Morning at the Ox and Ember came with the smell of yesterday. Not in a bad way. The common room still held a faint smell of tomato and cheese, something spicy from the lasagna, the memory of coffee trailing along the rafters. It sat under the more familiar scents of old wood, spilled beer and people.

  James leaned on the bar with a cup of water in his hand and a list in his head. Bread to start. Stock to top up. Prep for tonight before the kitchen turned into a battlefield again. Maybe test a lighter soup if he could steal the time.

  The innkeeper was counting coins at the far end of the counter, lips moving silently. Every so often he’d stop, look at the little stack with the half-disbelieving air of a man who’d expected his luck to run out three nights ago and was still waiting for the joke.

  The front door creaked open. A chill draft swept through, followed by the sound of boots trying to decide if they belonged here. James glanced over. A man in neat but not expensive clothes stood in the doorway, clutching a leather satchel. City Hall, James guessed. He had the look of someone who spent more time with paper than with swords.

  The innkeeper spotted him and straightened. “We’re open,” he called. “If you’re here for food, you’re a bit early, but we can find you something.”

  “I’m here on City Hall business,” the man said. His eyes skimmed the mostly empty room and landed on James. “Looking for a James Gordon. Is he present?”

  The innkeeper pointed with his thumb. “That trouble is his,” he said.

  James put his cup down and walked over. “You’ve found him,” he said. “What did I do to City Hall already?”

  The man managed a small, polite smile. He opened his satchel and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

  “You left a notice some time ago,” he said. “Regarding a young woman named Gisabelle. Asking to be informed if we had any record of her.”

  James’s attention sharpened. “Right,” he said. “That.”

  “Yesterday,” the man went on, “a Gisabelle came in to register a change of address and ask about work postings. The name matched. We checked the note, saw the contact, and sent for you. She’s waiting at City Hall now. If you still wish to speak with her, she requested that we pass along the invitation.”

  For a moment, the kitchen list in James’s head faded under something else. Willen’s tired, stubborn face as he talked about the daughter who’d left. Bree wiping flour on her apron and insisting he take one more roll for the road. The way the little house had felt too quiet when her name came up.

  I told them I’d try. Looks like the system’s decided to actually cooperate for once.

  “I still want to speak with her,” James said. “Thank you.”

  The clerk nodded, relieved to have done his part, and tucked the paper away. “City Hall front desk,” he said. “Ask for her by name. They’ll show you where to go.”

  He left with the same careful steps he’d arrived with.

  The innkeeper watched him go, then looked at James. “Trouble?” he asked.

  “Different kind,” James said. “Good kind, I hope. I need to step out for a bit.”

  “Back before the evening,” the innkeeper said automatically.

  “Back before the evening,” James agreed.

  He collected his coat from the peg by the kitchen door, shrugged into it and stepped out into the street. Min felt different in the early hours. The crowds were thinner, the shouting softer. Vendors were still setting up stalls. A boy ran past carrying a stack of empty crates, chased by another boy carrying absolutely nothing but determination.

  City Hall sat a little uphill from the Ox and Ember, a tidy block of stone and glass that tried very hard to look more important than it was. James climbed the steps, nodded to the guard at the door and stepped inside. The front hall smelled of dust, ink and effort. A clerk sat behind the main desk, the same woman who’d helped him fill out the original notice the last time he’d visited. She recognised him after a heartbeat, her eyes flicking to the side board where a neat row of folded forms sat.

  “Back again,” she said. “Still looking for your Gisabelle?”

  “That’s me,” James said. “James Gordon. Someone from City Hall came to the Ox and Ember, said there was news?”

  “There is,” she said. “The girl came in this morning to register. We put her in the waiting room. Third door on the left.”

  “Thank you,” James said.

  His stomach did an odd little turn as he walked down the corridor. It wasn’t nerves exactly. More like the feeling you got right before opening an oven door when you weren’t entirely sure if the thing inside had risen properly. The waiting room was small, with four chairs along one wall and a narrow window letting in more light than warmth. A young woman sat on the second chair, hands folded tightly in her lap. She was alone.

  James took her in. Dark hair, braided in a way that tried to pretend it was neat. Clothes that’d been mended carefully rather than replaced. There were shadows under her eyes that came from more than one bad night of sleep. The line of her jaw and the shape of her nose tugged at something familiar. Bree’s mouth when she was trying not to worry. Willen’s brow when he was pretending he had everything under control.

  Yes, James thought. That would be their kid.

  He cleared his throat lightly.

  “You are Gisabelle?” he asked.

  She flinched as if she’d been far away and snapped back. Then she stood up quickly, almost knocking her knees on the chair.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am. Are you the one from the note? From the village?”

  “Name’s James,” he said. “I came through your home a while back. Your parents fed me like they were trying to fix all my life problems with stew.”

  Something loosened a little in her shoulders at that.

  “They would do that,” she said. “Are they… are they well?”

  “They are,” James said. “Your father still yells at his tools. Your mother still scares bread into rising correctly. They asked me to let you know they’re fine, and that you’re still welcome, whenever you’re ready to come home.”

