was far too poor to pay for Guild training—but she had an insatiable curiosity and a strange, instinctual knak for herbal alchemy. The problem was that her instincts were usually accompanied by loud noises and unintended luminescence.

As Nora stepped back into the kitchen, Jasper the kneazle-ferret gave a long, dramatic stretch from his spot near the stove, casting a look of utter disdain toward the pantry door.

"Don't you judge her," Nora told the animal, reaching down to scratch him behind his tufted ears. "You broke a bottle of fine pear brandy last month because you were trying to catch a wasp."

Jasper purred, a sound like a small oil engine, and rubbed his cheek against Nora’s boots.

The back door creaked open, and Barnaby returned, carrying a heavy, iron-bound wooden chest on one broad shoulder as easily as if it were a bag of feathers. Cold air washed into the room, carrying the sharp, crisp scent of pine needle and wet granite.

"Courier’s box," Barnaby said, setting the chest down near the cellar hatch with a solid thump. "Road’s getting busier. A party of four came around the southern bend—looks like a merchant’s carriage with a broken spoke, escorted by a couple of hired swords."

"Did they look like they have money?" Nora asked, picking up her big wooden ladle to stir the pot of beef stock simmering on the back ring.

"They have a velvet curtain on the carriage window," Barnaby replied, taking off his heavy coat and hanging it on his assigned peg. "And the guards have matching brass pauldrons. That means Guild money, or at least someone who wants people to think they have Guild money."

"Which means they'll want the corner table, three pots of hot wine, and they'll complain about the draft," Nora smiled, tasting the beef stock with a small silver spoon. It needed salt and a pinch of dried thyme. "Get the long table near the corner hearth ready, Barnaby. And put a fresh linen cloth on it—the one without the grease stain from the dwarven blacksmith’s grease-cakes."

"Marella!" Barnaby called toward the pantry. "We need six polished pewter tankards and the silver salt-cellar!"

Marella popped her head out of the pantry door, her apron still glowing faintly around the hem in the dim light. "I'm wiping the silver now! But Barnaby, did you see any yellow butterflies near the gate?"

Barnaby frowned, his thick brow furrowing. "Butterflies? It's early spring, girl. The only bugs out there are ice-midges and frozen beetles."

"I thought I saw something yellow," Marella muttered, her eyes straying toward the window. "A whole swarm of them, down by the mile-marker."

Nora paused, her hand hovering over the spice rack. "Yellow butterflies in March?"

"Probably just bright leaves catching the wind," Barnaby said with a shrug, though he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Though the woods have been strange this week. The deer are staying close to the road-fences. Usually means something in the high forest is waking up early."

"Or something is driving them down," Nora mused.

The Wayward Cup sat right at the elbow of the King’s Highway, where the groomed royal road dissolved into the rough, boulder-strewn track of the Whispering Pass. To the west lay the rich, rolling farmlands of the heartland, governed by mayors, Guilds, and tax-collectors. To the east lay the Iron Teeth Mountains and the old forests, where the King’s law was mostly a suggestion and the ancient things still had names that people only whispered around low fires.

Being in the middle meant that the inn saw everything—from royal messengers carrying gold-sealed missives to river-hermits selling enchanted river-stones that allegedly cured warts. It was a good business, but it required a steady hand and a very clear understanding of where the normal world ended and the strange world began.

A sharp rap at the front door interrupted Nora’s thoughts. It wasn't the slow, heavy knock of a tired traveler, but three quick, rhythmic taps—the universal signal of a coachman in a hurry.

"Here they come," Barnaby said, smoothing down his apron and adjusting his pink feather duster, which he tucked firmly into his leather belt like an ornate dagger.

Nora wiped her hands, smoothed her apron, and marched into the taproom.

The carriage party had arrived.

The front doors were pulled back, admitting a flurry of cold wind and three people wrapped in rich, fur-trimmed cloaks. The lead man was short, portly, and wore a high, stiff-collared tunic of dark blue wool that practically screamed Capital Merchant Guild. Behind him came a tall, thin man with a sharp nose and a pair of spectacles perched on the tip of his snout, carrying a leather-bound ledger under one arm like a shield. Bringing up the rear was a burly sell-sword with a sword strapped across his back, looking thoroughly miserable and soaking wet from the waist down.

"Abominable!" the portly man declared, sweeping into the center of the room and shaking his cloak so violently that small beads of melted frost splashed onto the hearthstones. "Abominable roads! The Crown collects six silver bits per axle at the river-gate, and for what? Potholes deep enough to swallow a mule, and forest paths infested with... with strange light!"

