Seleste, Then

SELESTE

S eleste stepped out of the carriage, momentarily taken aback by the quaint inn standing before her. Where it was rustic, it was equally warm and inviting, all rough boards and glowing windows. The door creaked open, lively music and conversation chasing a couple out into the night, arms wrapped tightly around one another.

Seleste smiled at the couple and their impropriety, but the coachman cleared his throat. "Apologies, demoiselle . I'd forgotten this inn can be more or less a bawdy tavern. Shall we find another place for you for the evening?"

"This is perfect." She picked up her carpet bag in one hand and her skirts in the other, striding forward. The coachman jumped to take her bag from her, and their fingers brushed. Ignoring the spark between them, she murmured her thanks and strode inside with him on her heels.

Aromas of a Summer soup—a light lemon, chicken, and thyme dish—stale bread and ale greeted her as soon as they entered. It would be a wondrous place to stay for the evening. Just loud enough to drown out her cunning. "Two rooms, please," she politely told the grouchy innkeeper when the woman greeted them.

As she bustled away, the coachman came up behind Seleste's shoulder, so close she could feel his breath hot on her neck. "I usually sleep in the stable with the horses, demoiselle . I don't need a room."

"Nonsense," she declared brightly as she turned to face him. "What is your name, monsieur ?" She could have kicked herself for forgetting to ask. Though her mind had been rather preoccupied, it was no excuse, and so unlike her to forget to inquire about such things.

She could almost make out a blush on his dark cheeks in the candlelight. "Bast," he said simply, dipping his head.

"Bast," she rolled the name around on her tongue. "I like that. I am Seleste, and please stop calling me demoiselle ."

A wide smile broke out across his handsome face. "Seleste. Thank you."

The innkeeper returned with their keys—ancient skeleton ones that Aggie would have fawned over—and proclaimed that two bowls of chicken soup and two ales were included with the price. Seleste handed over an ample amount of coin before gesturing to the lone empty table.

"Shall we, Bast?"

He eyed her warily, likely never having been invited to enjoy a drink with someone he'd been carting across the country, let alone invited to partake of a meal with an unaccompanied lady. But, as Sorscha would so predictably say, Seleste was no lady. She was a witch.

"Come," she urged, walking toward the table where the innkeeper was already setting out two bowls. "No one likes cold soup, even if it is blistering hot out."

Just as they sat, the music hit a lull, and Seleste closed her eyes against the onslaught of observation. Bast inquired if she was all right, but she waved him off, tucking a grimy napkin onto her lap. Blessedly, the music kicked back up, drowning out everything but their little table. Instantly, her mind cleared of the cacophony that was only cumbersome to her.

There was little room for chatting with such festivities taking place around them. Still, she and Bast ate in companionable silence and laughter, drinking their ale and enjoying the show of drunken dancing and reverie until Seleste could hardly keep her eyes open. Bast carried her bag up to her room, offering her a well-mannered smile and a small, unnecessary bow before disappearing into his own lodging across the hall.

The rooms were as rustic as every other part she'd seen of the inn, hardly the size of a closet. It reminded her of the last moons she spent with her Sisters in their tiny cottage in Drifthollow. Winnie had only just begun to come into her magic more than the tiny spells of a witchling, and she had done everything she could to magically build for them a home after theirs burned in Helsvar. That cottage was crooked, bare-bones, and perfect. That Summer was one of Seleste's most difficult, but it was also one of her most cherished.

By the time she'd changed out of her travel clothing into a marvellous peach nightgown perfect for the balmy night, it was nearing the Witching Hour. Sleep was the obvious choice, with another long day of travel ahead. She would need to be fresh-faced and prepared for anything when she arrived at the hiring agency in Merveille, or she would have no chance of being properly sent to interview for the serving position at Whitehall. Alas, she felt a strong urge to pen a letter to Aggie before going to bed. Never mind that she wasn't precisely supposed to contact her Sisters.

"Litha," she whispered to the slumbering butterfly at the windowsill. "Darling, will you fly out and call one of my ravens? Edina, perhaps."

Though Litha gave a little huff impossible for a butterfly, she floated out the window as Seleste opened it. A gentle breeze came in to take her place, and Seleste withdrew her buttercream stationary with Litha's likeness sketched at the top. Inkwells were precarious nuisances to travel with, so she'd not brought one and merely whispered her words to the parchment, letting her magic scrawl the message to her Sister Autumn.