  He reached into his inventory and pulled out the small wrapped bundle he’d been carrying around since the village. Bree’s neat hands had tied the string around it too tightly; he’d never retied it as well.

  “I have this for you,” he said. “From them.”

  Gisabelle took it with the same care someone might use for a potion that might explode. Her fingers traced the knot, recognised the touch behind it, and stilled.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. Her eyes shone, but nothing spilled.

  She hesitated, then looked up at him again.

  “They didn’t come themselves?” she asked. “They didn’t send anything else? Any message about… about what I’m supposed to be doing?”

  “They didn’t send instructions, no,” James said. “Just love, and questions. They wanted to know if you made it safely, if you have work, if Min’s treating you like a proper city and not like a meat grinder.”

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  A corner of her mouth moved at that.

  “I made it,” she said. “Work is… complicated.”

  James gestured back toward the chairs. “Do you mind if we sit?” he asked. “Standing in City Hall feels like I’m about to be told I owe someone a tax I’ve never heard of.”

  She sat, holding the bundle in her lap like an anchor. James took the chair opposite.

  “How long have you been in Min?” he asked.

  “A few months,” she said. “I lost count of the exact days somewhere along the road. I spent some time at an inn on the way, then came on to Min. This is the first place that’s felt big enough to get lost in.”

  “You’ve been looking for work since then,” James said.

  She nodded. “I had a job for a while,” she said. “At an inn. They needed someone in the kitchen. I thought… I thought it would be simple. I watched my mother my whole life. How hard can boiling things be, I thought. It turns out I was very wrong.”

  James kept his face neutral. “What happened?” he asked.

  “I didn’t burn the place down,” she said. “That’s the good part. But people didn’t finish their plates. The owner said the food was fine, but fine isn’t good enough when you’re paying coin. They found a cook who’d been doing it longer. I went back to washing dishes until they didn’t need that either.”

  She looked down at her hands.

  “I’ve been picking up odd jobs since then,” she said. “Laundry. Carrying things. Anything that pays enough to cover a bed and breakfast. City Hall told me to register if I wanted to be considered for something steadier. That’s why I came this morning and… then they showed me your note.”

  “You want something steadier so you can go home without feeling like you failed,” James said.

  It wasn’t a question, not really.

  Her fingers tightened on the bundle. “If I go back now,” she said, “they won’t say anything. They’ll say they’re proud just because I came back in one piece. But I’ll know I did nothing with what they gave me. I want to be able to look at the house and say I left and found something that matters. Something that’s mine.”

  James leaned back slightly in his chair.

  Trying to grind before going back to the village so the NPC parents will be proud. Yeah. I recognise that quest.

  “What do you want that something to be?” he asked. “Any work that pays? Or do you want to stay in kitchens if you had the chance to actually learn it properly?”

  Gisabelle took a breath, held it, and let it out slowly.

  “I like kitchens,” she said. “Even when I’m bad at them. When things go right, people go quiet in a good way. I want that. I just… don’t want to keep serving disappointment on plates.”

  James huffed a quiet laugh.

  “Disappointment on plates is a specialty in this city,” he said. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not the only one who’s managed it.”

  She looked at him, uncertain whether he was joking or confessing.

  He decided not to make her guess.

  “I cook at an inn called the Ox and Ember,” he said. “The food there used to taste like someone had given up halfway through chewing. We’ve fixed that. Mostly.”

  “You’re a cook?” she asked. Skepticism and hope tangled in her voice.

  “Among other bad habits,” he said. “You happen to be looking at the current walking, talking meal plan of half the dungeon runners in Min.”

  He let that hang for a beat, then added, more quietly, “Your parents took care of me when I needed somewhere to stop and remember what I was doing. I don’t like owing people like that. So here’s what I can offer.”

  He met her eyes.

  “If you want to work in a kitchen, I’ll teach you,” he said. “At the Ox and Ember. You can start as my helper. Long hours. Hot pans. A lot of chopping. Less glory than you think. If you stick with it, you’ll be able to go home and say you’re a cook without lying.”

  Gisabelle stared at him.

  “You’d hire me,” she said slowly. “Just like that. You don’t even know if I can chop an onion.”

  “I know your parents,” James said. “I know you got yourself from that village to this city without getting eaten, robbed or married to a goat. I’m willing to bet you can learn to chop an onion.”

  A startled laugh cracked out of her at that. She brought a hand to her mouth as if she hadn’t meant to let it escape.

  “You’re serious,” she said.

  “I am,” he said. “With one important detail. I don’t own the Ox and Ember. The innkeeper does. I’ll need to convince him that another pair of hands in the kitchen is a good idea. That’s my problem. Not yours.”

  She bit her lip.

  “If he says no,” she asked, “what then?”

  “Then we find you something else,” James said. “But let me try the direct route first. It usually saves time and shouting.”

  Gisabelle looked down at the bundle again, then at the window, then back at him.

  “Okay,” she said. The word came out small but very clear. “I’ll try. If you still mean it when we get there.”

  “If I change my mind on the way, you can hit me with the bundle,” James said. “Your mother probably packed something heavy.”

