[Folwren]

Seredic Boffin wiped the next mug only half enthusiastically with his rag. He set it by all the others underneath the counter and cast his eye over the empty common room. Almost empty, anyway. The only customer sat by the fire, and even he probably wouldn’t be there very long. He was old Mr. Burrower, an old customer who came in at least once a week, and even the absence of Cela, the old cook, hadn’t caused Mr. Burrower to change his habits. He was a dear old fellow to continue coming so faithfully.

Dick sighed as he picked up another mug, and he looked out the window. The leaves on the trees outside were rattling in the dry, cold November wind, and the door was shut fast to keep nipping air out.

Rowan came in from the kitchen and stopped by him with a clean stack of towels. “Naught much happening today,” she said, glancing about the room just as Dick had. Dick just shook his head. “Poor old cook. I wonder whatever happened to her,” Rowan murmured. She bent to put the towels away.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk as though she were dead, Rowan,” Dick said. His tone was a little sharp, and Rowan straightened abruptly. “Prim’s getting right along with the cooking. Pretty soon our common room will be as full as ever. And, besides, the beer’s still alright, which is what brings the most business from neighboring towns.” Rowan didn’t answer. She just nodded and turned about and went back to the kitchen.

Dick sighed. Things hadn’t been the same since cook left. The food had been good, but not as good as it used to be. Moods had been darker, tempers shorter, and although he knew it, he couldn’t always change even his own. The cold, overcast days that continued to roll in one after another with no rain and no warmth didn’t help.