Chapter Eight

Leaving Amber behind felt like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t been deaf to her concerns, though Petra worried from her perspective it might’ve seemed that way. If he had a choice, he would’ve taken the day off for both of their sakes.

On the road that led to town, Petra imagined how such a request would’ve gone over with boss number two: Ebony Bronson.

“Chawhahaha! Take the day off? I’ll be bletched—ya only work one day a week! I’ve told ya lot of kettle scum once, and I’ll say it again: unless yer wife’s got a bigger gut than mine, and a kindling bout ready to pop out’ev it, no one is takin the day off!” (That was the point where Bronson would turn to the males of his staff and scoff about how they were all too ugly to have wives anyway.)

Was it grating? Sure. But Petra would’ve chosen Bronson any day over Andre. One dragon was a blowhard, the other was a hard blow. When it came down to it, that was the greatest difference between them.

Today was “Two-pint Tuesdays,” and dracians had already begun spilling in through the tavern’s rusty double doors. It was a casual sight for Petra. Two beers for the price of one brought out the best and worst of people—brought them out of their bathtubs, and bed sheets, no doubt. Petra was convinced not even a bout of acid rain would stall the crowds on Two-pint Tuesday.

He slipped through the tavern’s entrance and cut through the crowds in pursuit of the kitchen. A few cordial “hey Petra’s!” called out to him from the tables, which he returned with a curt nod as he whizzed by.

Petra tried his best to make it into the staff room unnoticed. Right before he could finish fumbling with the last button on his uniform, a blast of hot air from behind toasted his back, and nearly wilted the embroidery between his shoulders.

“Petra!” yowled his boss. “Yer two minutes late! Hurry up and start on those glasses! We’ve got a party of young Whiteflames celebrating three different birthdays today. Three!”

“Sure, boss. A little warning next time—” Petra reached to touch the still-cooling spot between his shoulder blades. His finger tips brushed the crisped edges of the Red Kettle insignia, and he sucked his teeth at how unpleasant the texture now felt.

It was debatable which felt worse: a scratchy uniform, or a pair of pruned hands. Dish duty was Petra’s least favorite task. By mid-day, the water would be thick as a bog—and as brown as one too.

The sink was already filled with stacks of dirty pints that had grown into a small tower. Petra just stared at it.

“Why would anyone want to drink a Brackish Brandy at six in the morning?” He said aloud.

“They don’t,” the sink answered him. “It’s wurmcider that’s the hot new breakfast item.” He decided to humor it.

“Whoa! Do I hear spirits? In a tavern? Uncanny! Think you could scare off the customers so we can all go home?”

The sink attempted its best ghost impression.

“Aye, mortal. That be a fine idea. Alas, me ghostly powers only be good for scarin mice and fixin drains.”

Creak, Bump!

“Ow!” Petra raised his eyebrows.

“You okay under there?”

“Ah—skivv off, ya nammy!” it snapped.

The little door of the undersink cabinet popped open and out crawled a girl with three ruffled orange pigtails, each chopped short, as if they’d been caught in the garbage grinder on more than one occasion.

“Blet-ched pipes,” she muttered. “Outta my way bar boy. Gasket’s ‘kaput’ and there’s a gallon of swamp slop clogging up the drainage.” The girl, who was called Spiggy, shouldered past Petra and dove into the kitchen’s supply closet.

“So—does that mean the sink is broken?” he asked, stifling his hope.

As Spiggy’s muffled voice addressed Petra from the closet, a third staff member burst into the kitchen.

“Petra! Boss is demanding a cart of clean dishes for the Whiteflames! He said he’ll chop off my tail and serve it as an appetizer if we make them wait any longer!”

This voice belonged to a young male dragon. The name etched into his employment lanyard read: Icarus Auburn.

“Hm—” he sniffed the air. “Did something char in here?”

“Probably me,” said Petra. “Big-bony-Eb” breathed on me too hard.” For a split second, the dragon’s pursed lips zipped tighter as he tried to keep a laugh from escaping.

“Here lemme see,” he turned Petra around to see the spot where the insignia had melted. “It says—R E D KEE-A VERN,” Icarus squinted. “Well that’s unfortunate,” he chuckled.

