Chapter 4 Bones of the Tavern

The tavern in daylight was a different animal. Gone was the press of bodies, the sour heat, the sense of being watched from every corner. What remained were the bones: scuffed wood, beams soaked with the echo of last night’s laughter, the slow drip of something sweet fermenting in the cask room. I liked it best this way.

Alone, I owned every inch.

I started with the tables. Each one got wiped down until the ring marks and sticky patches faded into ghosts of themselves. I righted the chairs and angled them just so. There was an art to it. Enough space for traffic. Enough closeness for flirtation. Enough room to throw a punch if it came to that.

The air still carried last night’s scent. Smoke. Yeast. And beneath it, faint and metallic, something I knew was blood, though I’d never say it aloud.

Inventory came next.

I took the ledger and a stub of charcoal down into the cellar. Every shelf got checked. Half a keg missing here. A crate of dried fruit crawling with weevils there. A row of empty bottles I had meant to refill and never did.

I noted it all carefully, mouthing the numbers as I wrote. Numbers were steady things. They didn’t leave. They didn’t vanish at sea, and they didn’t die.

When the list was nearly done, I let myself reach under the counter.

The sword was exactly where I had left it, wrapped in burlap and wedged behind a crate of pickled herring.

It was short, more knife than blade, but wickedly sharp. The hilt was wrapped in worn blue leather, faded where hands had gripped it tight. My father’s, or so he said. I had never seen him use it.

He once told me everyone should know how to fight. Even if all they ever did was pour drinks for sailors and dodgy priests.

I drew it slowly.

The weight settled into my palm like it belonged there. The balance was clean. The slight curve near the tip made it better for gutting than slicing.

I stepped into the open space and swung.

Once. Twice.

I tested moves I had watched in alley brawls and practiced in secret. My wrist turned with more grace then the rest of me. My footwork was stubborn, though. I didn’t give ground easily. I imagined sparring with a handsome man. Smiling slightly, I thought that would be fun.

I lunged.

Overcommitted.

Nearly took out a lantern.

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. I was glad no one was there to see. I rewrapped the blade and slid it back beneath the counter. A quiet promise. A small defense against whatever the night decided to throw at me.

The knock came heavy and sudden, rattling the back door.

I froze.

For a heartbeat, the tavern felt too large. I smoothed my apron and schooled my face into something bored and unimpressed before unlatching the bolt.

The delivery kid stood there, hauling a crate like it had personally insulted him. He was new. I hadn’t learned his name yet. His cheeks were red, his cap tipped down the way boys wore it when they wanted to look older than they were.

“Got your order,” he grunted, setting the crate down with a thud. “Careful. Eggs on top.”

“You’re early,” I said, scanning the slip.

He shrugged. “Boss said make the rounds quick. Word is there are pirates and thugs about.” He grinned, lifting his head, eyes meeting mine. Something like boyish wonder glimmered.

“Pirates?” I echoed my eyebrow raised.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Serious ones. Not those toothless types from the Islands north of here. Someone saw The Ghost last week. Out past the breakwater.”

My hands stayed steady on the crate.

My stomach did not.

“The Ghost?” I asked, careful to sound doubtful and not scared.

He nodded eagerly. “Black hull. Silent sails. They say the captain charms your shirt off and takes your head clean after.” He mimed a slicing motion and nearly knocked his cap loose. “Took out a customs boat. No survivors.”

I let out a soft huff. “Sounds like a fisherman who drank too much.” I tried brushing it off. Why of all the pirates to have to make their way over here, did it have to be them? They were the worst of the worst, if the stories about them were true. There have been too many stories and whispers about them to be only rumors. There have been an influx of rumors and sightings over the past couple of days. Maybe it held a glimmer of truth. There might be pirates around. I just doubted that it was The Ghost crew.

He laughed, but he wanted me to believe him. I could see it in the way his eyes searched mine. Almost begging.

“Maybe,” he said. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

I signed the slip and pressed a coin into his palm. He lingered in the doorway, hoping for a reason to stay.

“Anything else?” I asked, already turning away.

He hesitated. “Just… watch yourself. A place like this, you never know who’ll walk in.”

I gave him my most careless smile. “If pirates show up, I’ll pour them the good stuff. Maybe they’ll go easy on me.”

He grinned, tipped his cap, and disappeared into the thinning fog.

I dragged the crate the rest of the way inside and slid it behind the bar, my mind racing despite myself.

I had heard of The Ghost. Everyone had. Some nights the stories swallowed the taproom whole. A ghost crew. Lanterns that burned without flame. A captain who changed his face with the seasons. All crazy stories.

But the harbormaster swore he had seen the boat twice now.

I had never believed him. Not fully. But he has never lied to me before.

I wiped my hands on my skirt and made another circuit of the tavern, more for the rhythm than the need. Bottles lined up. Floor swept. Clean clothes behind the bar.

I was ready.

I could still feel the sword’s weight in my palm, even though it sat hidden beneath the counter.

Thinking about that blade, it steadied me.

I poured myself a shot of gin and swallowed it. The burn settled behind my ribs, sharp and honest.

The sun climbed higher, casting real shadows across the empty room. Just a few more hours till chaos danced its way in. 

I braced my hands on the bar and watched the doorway.

It looked harmless in daylight.

It never stayed that way. Outside, the fog had lifted. The street was clear. All that remained was the promise of another night.

And whatever story decided to walk through my door next.