“Ah!” I uttered, easing myself into the tub of steaming water.
Down and down I sank until the water reached my chin.
“Ah!” I uttered again, closing my eyes and reveling in how cozy the hot water made me feel.
Nothing—absolutely nothing—was more relaxing, more enjoyable, than a hot bath.
Now, Buster, most people mistakenly believe that the purpose of a bath is to get clean. Nothing could be further from the truth. Trust me, because I was an expert when it came to enjoying a bath.
Bathing, you see, is an art. Just as you admire a beautiful painting, so too do you admire a bath. But not by looking at it. No, you let the warm water soak into every pore of your skin until you feel so cozy that your brain turns to mush. Only then have you properly enjoyed a bath. And that, Buster, is the true purpose of a bath—to reach a state of coziness unobtainable by other means.
“Ah-bbb-bb-bbb!” I uttered as my head sank into the hot water.
Two hours later, I emerged from the bath and rejoined Myth in our room. She was organizing her pack.
“I was starting to think I’d have to drag you out of that tub,” said Myth.
“Ah!” I uttered. “I needed that.”
Myth shook her head. “I swear you’d live in a tub if you could.”
“But then a hot bath wouldn’t be so special,” I replied as I picked out a clean dress to wear.
“Don’t put the soap away,” said Myth, standing up. “A hot bath sounds nice. If you saved me any water, that is.”
“Of course, I did,” I said, slipping the dress on over my undergarments.
I tied the straps on the back of my dress and smiled at Myth. “I might sit upstairs by the fire for a while and drink a mug of cider.”
“Have fun,” replied Myth, undoing her ponytail.
“You should join me after your bath,” I said. “I can ask the tavern keeper if that would be okay. He didn’t seem mean—strange, yes, but not mean.”
“Nah,” replied Myth as she picked up her towel and the soap. “I’ll be fine down here by myself.”
I folded my arms and grumbled, “You always hide when we stay in taverns.”
Myth looked at me. “It isn’t easy, Iz—being stared at as if I’m an animal dressed in clothes.”
Myth’s bluntness staggered me. So that’s how she feels around humans, I thought. Well, she does not have to deal with that prejudice alone—she has me.
“Then I’ll stay with you,” I declared.
“No, Izzy.” Myth walked over to me and gently squeezed my arm. Smiling, she said, “Thanks for saying that. But really, I’m fine. Go enjoy yourself.”
“But—”
“Izzy MacDonald,” Myth interrupted me. “If you don’t march up those steps and have some fun, I’ll tickle your feet until you shriek.”
“Don’t even think about it, Missy,” I warned her, pointing a finger at her face. “I hate having my feet tickled.”
“I know,” replied Myth. “So go upstairs and relax by the fire.”
She squeezed my arm again and then headed towards the bathing room.
Upstairs, I ordered a pint of hard cider and then claimed a seat beside the hearth. Sipping my cider, I surveyed the room. Hearty laughter burst forth from the patrons at the bar—perhaps one of them had just finished telling a joke. Barmaids flitted amongst the crowd, flirting shamelessly with the men in hopes of garnering larger tips. Close to me, an old man was telling anyone who would listen how life had been “back in my day.”
The tavern possessed a jolly atmosphere. And I was enjoying myself, although it would have been better if Myth were there with me.
Then the bard started to play.
I do not know where the tavern keeper found this bard, but he should have left him there. To be fair, the bard was a decent musician. But the bard himself was a lout.
Whenever the bard approached a woman, he would run his fingers through his greasy brown hair. I think he was trying to impress us. Maybe he thought that running his fingers through his hair made him seem irresistible. Bah! As if doing that would make any woman swoon.
And the winking! He winked all the time—at every woman in the tavern. He even winked at me once, which I thought was quite rude. I did not appreciate having a weird bard wink at me one bit. And I was not the only patron who felt this way. Husbands, in particular, did not appreciate all this winking. It seemed only a matter of time before they expressed their disapproval by removing the bard’s teeth with their fists.
Then the bard played a lute solo. Now, Buster, I enjoy listening to the lute. But this… this was not proper lute music. The bard’s lute solo went on and on—it lasted for more than twenty minutes! Who plays a twenty-minute lute solo? And during it, he kept thrashing his head about, forwards and backwards and side to side. I genuinely wondered if he were possessed by a demon. Then at the end of his solo, he smashed his lute against the hearth and threw its shattered pieces into the fire. Who does that to a perfectly good lute?
