Frostbite

Chapter Fifteen

Eira began to fall into a routine. She would wake at seven, begin work at eight, have lunch at twelve, have dinner at six, finish work at twelve, read for two hours, and then fall asleep at two.

Habit gave her a sense of normality. Of permanence. She disliked it. It's only temporary, she would tell herself. I'll get out of here once I have enough money and have thought up a plan to locate a rebel group. But still. She still couldn't help but be irked by how usual things were beginning to feel.

Slowly, two weeks passed.

Each morning, on her break, Eira scanned every newspaper she could get her hands on. There weren't frequent mentions of the rebels, surprisingly—and inconveniently. They'd been silent for the entire time she'd been searching, or at least, the larger groups had. The newspaper journalists seemed to see no sense in it, but Eira imagined they were probably planning for something. What it was, though, she did not know.

In every paper, there was the additional matter of the wanted pictures that showed up on the front cover. But at least the portrait wasn't very accurate, she supposed. She doubted anyone could look at it and then at her and realise that they were the same person. But still, there was a chance. She made good care not to make eye contact with anyone, just in case.

That night, the inn was particularly busy. Due to that, Al had asked Eira to help him serve customers.

"What can I get for you?" she asked, not particularly paying attention.
"The usual," came an irritatingly familiar voice.

"Oh," Eira said, eyes sliding up to meet with Kea's. "It's you. Again."

Ever since that first night he'd appeared, Kea (as he so wished her to call him) had shown up every few nights at exactly eight o'clock, sat in the same seat, and ordered the same meal. Eira, out of curiosity, had asked Al who, exactly, he was a few nights after his first appearance. Al had answered that he didn't know, but Kea had been coming for close to a year and ordered the same thing each time without fail. He'd also mentioned that he  hadn't said much more than two words, and now that Eira had begun serving him, he'd begun to talk considerably more.

"I didn't realise you two were close enough to be on a first name basis," Al had remarked.

"He asked me to," had been Eira's pointed reply.

Eira set the bowl and tankard down on the bar. "Don't you get sick of eating the same meal every time you're here?"

"No. The food is good in here. Best I've had out of everything in the whole town." A surprisingly straightforward answer. But he actually wasn't wrong. Eira thought the food that Al cooked was some of the best she'd ever had. And for the past four years she'd eaten nothing but the highest quality food around, so it was saying something.

"So," Eira initiated, wiping a cloth along the bar. "What do you do for a living?" Perhaps tonight Kea was in a truthful mood.

"Nothing important."

"If you dedicate your time to it, then how is it unimportant?"

"I suppose you're right." Kea leaned in close. "It's not something I can say aloud," he whispered.

Eira pulled away from him. "So you're a criminal, are you?" An assassin? A thief? Just a plain old murderer? All these seemed plausible.

"No. I never said I was."

"Then, if you aren't a criminal, why can't you say what your profession is?"

"It's secretive."

"A spy?"