Chapter 4: Small Blessings
Bishop didn't sleep much that night and awoke to an east-facing sun at a low angle, leaving the tiny room Duncan had set aside for him so long ago with its single dusty window. He wondered if any of the traveling circus would be up. He didn't want to trumpet his presence, so he walked softly down the hallway, and opened the common room door quietly, hoping to catch some snatches of conversation before he made himself known. What he heard instead surprised him.
Duncan was not a person known for rising early. Bishop had seen this reputation well-earned. It was odd, then, to see the man awake so many hours before noon. Less odd was the sight of his niece at this point in the day, if only because the hours she usually kept seemed to be so erratic. What was most odd was where they were sitting-- on the floor, leaned close, by the nearness of their heads to one another's, behind the bar. They were deep in hushed conversation. It piqued Bishop's curiosity-- but there was a vast expanse of floor from the hallway door over to the bar, and he had a sneaking suspicion that sound or movement would kill their talk quickly. That would mean that anyone else waking up and coming out to the common room for breakfast would end their little tête-a-tête.
He shut the door silently behind him, ducked low himself, and crept as close as he dared. With each step, the words became more distinct.
"...hoped to have this conversation... behind my own bar, lass?" Were they finishing their talk, then?
"Uncle Duncan, you've got Qara in the kitchen. The others... if we... shutting creaky storage room doors. And then we would really have... who might be listening. At least here we'll know who comes into the common room." A faint slow smile dawned across Bishop's face at this.
"You're probably right, lass," Duncan said after a pause, and Bishop settled himself right up a against the bar itself, each word crystal clear for all its softness. The half-elf continued, "So my brother never told you a thing?"
"He wouldn't talk about my mother at all. And demanding the way I did when I returned from the ruins with the shard didn't help the situation. I didn't expect him to answer then, really. It's just... well, I'd asked in every other way I knew how, already."
"Her death bit that deep, then." The conversation rotated around a pause and a sigh. "I know I said it was Daeghun's business to tell you these things, but I think I was wrong. I don't know where to start."
"Her name was Esmerelle?"
"Aye. Esmerelle. She was fully human, but she could disappear into the wilderness without a trace. I think that's why Daeghun... Lass, she had your eyes, down to the lashes."
"What was she like?"
"She was... she laughed like springtime. But then, I remember her like that because..." Dead silence.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Duncan. I didn't know it was still like this after so long," Livetta whispered softly.
"Lass, it's my fault. I... loved her, and didn't know what to say, how to say it, and it was... well, it was Esmerelle. I don't think she would have done differently. Daeghun had Shayla. I, well, I never did find anyone else. Esmerelle didn't like the way I 'put her on a pedestal.' And she made me feel the fool for it. I had always thought that since she had worked with Daeghun instead of with me, that... she... None of us knew your father. We suspected... oh, we suspected... I suspected... a number of things for a while, until you were born."
Livetta's next question was slow to come. "What had you suspected?"
"Demon blood, strange elves. One of the fey. But it wasn't any of those. It was the deal she made with the fey. I'm certain, though I don't know Daeghun was convinced, but he never saw it as his business. He always thought he knew her better, but..." Duncan's voice trailed off.
"She dealt with dryads and pixies?"
"And darker things. She tread where druids were uncertain and came back knowing things that saved our lives. Many times. But when you deal with the fey, there's always a price."
Another long pause before Duncan's voice continued, "I think that's why she died in the battle at West Harbor when she did. And I think that's why your hair..."
"A fey curse," Livetta offered.
"Or blessing. It's hard to tell, when it comes to the Fair Folk. They don't think like us, and even those people close to the land don't know the Wee Ones well."
"I don't think this hair could have ever been construed as a blessing," was exhaled with a half-hearted laugh.
Bishop crept away from the bar, then, as their conversation continued. He didn't fancy the idea of getting caught. He padded over to the dividing wall, and settled himself at a table to wait for the others to awaken and provide a distraction. It was a longer wait than he'd anticipated. An hour crawled by while uncle and niece murmured back and forth, then finally heavy steps announced a presence in the hallway, and the door opened to Casavir.
"There it is!" Livetta pronounced quickly, suddenly becoming visible as she popped up behind the bar.
Duncan was slower to clamber to his feet. "Where?"
"Here," the Hat produced a ring. "I really thought I had lost it for good. Thanks for helping me look, Uncle Duncan."
"You're... you're welcome?" came the reply.
Well, your niece is never going to take you touring with her, Bishop smirked. There was something exceedingly nice about having the real explanation for once-- and going as yet unnoticed on the far side of the wall. At this rate, he wouldn't have to account for the time he entered the room.
One by one, Greenie's companions came out to the common room, to breakfast under the tatty stuffed heads of forest creatures so old that Bishop had always guessed Duncan had just bought them second-hand to fill up the walls. The Hat smiled over her food, no sign of the heavy talk she'd had earlier, and that tickled Bishop's sense of humor. He was still smirking when Greenie rounded up a few of her entourage and left the Flagon for the rest of the day.