Duke Wulf doesn’t let her down until they’ve made it through the iron gate and onto cobblestone road. With the mayor’s house being in the center of Helmbeck, there’s no need for a carriage. She thinks this way up until her heels slip between uneven stones, and she nearly falls flat on her face.

The duke watches her stumble with nearly every step she takes. Eventually, he decides to continue carrying her down the road. His brisk pace makes her faltering steps look like a joke.

It could be worse, she consoles herself. At least she isn’t being carried like the food sack.

After only a minute of walking, she notices something that gets her heart beating faster. Even through the fog, the dark streets seem deserted. There is no sign of life of any kind, no movement, no lights coming from anything other than lampposts.

“Something isn’t right,” she says, and the duke’s makes an agreeing hum.

They pass various shops and houses, all dark and motionless. They run across a building they know shouldn’t be empty: the Helmbeck Inn. Its sign sways ever so slightly in a nonexistent wind.

The duke sets her down and opens the door, careful to remain as silent as their surroundings. She clutches the back of his coat nervously and follows him in.

The place is completely dark.

The duke lights the candle of a sconce near the door, which lets him find more until most of the first floor of the inn is lit up.  

Facing the entrance is the reception area. A wall of keys lies beyond the clerk’s station, but no one mans it. To the right are stairs leading up to the second floor, and to the left is the common area and the kitchen.

“He said the inn was full,” she says, feeling aggrieved.

“I think we can safely say that whatever is wrong with this town has something to do with the mayor,” Duke Wulf nods.

She searches through the clerk’s station for clues while the duke keeps an eye on the doors and stairs. She thumbs through the ledger until she finds the last page written.

“The last person to check in was a man named Jacob of Serraro,” for sixty coins a night. Ouch.

If there is one thing her teachers made sure she knew, it is the value of the coin. One coin can get a decent meal, and buying anything over ten coins is a scam.

“Month of Life, Perdium, 41,” she stumbles over the words at the top of the page, and the duke sends her an alarmed look. “What?” she asks irritably.

“You don’t know the dates of the calendar?”

It’s said with so much incredulity that she feels ashamed. Then she remembers that she’s only been in this world for a couple of months by earth standards.

“Raised. In. A. Barn,” she hisses through her teeth. It doesn’t stop the pitying look the duke aims at her. “Just tell me that information is useful somehow.”

“Well,” the duke rubs his chin, “yes and no. We know that this inn stopped operating forty-three days ago, but not the why.”

“Forty-three? I thought the king said they sent out a missive a month ago,” she says in confusion. The duke shares her expression.

“They did,” he says. He narrows his eyes at her. “Tell me, how many days are in a month?”

“Thirty,” she says with certainty, “or thirty-one. Usually.”

“There are sixty days.” That pitying expression is back, and it makes her want to slap his face. “Your lack of education is not a mere injustice. It is a crime,” he says ardently.

“Your face is a crime,” she says before flipping through previous days of the ledger. Now that she knows the number at the top of the page is the day of the month, it makes it a little easier to read.

There’s nothing else in the ledger that can count as a clue, so she rifles through the clerk’s station for anything else of note.

“Do inns usually keep a guest book?” she asks, not finding anything beyond a grocery list. It feels like the shelves below the desk are emptier than they should be. There are no snacks or little notes. The only books are full and empty ledgers.

“Yes, especially in such a big town as this one,” Duke Wulf answers with a thoughtful frown. “You are sure it is missing?” She leans back so he can see for himself. “Strange,” he mutters.

“I don’t think there’s anything else here. Maybe we should head that way?” She points to the common area.

A place for weary travelers to eat and chat amongst themselves, common areas should be lively even in the dead of night. She only knows this because the church went out of its way to lecture her on the dangers of lodging, and that as the saintess, she should stick to taking shelter in churches and the homes of clergy members.

The common area is designed with comfort of its travelers in mind. It’s decorated in soothing oranges, browns, and greens against cream walls. Tables with matching chairs stay near the kitchen, and couches and armchairs surround a fireplace with rugs of varying shapes and sizes at the opposite end.

She thinks she would have loved to sit down by the fire with a book, if given the chance.

“Anything?” she asks as the duke checks the fireplace mantle. He shakes his head and continues looking around the room.

She decides to flop down on one of the couches while he searches. She’s so tired that she dozes off near instantly. The kitchen door creaks open and closed, but she can’t bring herself to care. The sound of something hitting the armchair next to her head has her snapping awake.

“Found the good stuff,” Duke Wulf says, holding up a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Want some?”

She thinks about it for exactly two seconds. She holds out her hand and demands, “Give me.”

The duke laughs and pours her a glass. His eyes are tired, probably even more than hers. Alcohol won’t solve their problems; they can’t afford to get drunk, and sleeping in enemy territory is unwise.

But it’ll feel nice to pretend to be normal friends out on the town for a little bit.

Once Duke Wulf pours himself a glass, she holds hers out for a toast. He knocks their glasses together with a gentle clink. The wine is fragrant with rich undertones. She has no clue what it’s made of.

She brings the glass of wine to her lips and savors every taste.