“Don’t worry about it,” Petra brushed off the dragon’s paw. “I’ve got a spare uniform somewhere at home.” I’ve got a spare house guest too, he reminded himself.

“Be careful with boss or you’ll end up with another ‘Greg incident,’” echoed Spiggy from the closet.

“Oh-ho, yeah! You weren’t here for that, Petra. Poor Greg,” Icarus went on. “Boss did the same thing to him, only worse, cause he’d had a bottle of BirdCry beforehand.”

“No kiddin? That’s the spicy stuff too.”

“Yeah. Greg went to the tables to take orders from a family that had a tiny kid sitting there. Well when he started walking away from the table, the kid pointed to Greg and said: ‘daddy—where’s the D KETT going?’” Petra just gave a wry smile and shook his head.

“Kid was just readin the words he saw in front of him,” said Spiggy. “Now cap your smoke stack, Ick, I can’t hear myself rummage! Aha! Here it is!” Icarus rolled his eyes.

“You’re the one who brought it up, Spig.”

“What’s the status on the drain, Spiggy?” Petra’s mind was more focused on the issue at hand. She walked over to him and thrust an odd-looking wrench into his arms.

“That’s your status update right there. Missing wrench: found. I’ll tell ya the rest after I fix the sink.”

“We’re doomed!” Icarus began to panic. “My tail will be on the menu with a side of blumpoe fries!”

“Oh don’t let Bronson get to you. I’ll head back out there and do what I can to keep them busy for awhile,” Petra reassured.

Icarus watched him as the kitchen doors swung shut behind.

“I don’t know what we’d do without that guy,” the dragon said, turning to Spiggy. She crossed her arms.

“Tut, probly a lot more dishes.”

She pulled a small, steel ring out of her front pocket and held it up to Icarus’s snout.

“Ooh!” he beamed. “You brought snacks?”

“Did your father name you before or after your brains flew to the sun?” Icarus pouted. “This is a gasket,” Spiggy regained. “It’s what makes the sink work. See how it’s all gnarled and uneven?”

“All I see is a tasty donut. But do tell—you said Petra caused it to get like this?”

“Not on purpose,” she sighed. “This kinda damage takes time. “I’ll wager he’s pouring all the un-drank grog down the drain at night, thinking it’ll save us from backlog the next day.”

“It does take a lot longer to get rid of it all outside,” Icarus considered. “He is technically saving on work for us—just, y’know, till he’s not,” he chuckled.

“Boss could be at fault for cutting corners too, but if there’s anyone else who knows how that dragon tonic strips the plumbing, it’s him.”

“Well,” said Icarus. “I’ll be waiting on the roof whenever you’re willing to risk your life to let him know.”

Meanwhile, over at table nine—

“And so she says to me: ‘see Ebby? Pepper Johnson kisses his wife before he goes to work. Why can’t you be warm-blooded like that?’ And then I say: good idea, Dear. Next time, I should try kissing Pepper Johnson’s wife too! And then she bit me.” The table of Whiteflame dragons erupted in a round of laughter.

Petra’s stomach tightened as he approached. Bronson he could handle. But the Whiteflames he was entertaining made him anxious. He noticed only one he already knew, which meant that the other three were from different townships. Outside of Cresswoven, Petra’s asylum was not recognized, and he couldn’t be sure how closely to Council the others aligned themselves.

He held his breath when the party turned their attention to him.

“I’ll be! Good to see ya Petra!”

“Good to see you too, Saltwater. How’s the missus?” Saltwater laughed.

“She’s doing fine, thank you. I’m spoiling her well, unlike some cold-blooded drakes I know.” He smirked at Bronson.

“Ergh, Deartrice knows I love her,” Ebony huffed. “I cook her scrambled eggs every morning, and tell her she’s the prettiest dutchess a drake could ever lay eyes on.” The table erupted forth in laughter once more.

He shot Petra a narrow look.

“Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen right now, my good lad?”

“Yes, slaving away happily, sir. But I came to tell you the sink is out of commission.”

“OUT OF COMMIS—” Bronson began to shout, correcting himself for the sake of his company. “Well hurry up and get it un-out of commission, we’re dealin’ with a full house!” he said through clenched teeth.

