I hadn’t noticed it before, but the inn where I was staying was none other than the Boar’s Head she had mentioned. Either she’s telepathic, or it’s the only inn in town. I guessed the latter—I’d never heard of a sigel with psychic abilities. Street magic is a learned trade, not innate. Or perhaps she had been telling me where she stayed, not where I was at. Regardless, I couldn’t seem to get that pretty face framed by tendrils of curls out of my mind as I went up the stairwell to the rooms above the tavern. As I lay down for a quick nap before dinner, her face floated above me in the darkness of the windowless room.
I woke much later to the distant sound of flutes trilling below me. A band of troubadours were in full swing downstairs, the tavern dimmed so the stage opposite the large fire