That bard single-handedly destroyed the jolly atmosphere in the tavern. After his lute solo, the bard kept jumping around with his arms in the air, shouting, “Thank you! Thank you!” Most of the patrons, meanwhile, decided to make it an early night and headed home. With just the tavern keeper, barmaids, and that bard for company, I chose to go back downstairs.
Myth was lounging upon the bed in our room; she was lying on her back, reading a book. “Did you have a good time?” she asked me without looking up from her book.
“Yes,” I replied, “until the bard started to play. Urgh! What a dope!”
Myth chuckled and turned a page.
“Good book?” I asked her.
“Mmm,” she uttered. “The Maiden Francine has just been kidnapped by the dread bandit Sebastian. But I’m sure her love will conquer his merciless heart in the end.”
I glanced at the book’s title: Of Maidens and Bandits. Then I huffed. Myth was reading a bawdy romance novel again…
Have you ever read a bawdy romance novel, Buster?
No? Good. Do yourself a favor—never read a bawdy romance novel. It will rot your brain.
And romance novels are so predictable! Every one ever written is about some busty Maiden with absolutely no brains. This Maiden puts herself in some outlandish situation that is bound to result in her being kidnapped. Her abductor is some devilishly handsome rogue with silken hair. And for some silly reason, this rogue does not own a shirt. But he keeps his chest well-oiled—rogues always have well-oiled chests in bawdy romance novels. Naturally, the busty Maiden manages to civilize her rogue, teaching him to love. In the end, the two kiss. And the kiss goes on and on and seems to involve the exchange of a lot of slobber.
What a load of rubbish! If anyone tried to slobber in my mouth, I would slap them silly. They would probably think that they were a chicken after I was done slapping them. That’s some serious slapping, Buster.
But Myth devoured those bawdy romance novels. She always brought one along when we headed into the wilds. Then she would trade it for another one when we reached a village or city.
Anyway…
I tutted and shook my head. “How can you read those things, Myth? They’re rubbish.”
“I know,” replied Myth. “But I like reading rubbish. It helps me relax and lets me escape from the world for a bit.”
I tutted again and began to get ready for bed.
“I think you read those books because you like busty Maidens,” I teased Myth as I put on my sleeping garments.
“There’s nothing wrong with busty Maidens,” said Myth. She closed her book and arose from the bed in order to change into her sleeping garments, too.
Now dressed for a good night’s sleep, I climbed into the bed and pulled the quilt up to my chin. “But those busty Maidens always have the personality of a blank sheet of parchment and the brains of a dish rag.”
“True,” said Myth as she climbed into bed. “And thus, I’m lucky to be travelling with you and not with some busty romance novel Maiden. Personality is way more important than bustiness.”
I giggled as Myth blew out the candle.
“Good night, Izzy,” said Myth. She rolled onto her side with her back to me.
“Good night, Myth,” I whispered.
But I did not go to sleep straightaway. Instead, I glanced at the back of Myth’s head.
That was when I admitted to myself that I had feelings for Myth. And that these feelings went beyond friendship. Friends, after all, do not cause you to sigh and draw hearts on the corner of a sheet of parchment. I had done that just a day earlier—doodling IM + ML inside a heart. Obviously, I had torn my doodle off the parchment and thrown it into the fire before Myth could see it. I knew about it, though, and now I was willing to accept that my doodle had truly meant something.
But I did not know what it meant. Maybe I just had a girlhood infatuation with Myth, brought on by all the time we spent together. Or maybe this was something more, something better. I just did not know.
And what would happen if I told Myth about my feelings, but she did not feel the same about me? Things could become quite awkward between us. Our friendship might even wither away.
I decided that I should say and do nothing. At least until I was certain what these feelings for Myth meant. And if this was more than a girlhood infatuation? Well, then I would need to figure out if I was ready for us to be more than just friends. And after that, I would need to talk to Myth about this.
And she would… tell me as nicely as possible that she did not feel the same way about me. How could she? Myth was absolutely amazing, and I… I was just Izzy.
…Romance is a real pain in the bum, Buster. Never forget that…
I rolled onto my side, gazed at the wall for a bit, and then closed my eyes.