Spinner’s Lodge contained a long, rectangular room full of plain wooden tables, all of them empty. A stone hearth on one end housed a large black kettle. Heavy beams spanned the space overhead. A hallway led farther back into the building, and a kitchen could be seen beyond the stone counter.

A bald man limped toward them as they entered. His crooked nose had probably been broken more than once. “What do you want?” he accused.

“Food,” Mira said. “Did we come to the wrong place?”

“Can you pay?” the man questioned.

“We have plenty,” Mira said.

“You don’t mind showing me?” the man asked.

Sighing, Mira pulled her necklace out of her shirt so he could see the copper rings. He gave a nod. “I don’t know your faces.”

“We’re traveling with our uncle,” Mira said.

“These boys don’t speak?” the man asked.

“Not before lunch,” Cole said.

“Pick a table,” the man said. “You’re early for lunch, late for breakfast. Must be nice to have no responsibilities. What do you want?”

“What’s cooking?” Mira asked.

“Egg soup, skewers of chicken, bread, potatoes, bacon, pork chops, and some porridge from this morning. Cook’s specialty is sugarbread. He has frosted and apricot today.”

“How’s the egg soup?” Mira asked.

“Exactly like it sounds,” the man huffed.

Cole noticed the bondmark on his wrist. The man certainly wasn’t trying to make friends. Maybe he felt like kids were the only people he could treat rudely.

“Some of the soup for me,” Mira said.

“Me too,” Twitch chimed in. “And chicken skewers.”

“I’ll have the skewers and bacon,” Cole said.

“How am I supposed to skewer bacon?” the man replied.

“The chicken skewers,” Cole said slowly. “And bacon.”

The man started walking away. “Will, you filthy weakling, get water to these customers.”

A thin boy a couple of years younger than Cole hurried over to the table with a platter of cups and a wooden pitcher. He had a bondmark as well. He filled three cups, distributed them, then scuttled back to the kitchen.

“Is everyone this rude here?” Cole asked.

“Depends on the town,” Twitch said. “Depends on the establishment. Depends who you are. Doesn’t help when you’re young.”

“Where I come from, people treat customers nicely,” Cole said. “They want your business.”

“It can be like that here, too,” Mira said. “We’re in a remote town. Not many options.”

Jace walked into the room wearing a felt top hat, gray with a black band. It wasn’t very tall, but it had a brim all the way around.

Mira buried her face in her hands.

Jace came over to the table, grinning wide. “Saw it in the window.”

“It’s . . . something,” Cole said.

“Isn’t it?” Jace said. “I mean, what’s such an amazing hat doing in a place like this?”

“How much?” Mira asked.

“Two silver,” Jace said.

Mira reddened, her lips pressed together.

“I’ve never bought anything before,” Jace whispered proudly to Cole. “What’s for lunch?”

“They have chicken, pork, and egg soup,” Twitch listed. “And sugarbread.”

“Sugarbread?” Jace asked, perking up. “Any flavors?”

“Apricot and frosted.”

“I know what I’m getting,” Jace said.

The young slave called Will returned with two bowls on a platter. He placed one in front of Mira, the other in front of Twitch.

“You blundering good-for-nothing!” the bald slave yelled, exiting from the kitchen. He hobbled up to Will and cuffed him on the ear. “I gave you bread! Where’s the bread?”

Will looked scared. “I must have set it down in the kitchen.”

The bald slave cuffed him again. “Don’t write me a speech. Fetch it!”

Will scurried off.

Hands on his hips, the bald slave turned to face the table. “You’ve picked up a tagalong. Quite the gentleman, it appears.” The sarcasm was apparent.

Jace looked at him hard. “Ever buy a hat, bald man?”

The man squared up and stared at him flatly. “If I ever bought a hat, I’d have an outfit to match it.”

“Then you’d buy a rag,” Jace replied without humor. “But it wouldn’t hide that nose or your mark. Who taught you to talk back to your betters?”

The man glared, fuming. “You better watch yourself—”

“I better watch myself?” Jace laughed, standing up. “You’re a slave, you dimwit! You keep opening your mouth with no idea who you’re talking to!”

Cole tried to signal Jace to mellow out, but there was no reaching him. He had his game face on.

Jace took off his hat, turned it upside down, and dumped Twitch’s soup into it. “I bought this as a joke.” He walked up to the slave and, reaching up to the taller man, put it on his bald head. Oily soup cascaded down the man’s neck and shoulders. “It’s yours now.”

Veins stood out in the man’s neck. His fists were tensed, his gaze lethal.

“Are you giving me the eye?” Jace growled. “You’ve forgotten yourself, lowlife! Please hit me. I’d love to watch you swinging by the neck, that goofy hat on your ugly head.”

The slave backed away, his expression less certain. Jace stepped forward and snatched his hat back. “You should be on your knees, begging forgiveness. I’ve had enough. Fetch your owner! We’re going to have words.”

The bald man hesitated, as if about to reply.

“How stupid are you?” Jace yelled. “You’ve wrecked our meal! Move!”

The bald man hurried away. Cole avoided eye contact with Jace. The bald slave had been a jerk, but Jace had laid into him too much. Cole’s only relief was to have Jace’s temper directed at a target besides himself.

A moment later a short man came out from the back. “What’s the trouble?”

“Do you own Baldy?” Jace asked.

“I own him and this lodge,” the man said.

“Your slave kept mouthing off,” Jace said. “It was unacceptable.”

The short man wrung his hands. “Gordon doesn’t always . . . That’s just his way.”