“Spiggy’s doing her best to work on it now, sir.”

The Whiteflame sitting next to Saltwater suddenly spoke up.

“Uh, Petra, was it? I’ve heard that you’re skilled with the saucepan, is that true?”

“He’s fantastic!” Saltwater exclaimed before Petra could level the praise. “A thousand pardons, Petra. I should’ve introduced my companions here. This is Kinema, Haberdash, and Salvo.”

“Ah, these are the birthday dragons today?”

“Aye,” Bronson cut in. “And the birthday dragons are famished, so why don’t you make yourself useful and cook them up some horderves.

“I thought you’d never ask, boss,” Petra smiled.

He took a few steps toward the kitchen until realization overpowered his sense of relief. He stopped. “Ebony, sir?” Bronson curled his lip.

“What is it now, boy?”

“There’s something important I need to ask them—” The Whiteflames fixed their attention on Petra once more, and he drew in a breath.

“A close friend of mine became very ill recently. I’d like to know—what are my nearest resources as far as a physician is concerned.” Saltwater and Kinema exchanged glances.

“Your odds aren’t favorable in Cresswoven,” Haberdash replied. “I’ve been on the force for five years, and I’ve never known any physicians to register out of your town. We do have a few practicing in Aenvale though.”

Saltwater was Cresswoven’s resident Whiteflame, but he nodded in agreement.

“I’m afraid he’s right, Petra. Your best bet would be a neighboring town.”

“Coldirge.” This time Salvo spoke. “There’s a woman who runs a small clinic in Birchside.”

Oh great— Petra thought. That’s close to Blackmoss Towne. Andre would be thrilled to use this as leverage. “Thank you all for your suggestions,” Petra bowed. “I guess I’ll just have to arrange a ride to Coldirge as soon as possible.”

As he ran plates of skelpie tails and blumpoe fries back and forth out to the tables, Petra became increasingly aware of a green figure that held its presence in the corner of his eye. Whenever he passed by close enough, he could see it was a younger woman wearing a hood. He was sure it was a woman—because she had suddenly grabbed his arm as he passed.

“Don’t bother chasing down those sorts of people in the city. Even if you find one, they’ll never let you afford it.” Petra remained still as she spoke.

“What would you suggest?” She released his arm.

“I’d suggest a scoria for the following nugget of wisdom,” she said.

Only in Cresswoven. He untucked the lanyard from his shirt and tapped a finger on the spot that read: C.D.P. The woman relaxed back in her chair. She closed her eyes and smiled to herself.

“Kids these days, they just keep finding ways to amaze me.”

Petra proceeded to quietly walk away, but in time, returned and placed a tall glass on the table in front of the woman.

“I don’t suppose a drink would do as well to refresh your memory, would it?”

“I suppose it might,” she chuckled. “Have a seat, officer.”

"How much of my conversation did you overhear?"

"As much as what interested me." The woman took a sip of the Rosewheat beer Petra had brought to her. "I can tell you brewed this yourself."

"Is it alright?" The woman laughed.

"It's more than effective collateral if that's what you're worried about. It also tells me everything I need to know about you." Petra tilted his head.

"About me?"

"Rosewheat has a taste that's hard to perfect and takes more steps to brew. You could've brought me something quicker and cheaper—funny this drink costs a scoria more than what I was trying to extort from you."

“Funny is my middle name, it would seem," breathed Petra. "All that matters is that it's worth the chance of finding a physician."

The woman suddenly tensed and motioned Petra in closer.

"Hey now keep it down! You asking around is one thing, but having the connections to a—uh, 'musician,' is dangerous territory." Petra raised his eyebrows.

"Dangerous? I'd figure it'd profit you to have connections like that. Why else would you go out of your way to tell me?" She glanced around the space nervously.

"I'll explain when I can speak to you somewhere other than here."

"My break won't be for another few hours now," said Petra. "Are you really willing to wait that long?"

"I am," the woman replied. "Meet me in Silo Park as soon as you can. I'll be there."

Petra dipped his head and collected the woman's empty glass.

"Oh, miss? I just realized I didn't ask your name."

"It's Vida." And as quickly as she’d said it, she adjusted her green hood and left the tavern as if Petra were nothing but a voice in the wind.