Nora stepped forward, her best innkeeper’s smile fixed firmly on her face. "Welcome to the Wayward Cup, sir. Fire’s hot, the stew is fresh, and the roof doesn't leak. I am Nora."

The portly merchant stopped, blinking at her through the steam rising from his own damp wool. He looked around the taproom—at the low beams, the humming stove, the courier sleeping peacefully in the corner, and finally at Barnaby, who was standing quietly near the kitchen door, towering over the room with serene, tusked authority.

The merchant cleared his throat, his posture softening slightly. "Ah. Yes. Well. I am Master Thaddeus Vance, Senior Factor for the Southern Silk and Spice Company. We... had a slight mishap with our rear axle two miles up the road."

"Spoke snapped," the tall man with the spectacles added dryly. "And then the light started."

"What light?" Nora asked, gliding over to the corner table and pulling out three heavy oak chairs.

Master Vance lowered his voice, looking around the room as if he expected the timber walls to have ears. "A pale, yellow light. Like a thousand fireflies, but hanging in the air like a curtain right across the road. Our horses refused to step through it. Reared up, nearly flipped the coach into the ravine! We had to cut the team loose, prop the axle with a pine log, and walk the last mile."

Marella, who had just sneaked out of the kitchen carrying a tray of wooden mugs, froze near the bar. Her eyes went wide, and she looked down at the hem of her apron, which was currently emitting a faint, almost invisible violet pulse.

Nora caught Marella’s look and instantly shot her a warning glance that could have cut through granite.

"Yellow light on the north road is often just swamp-gas rising from the thaw, Master Vance," Nora said smoothly, pouring three mugs of spiced cider from the small brass pot sitting on the hearth-grate. "The soil gets sour in early spring. Drink this. It's hot, spiced with nutmeg and wild honey, and it will put the blood back in your fingers."

Vance accepted the mug with a suspicious grunt, but the moment the warm, fragrant steam hit his nose, his expression softened. He took a slow sip, swallowed, and let out a long, shuddering sigh of appreciation.

"By the gods," Vance murmured, looking down into the pewter mug. "What is in this?"

"Old family recipe," Nora smiled, omitting the fact that the "family recipe" involved a single drop of crushed rowan-berry syrup to keep the cider from going hard too quickly. "Sit by the fire, gentlemen. Barnaby will take a block and tackle up the road after the noon rush and see about your carriage. He’s fixed more broken axles than any blacksmith between here and the capital."

"He has?" Vance looked up at Barnaby, who gave a brief, polite nod.

"Barnaby can lift the back end of a four-horse coach with one arm while he greases the spindle with the other," Nora said with absolute confidence. "Now, would you prefer the beef stew with barley bread, or the roasted root-vegetables with hard cheese?"

"Both," Vance said immediately. "And bring a full pitcher of this cider."

As the merchant party settled around the corner table, their voices dropping into hushed chatter about carriage repairs and lost time, Nora retreated toward the bar, drawing Marella with her by the strap of her apron.

"Into the kitchen," Nora whispered fiercely. "Now."

Once they were safely behind the wooden door, away from the hum of the taproom, Nora turned to Marella. The girl looked terrified, clutching her tray to her chest like a shield.

"Marella," Nora said softly, her voice low and serious. "Where did you get that starlight-lichen you were trying to seal this morning?"

"From... from the hedge-wizard who came through on Tuesday," Marella stammered. "The one with the green hat."

"And did he tell you where he harvested it?"

Marella swallowed hard. "He said... he said he found a large patch growing near the old stone archway up in the Whispering Pass. But Nora, starlight-lichen is supposed to be white! It only glows purple when it's broken, and yellow when..."

She stopped, her breath catching in her throat.

"When it’s reacting to high magic," Nora finished for her.

The room fell quiet, save for the steady, musical warble of the Big Copper kettle sitting on the stove, piping its jaunty tune into the warmth of the room.

Nora looked toward the small kitchen window that faced the northern road. The sun was high now, casting long, pale beams through the trees. But out there, two miles up the track where the royal road met the wild mountains, something was stirring.

"Barnaby," Nora called out toward the taproom door.

The half-orc pushed the door open, his large form blocking the light. "Yeah, Boss?"

"When you go up the road to fetch Master Vance’s carriage," Nora said, her eyes fixed on the forest outside, "take the iron pry-bar. And bring Jasper with you."

Jasper, who was currently asleep on his cushion, opened one eye, let out a short, squeaky sigh, and uncurled his long body.

"Think it’s trouble?" Barnaby asked quietly.

"It's the Crossroads, Barnaby," Nora said, turning back to her big stoneware bowl of bread dough. "Trouble is just a traveler who hasn't paid for his meal yet. Now, let’s get these rolls in the oven before the soup gets cold."