Smitter and I walked the empty streets of Cava in silence until we arrived at the drinking hole. The familiar smells of stale ale, roasted pig, and a woodburning fire wafted under my nose. A comforting scent far superior to the overabundant florals of the palace.

Although I had never been to this pub, my father frequented its sturdy, wooden walls during his trips to the Isle of Cava. He’d regaled me with stories of the famous lyre played by travelers when they visited. He spoke of songs so sweet and alluring that they rivaled a siren’s call.

The painted letters carved into the wooden sign hanging over the door read, The Lyre of Hermes Tavern. “Strange name for a drinking hole,” I said.

Smitter’s lips curled into a devilish smirk as he pushed the splintered door open. The iron hinges groaned in protest as we stepped into the warm light. The scattered smell of unwashed bodies filled the crowded room. Traders. Pirates. Townspeople. They were all crammed into every corner, mugs clutched in their sullied hands. My eyes caught the bottom of Smitter’s winged staff and snake tattoo peeking out from his rolled shirt sleeve. I wondered if this tavern meant something special to him, due to his devotion to its namesake, but the question died on my lips. It seemed invasive to ask something so personal to a man I hardly knew.

Smitter led us to a table in front of the roaring fire surrounded by several crewmembers of The Sea Singer and The Freedom. Hannah, Viennafer, and Krinny sat with Rylander’s men, laughing between sips of ale. Rylander himself rested at the head of the table opposite the fireplace, knee bent, with his boot on the edge of Bernard’s chair and his arm slung over his raised thigh. More relaxed than at the castle, certainly. He’d released his hair from its tight hold, and the brown curls brushed his strong chin. Doublet abandoned, he wore a long-sleeved charcoal tunic and a black leather vest with a finely stitched V-shaped neckline and stud detail. He’d traded in his fancy royal breeches for black leather pants and boots much like my own. Wet from ale, his lips tipped upward at the laughter of his comrades.

Seeing him like that caused a heady want inside of me that had no place there. I bit my lower lip as if the pain could wash away the unwelcomed feeling.

Leading fingers wrapped around my elbow, snapping me out of my daze. I jerked out of Smitter’s grasp. “I can walk by myself. Touch me again, and you’ll lose your hand.”

“I wasn’t sure you remembered how. You look like a starved animal,” Smitter muttered over his shoulder. “Thought you might start drooling.”