A bit of short fiction authored by your humble hostess.
Darrington was hunkered over his hard cider and rum, cryingand mumbling a song I could not decipher. He would stay until I pushed him outinto the night to stumble across the way, up that narrow staircase and into hispoor wife's bed. Outside, the air was easy and fair and not completely still.So unlike the tavern, with its lingering pipe smoke and the feeling of men withtheir needy eyes. There was one table left to scour.
My ears pricked at the sound of a cart. It neared the tavernand I hoped it would pass. But the rumble of its wheels stopped beneathshuffling reins and I sighed with disappointment.
To my surprise, it was the voice of Alvy Jameson callingwhoa to her ass. The beast snorted and whinnied and finally settled after a fewsnaps of the reins.
"Sorry for the late hour, Rose," she said as shestepped in. Her tone was conciliatory, considering she was a woman with a handsomepurse and a dead husband. "Have you time for one drink? Will you have onewith me?"
~~read the rest of the story~~
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