Arrival

Coming to the Inn

I’m going to try to put sections up in three-minute read snippets. The problem is, though Substack will put up an estimate of the time to read a post on the home page, I cannot figure out how to get one on the edit page, so at the moment, I’m just assuming that one screen equals a minute. We’ll see.

Personally, I’d love to write light fantasy romantic comedies, but my mind keeps giving me heavy fantasy romantic horrors, so be aware.

It’s interesting seeing what Bing comes up with when I try for a prompt, and how close it can get to what I’m thinking. This is decent (with some weirdness on the horse I’m just now noticing), but about my third time tweaking the prompt. The image I tried on Monday had 4 nearly perfect on the first try.

Beginning

Glorina

They dropped me off at the end of the block. No one was supposed to see them, but I knew they were watching as I walked to the large building in the middle of the block.

I walked along, dragging my suitcases behind, the wheels jumping up occasionally as they hit a bump. The sidewalk was well-maintained, with no large cracks, but even the best-maintained sidewalks develop bumps from time to time.

I stopped and looked at the sign. "Knight and Unicorn, Tolliver McLichtensen, Owner,” brightly painted, freshly so, in reds and golds. The picture was of a knight and unicorn battling each other. I briefly wondered what the unicorns thought of it.

This was the door I was headed for. Beyond it was a modicum of safety, of privacy. Or at least an illusion of it. For a time.

The terms of my employment had been negotiated for me, though I had signed all of the letters, of course, and read them through when I was being briefed for this assignment. The people I was going to see thought they'd been negotiating with me, and I was not to let them know otherwise.

I lightly touched my face, where the remnants of the black eye were covered by makeup. No one should notice it, and in a few more days it would be gone entirely.

The . . . man . . . who had given it to me had been severely reprimanded. Not for bruising me, but for marring me in a visible spot so close to the time when I'd be going out on assignment. The bruises on my arms and . . . elsewhere didn't matter as much. They'd be covered, anyway.

I walked through the door, and into the sudden dimness of the restaurant vestibule. I stepped up to the stand, and glanced at the tall, red-brown haired woman standing there, writing something.

"Table for one?" she said. "The bar isn't open yet. Or will others be joining you later?"

"I'm here to see Tolliver McLichtensen," I said firmly.

She frowned. "Mr. McLichtensen is a very busy man," she said sharply. "He doesn't have time to talk to everyone who comes in off the street. May I ask what your business with him is?" Implying that if she didn't think the business worthwhile, I'd find myself kicked out on my ear.

I took a deep breath. "I have an appointment," I said, handing her his last letter, signed with a flourished "Tolliver."

She took it and gave it a quick glance. Then she was all smiles. "Oh, Ms. Hoi!" she said warmly. "Yes, he's expecting you. You came to the wrong door. No matter. I'll lead you up to Mr. McLichtensen's office." She glanced back at the suitcases I was still pulling behind me. "Is that all of your luggage? It isn't much for staying a couple months."

"I was told I'd have access to a laundry."

"Yes, of course," she said. "Don't worry about that part. But even so . . ." She looked hard at me, and a vertical line appeared momentarily between her brows.

"More will be coming later," I said. If my boss liked what news I sent him.

She still looked at me hard. Then she shook her head. "Would you prefer me to show you to your room first, or to Mr. McLichtensen's office?"

"I think . . . better to just take me to his office."

"All right, then. I'll drop your suitcases off in your room while you meet with him."

"That's not necessary," I said, clutching the handle of the case tighter. Then I saw that short vertical line appearing between her brows again and realized it might be suspicious, and let her take my suitcase.

"Nonsense, no trouble at all," she said, with another warm smile. "No one will touch your things; the room is perfectly secure. Uncle Tolly, I mean Mr. McLichtensen, insists on that." She stepped through a door beside the stand, down a brighter hallway. I was hard-pressed to keep up with her. "My name's Belinda, by the way. Belinda Smythe. You'll probably be seeing a lot of me during your stay."

"I'm looking forward to it," I said, slightly breathless, as we stepped into the elevator. Belinda's name, as well as her husband Jasin's, featured prominently in the briefing notes.

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