  That got him another small laugh. He stood. She followed, tucking the bundle carefully into the bag at her feet and slinging the strap over her shoulder. City Hall let them go without fuss. The clerk at the front gave James a look that said she was quietly filing this under “problems possibly solved” and turned back to her stack of forms.

  The walk back to the Ox and Ember felt shorter than the one up. Gisabelle kept pace beside him, looking everywhere at once, as if seeing the city differently now that it came with a destination.

  At the inn door, James paused.

  “Wait here for a moment,” he said. “I need to talk the innkeeper into this before he starts imagining wages and collapses.”

  Gisabelle nodded quickly. “All right,” she said. “I’ll be here.”

  James slipped inside. The common room had filled out a little since he’d left. A couple of regulars occupied their usual tables, nursing late breakfasts or early drinks. The innkeeper was behind the bar, rearranging mugs in a way that probably made sense to him.

  He looked up as James approached. “You came back,” he said. “Good. I was beginning to think City Hall had eaten you.”

  “Not yet,” James said. “I need to talk to you. Privately, before you see the girl I brought back and start asking if she comes with a bill.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t sound promising,” he said, but he waved James toward a corner behind the bar where they wouldn’t be easily overheard.

  “What did City Hall give you,” he asked. “Taxes, paperwork or orphans?”

  “None of the above,” James said. “They gave me a chance to fix one of my problems and one of yours at the same time.”

  The innkeeper folded his arms. “I’m listening,” he said. “Carefully.”

  “You know I’m not staying in Min forever,” James said. “One day I’m going to walk out of this city and go ruin somebody else’s menu. When that happens, you’re going to be back where you started, serving sad breakfasts and meals that taste like people gave up on life halfway through the first bite.”

  The innkeeper opened his mouth, closed it again and looked offended instead of arguing the point.

  “That’s unfair,” he said. “They weren’t that sad.”

  “They were tragic,” James said. “The point is, you need someone in the kitchen who can keep people coming in after I’m gone. I met the daughter of the couple who kept me fed on the road here. She wants to learn to cook. She needs work. I can teach her. I just need you to say yes.”

  “Another worker means another wage,” the innkeeper said. “I’ve only just started seeing full tables again. I can’t promise coin I don’t have.”

  “I’m not asking you to lose coin,” James said. “I’m asking you to move it around.”

  He leaned a little closer.

  “Here’s the deal,” he said. “While I’m here, you pay her out of my share. However we were going to split things, you give a part of that to her instead. When I leave, you pay her what you were paying me. Full cooking wage. If I hear you cut her pay after I’m gone, I’ll come back, take her with me, and I’m fairly sure half your regulars will follow her out the door.”

  The innkeeper stared at him for a long moment.

  “You’re very good at making trouble sound reasonable,” he said at last.

  “I’m very good at making dinner sound like a reason to live,” James said. “Trouble’s just the seasoning.”

  The innkeeper looked down at the clean stretch of bar between them, then out at the common room. His gaze lingered on the tables where people had started choosing to sit rather than just ending up there.

  “You teach her properly,” he said. “No half measures. No running off and leaving me with someone who knows how to boil water and nothing else.”

  “I won’t leave her half cooked,” James said. “You have my word.”

  The innkeeper sighed, long and theatrical, like a man signing a contract with fate.

  “Fine,” he said. “Bring her in. We’ll see if she can at least hold a knife without cutting off her own toes. If she burns down my kitchen, I’m sending you the bill.”

  “If she burns down your kitchen, I’ll be standing next to her holding the other end of the pan,” James said. “You can send me the bill then.”

  The innkeeper snorted. “Go get your stray,” he said. “Before I change my mind.”

  James went back to the door and stepped outside. Gisabelle was still there, exactly where he’d left her, bundle strap tight in her fingers. She looked up quickly as he appeared.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “He grumbled,” James said. “Then he said yes. Welcome to the Ox and Ember.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  “Truly?” she asked. “Just like that?”

  “Not just like that,” James said. “There were threats about burning kitchens and arguments about wages. But the part that matters to you is simple. If you want the job, it’s yours. Assistant in the kitchen. We start today.”

  Gisabelle swallowed.

  “I want it,” she said. “I don’t want to fail at this.”

  “You’ll fail at some things,” James said. “On the way. That’s how learning works. As long as you don’t fail at not chopping your own fingers off, we’ll be fine.”

  A nervous laugh escaped her.

  “What do I do now?” she asked.

  “Now you go get your things,” James said. “Wherever you’ve been staying. Pack up. Tell them you’ve got somewhere better to be. Be back as fast as you can. We’ve got an evening menu to prepare and I’m not doing all the chopping alone.”

  Gisabelle’s eyes lit in a way that had nothing to do with City Hall or notices.

  “I’ll be quick,” she said. “You won’t even have time to miss me.”

  She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder, clutched the bundle from home tighter and took off down the street at a run that was more enthusiasm than grace.

  James watched her go until she vanished into the crowd.

  “All right,” he murmured. “Willen, Bree. I did my part. Now it’s her turn.”

  He turned back into the inn, rolled his sleeves up on the way and headed for the kitchen. They were going to be a two-person kitchen now.

  Time to make sure there was something worth teaching.