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Dawsyn nods and holds out a hand. With a sideways look to Ryon, Salem shakes it.

“Ryon told me that I am to give you money for your hospitality. Here you are.” She holds out the very coins Ryon handed to her the night before, worth a drink but hardly a room.

Salem looks to the coins, his shifting eyes betraying his discomfort. “No, lass. There’s no need.”

“Why not?” she asks bluntly, a crease forming between her brows, her outstretched hand lowering warily.

“Did yeh really manage to get yerself off the Ledge?”

She frowns slowly, then nods.

“Then yeh’ve paid enough already, I’d say.” He awkwardly places a hand on her shoulder and her eyes mark every inch of movement. “Welcome home, lass. I’m glad yeh made it.”

Dawsyn nods again, her confusion clear.

Salem retracts his hand and clears his throat. “Yeh stay as long as yeh’d like, miss. People come fer the drink but not fer the beds – unless they render themselves prone. There’s plenty of vacancy round here.”

“Thank you,” Dawsyn tells him. “But it would be daft to stay so close to the mountain with all those bats flying around.”

Salem spits out a laugh. “They’re a pest, to be sure, but I wouldn’t worry yerself, lass. No Glacian comes this far. Too hot fer those fuckers.”

Dawsyn laughs with him.

Ryon watches her eyes narrow and her lips widen. The sound of her amusement is musical when it is free of irony and contempt. So light when unburdened. Ryon finds himself wishing that he were the one to unburden it. “Are you hungry?” he asks her.

When she turns to face him, laughter still illuminates her, and Ryon’s chest tightens.

“I’m always hungry,” she says easily.

“I’ll fix yeh somethin’, miss. Just sit where yeh please.”

Ryon frowns. “Thought you said it was too early?”

“Too early fer the likes ofyeh, tit. But if yer really that hungry, yeh know where the storeroom is.”

Ryon turns to Dawsyn, grinning. “I’ll be back.”

She nods and takes a seat at the bar.

When Ryon and Salem return, they place large plates of bread, eggs, and tomatoes across the bar top and sit side by side. Dawsyn warily pokes the tomato but says nothing. Ryon wonders how much of this world will be new to her, how often she will feel thrown.

The door slams into the wall behind them and they all jump. Dawsyn is on her feet in an instant, her hand at her thigh.

“Well, what sordid bunch of louts grace your bar at such an hour, Salem? I thought you said the liquor was off-limits before nine.”

Ryon groans. It isn’t that he doesn’t care for Esra, but the human is practically a storm in a bottle – and not one Dawsyn need open so soon after her ordeal. If Ryon wished to give her space and peace, that wish is now ash on the unswept floor.

Esra’s black and bald head and wide face do not match the grace with which he carries himself. His outfit of choice is always loud and fitted with a cloak meant for royalty but destined for a liquor tradesman instead.

“Esra! Mind yer fuckin’ manners, yeh bloody moron! We got company,” Salem hollers.

“Who? Ryon? Are you drunk already? He wouldn’t blink if I stripped naked and straddled the bar… again.” Esra halts then. He was swaggering his way through the tables, but now, his eyes are pinned to Dawsyn’s rather bemused ones. “But who is this treasure you’ve brought us, Ryon? Do not tell me the rakish woodsman of the north has finally succumbed to the wiles of a woman? Though I cannot say I judge you. She dresses like shit, but her face is lovely.”

Ryon stifles another groan and looks to Dawsyn, who seems puzzled but otherwise unoffended.

“This is Dawsyn,” he tells Esra, a warning in his tone. “She has come to us from the Ledge.”

Dawsyn’s eyes skirt the length of the newcomer, but if she is disconcerted by the frock or the red stain on his lips, it is quickly swallowed by Esra’s sudden reaction, which demands the full attention of all.