The wall parted and spat a gift bag at me. I caught it and rustled the gold foil decorated with a bright red ribbon bow. Here is hoping the curiosity would get the better of him. I had bought this gift during my grocery trip and had the inn hide it. I planned to give it to him after the banquet.
“I bought these for you. They will help.”
“Nothing can help.”
I carefully plucked the tape holding the edges of the bag together. I had sealed it, hoping the contents would be a surprise. The tape came off on one side and I pried the edges of the bag open.
The sound of sniffing emanated from the ball. “What is that scent?”
“It’s a gift for you.” I held the bag up to him and waved it around, letting the smell drift. “Delicious fruit.”
“I don’t want it.”
“I bought it special for you. I’ve been through so much today already. You don’t want to hurt my feelings, do you?”
The ball shifted and unrolled into Orro sitting on the floor. I handed him the gift bag. He looked at it cautiously, sniffed the gap between the bag’s edges, pulled it apart, and extracted one mango. The red and green fruit lay on his palm. He pricked the mango with his claw, peeled back a thin ribbon of the fruit’s skin, and licked the bright yellow inside.
His needles stood on end with a quiet rustling.
“What is this?” he whispered.
“Mangoes.” My father always said that mangoes with a Quillonian were a sure bet. I hadn’t realized how much of a sure bet.
Orro licked the fruit again, looked at it, and suddenly bit into it, shredding the yellow pulp. He’d wolfed down half a mango before he realized I was still there and froze, pieces of mango on his whiskers. “Don’t see me.”
“I won’t,” I promised. I reached out and gently patted his furry cheek. “You are the best chef in the Galaxy.”
He blinked.
I got up and left the kitchen, motioning to Turan Adin to follow.
I climbed the staircase, aware of Turan Adin walking silently behind me. His presence prickled the skin on my neck, as if he were woven together of high-voltage wires humming with live current. I had screwed up his room. It didn’t fit him at all.
“I apologize for the delay,” I murmured.
“It’s fine.”
I almost jumped. His voice was low-pitched, more of a deep snarl than any kind of voice a human throat could make.
“I’m sorry I had to kill within your inn.”
“It’s fine.” Wait, what? It wasn’t fine. Why did I say that? “It’s been a long day for all of us. You must be tired. Our accommodations are probably more modest than what you have been used to.”
Oh yes, that was so subtle. Here, let me insult my own inn, because I can’t figure out any other way to get you to tell me your room preferences.
“I’m used to war,” he said quietly. “Anything you offer me is better than what I have now.”
Said in a different tone of voice it might have sounded like grandstanding or an attempt at sympathy, but coming from him it was a simple factual statement. I heard so much in those words: weariness, regret, grief, acceptance of inevitable violence, and an urgent need for distance. He was tired, bone-weary, and he wanted to be far away from the death he caused. The need to step away from it rolled off him. No innkeeper worth her salt would’ve missed it. He needed a retreat and I would make one for him. That’s why I was the Innkeeper..
He was definitely male. He was also Nuan Cee’s employee and a vital one, so he would be used to luxury, but more than that he wanted to be at peace. To be clean.
I feverishly moved things around in his room. We were almost to the door.
“Is the reputation of your inn irreparably damaged?” he asked.
“How much do you know of Earth’s inns?”
“I have been a guest before.”
“Then you know that our first priority is to keep the guests safe. I have allowed the Arbiter’s orders to direct my actions, because I believed that his goal was peace between these people. Now some guests are dead. I don’t trust him anymore and I won’t make the same mistake again.”
The door to his room swung open. I stepped aside.
Panels of rough fabric the color of beech wood sheathed the walls, framed by narrow polished wooden planks. The top of the wall was painted a soothing sage, the same color as the vaulted ceiling, with the kind of finish that put one in mind of parchment. A polished bamboo floor echoed the wooden accents on the walls, its boards the color of amber honey. A large platform bed stood against the left wall, simple and modern, yet retaining strong square lines. The bedspread was grey, the slew of pillows white edged with sage and gold. The fabric panels ended on both sides of the bed, letting the sage finish of the ceiling flow down to the floor, and an elaborate square Celtic knot, formed from varnished bamboo decorated the wall. Two bedside tables flanked the bed, simple rectangles of nine square drawers, stained nearly black, then distressed so the pale golden grain of acacia wood showed through. The door to a private balcony stood wide open, offering a hot tub and a view of the orchard.
It was a tranquil room, high-end yet masculine, peaceful and clean without being sterile. Stepping into it was like entering a refreshing lake after a hard sweaty run.
“My deepest apologies,” I told him. “I’m sorry you were attacked in my inn. I’m sorry I didn’t keep you safe.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly.