By the ti they finished organizing the cart, the sky had begun its slow shift toward evening.
Marron dusted her hands off and looked at Balen. "So," she said, "where exactly are we staying?"
He pointed down the main road, toward the quieter end of town. "Follow that straight until you see the largest apple tree you've ever laid eyes on. Can't miss it. Inn's right beside it."
He paused, then added with a grin, "Nowhere better than Madam Lou's. Be well on your way!"
"You're not walking us there?" Marron asked.
He shook his head. "If I step inside, she'll rope into repairing sothing or taste-testing stew until midnight."
"That sounds terrible."
"It is when you're on mill duty at dawn."
He stepped back, raising a hand. "Go. Get settled. I'll see you at dinner tomorrow."
Marron nodded. "Thank you. For today."
"Anyti," he said again, and this ti there was no humor in it—just simple certainty.
They parted ways.
The apple tree was impossible to miss.
It stood at the edge of town, branches sprawling wide and low, leaves thick and glossy in the late sun. Small green apples hung in clusters, so already blushing red.
Beside it stood a modest but well-kept inn.
Two stories. Cream-colored plaster walls. Dark wooden beams framing the structure neatly. Flower boxes under the windows, currently filled with trailing purple blossoms. A wooden sign hung over the entrance:
Rooms Upstairs – Free Breakfast for Guests
Looking for an Assistant Chef
Marron stopped in front of it.
The sign intrigued her more than she expected.
"I don't want to stay forever," she murmured, half to herself, "but maybe we can hang out here for a few days."
Mokko tilted his head. "You are considering employnt."
"Temporary employnt," she corrected. "Very temporary."
Lucy pulsed curiously.
Marron pushed open the door.
A small bell chid.
The lobby was warm and softly lit. Wooden floors polished smooth by centuries of footsteps. A long front desk near the far wall. Two cushioned chairs by a low table stacked with books. The scent of simring broth drifted faintly from sowhere deeper inside.
Behind the counter stood a woman who looked no older than her late twenties.
Long dark hair fell down her back in a sleek curtain. Her eyes were amber—almost gold—and carried a depth that made Marron's breath hitch slightly. She wore a simple robe of deep red tied neatly at the waist.
Her smile was gentle. Knowing.
"Welco," she said.
Her voice was warm honey over polished wood.
Marron stepped forward. "Hello. We're looking for rooms."
The woman's gaze flicked once to Mokko—unbothered—and then to Lucy's jar.
"Of course," she said. "Balen ntioned you."
Marron blinked. "He did?"
The woman's smile widened slightly. "He is not subtle. You saved his life from being taken over by a mimic."
Marron froze for half a second.
"That was… a while ago."
"Ti is flexible," the woman said lightly.
Marron studied her more closely.
She looked mostly human. The ears were human-shaped. The posture, the hands—graceful, precise.
But sothing about the way her shadow fell against the wall felt… layered. As if it moved a fraction slower than it should.
"You must be Madam Lou," Marron said carefully.
A small incline of the head.
"I am."
Marron hesitated, then asked, "How long have you run this inn?"
Madam Lou folded her hands together loosely.
"Oh," she said thoughtfully, "about four hundred years now."
Mokko's ears twitched.
Lucy's glow flickered once.
Marron's eyebrows rose.
Madam Lou smiled faintly. "This town has grown and shrunk many tis. Families change. Buildings fall and rise again. But the inn remains."
She stepped around the counter with smooth, unhurried movents.
Up close, Marron noticed sothing subtle at the base of her spine—a faint shimr beneath the fabric of her robe. A suggestion of sothing more.
Nine-tailed fox, Marron thought.
More human than beastkin in appearance—but that felt deliberate. Controlled.
A disguise worn lightly.
"Usually," Madam Lou continued, "Ciel—she's the chef—has an assistant. But her last one left town recently to seek work in a larger restaurant."
A soft sigh.
"It is difficult to find soone who cooks well enough for this place… and who wishes to stay."
Marron glanced back at the sign through the open doorway.
"Looking for an assistant chef," she murmured.
Madam Lou followed her gaze.
"Yes."
There was no pressure in her tone. No expectation.
Just quiet opportunity.
Marron turned back.
"I might not be staying permanently," she said carefully. "But… could I work for a bed?"
Madam Lou's golden eyes sharpened slightly with interest.
Lucy bobbed in her jar.
"Lucy can help clean dishes," Marron continued. "She's very thorough."
Lucy pulsed proudly.
"And Mokko—"
Mokko stood a little straighter.
"—can handle heavier tasks. Carrying supplies. Chopping wood."
Mokko nodded solemnly. "I do not over-salt."
Madam Lou's smile widened.
"A rare trait," she said.
She studied Marron for a long, silent mont.
Not scrutinizing.
Assessing.
"You would work in my kitchen," she said at last. "Under Ciel. No special treatnt. You cook as part of a team."
"That's fine."
"You wake early."
"I'm used to that."
"You serve travelers, farrs, rchants, and the occasional adventurer who believes stew should be heroic."
Marron smiled faintly. "I can manage that."
Madam Lou's gaze softened just a fraction.
"Deal," she said simply.
Marron let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"I'll have two guest rooms set up for you," Madam Lou continued. "One larger for you and your… companions. One smaller for storage or rest as needed."
"That's generous."
"It is practical," Madam Lou corrected lightly.
She turned toward the staircase. "How long are you thinking of staying?"
Marron hesitated.
The apple tree outside rustled softly in the breeze. The inn creaked gently around them—alive, settled, enduring.
"Three days," she said at first.
Then she considered.
"Maybe a week."
Madam Lou glanced back over her shoulder, amber eyes glinting.
"A week," she repeated. "Very well."
She ascended the stairs with quiet grace.
Marron stood in the lobby for a mont longer, listening to the murmur of the kitchen deeper within the building—the clatter of knives, the low simr of sothing hearty.
Her chest felt full.
Not pressured.
Not obligated.
Just… open.
Mokko leaned closer.
"You are smiling again," he observed.
She touched her cheek, surprised.
"I guess I am."
Lucy pulsed gently in agreent.
Marron looked around the inn one more ti.
"I think," she said softly, "this might be exactly what I need."
And for once, the feeling didn't co from prophecy, or obligation, or power.
It ca from choice.
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