Alice

  Tap, tap, tap. Alice tried to ignore the noise echoing around the cave.

  Tap, tap, tap. She had tried to get it to stop before, to no avail.

  Tap, tap, tap. She took slow breathes, in and out, like her mother had taught her. She thought of rolling hills covered in flowers. Of the little bees buzzing around. Of laying in the grass and hearing TAP TAP TAP!

  “Stop that!” She yelled, her eyes shooting up from her project to the boy sitting on a log, his hand halfway through smacking out another hollow tap.

  Robin raised his hands up and looked annoyed. “Jeez, okay, fine. Sheesh.”

  Alice took another deep breath and looked anywhere but at Robin. Their hideout, a small cave Barret had found during one of the group’s games of hide and seek, was filled to the brim with all sorts of cool stuff. Most of it was from Barret’s imagination; rope with sticks tied at each end to swing and jump over, drawings of scenes from the stories he would tell on the wall in chalk, the box full of sand he used to teach them their letters, a bundle of three stones tied together with rope that they would take turns throwing at branches, the wooden boards and pieces of cloth they would play games on with stones and little carved pieces, even the small wooden hook that Alice was using to do what Barret called crochet. And in the corner was the kite they had all worked on together.

  Barret had tried so hard to make this place fun for them. Alice could at least try to get along with an oaf like Robin. She turned to the boy, who was sulking on the log, and spoke in her nicest tone. “I am sorry, Robin.”

  “Appology accepted,” he said back, completing the ritual that Barret had taught them all. It was like Barret always said, being friends doesn’t mean never fighting. It means that when we fight, we apologize and make up. He would always put on a voice when he told them that, probably copying Lord Beesbury or the Maester.

  Where was Barret anyways? He usually got out of his afternoon lessons by the time Robin had finished up his apprenticeship for the day. As she wondered, voices came from the hideout entrance.

  It was the rest of her friends, Henry, William, and Barret. But Barret didn’t look his usual self. Instead of being contemplative and composed, he was skipping and bouncing on his feet. The three of them were sweating and breathing heavily, like they had just run up the hill from Honeyport. Given how Henry, who had more impressive arms than legs, looked like he was about to fall down, it seemed likely that was the case.

  Before Alice could ask what was going on, Barret yelled out in an excited tone. “Guys, guys!” Alice was curious about the news. The last time Barret got this emotional was after the meeting Lord Beesbury took him too down in Honeyport. She let him catch his breath, and he continued. “My brother is back!”

  Oh, Alice thought, then a grin spread across her face. Honeyholt’s heir had returned. That meant a feast!

  Jon

  Waking up was getting harder and harder with each year. Jon’s joints ached and he wanted nothing more than to lay back down under his warm covers. But he had responsibilities that couldn’t be put off, so he forced himself out of bed as the sun peeked through his window. Jon went through his morning routine without thinking. Comb his hair and beard, perform his morning prayer, and bring in his morning buckets that had been filled by the water carriers.

  Then, he headed out to buy the food for the day. As he walked into the streets, he passed by a small herd of hogs led by an aspirant from the sept. Each pig had a collar and bell, and they oinked and scrambled for scraps that people were throwing out of their windows. Only the sept was allowed to keep pigs in the streets, as all others were banned on account of their squalor and general disorderly nature.

  But feeding the sept’s sounder was an act of piety. Once they were fat the sept would sell them in the market, with the coin going to fund their activities. Besides, the most prime pig would be butchered and served as the centerpiece at the Father’s Feast, and everyone would share succulent honey-roasted ham.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Speaking of the market, that was where Jon was headed. It was a collection of stalls near the docks that sat underneath a large black and yellow striped cloth. From wild fruits and vegetables gathered from the forests surrounding Honeyholt, to fresh fish pulled from the Honeywine that morning, to even far away luxuries like Arbor Red and Dornish peppers. You could find them all at the market.

  Jon worked through his usual. Eggs, butter, onions, carrots and celery, some fresh loaves, and extra cheese and pickled fish for making sandwiches. Ever since Barret Beesbury had given him the idea, Jon had started making and selling sandwiches outside his inn. In the morning craftsmen and dockworkers would buy them on their way to work as a quick breakfast, and in the evening they would buy them as a cheap meal before spending the rest of their coin on mead. It even let him make money from those who were too busy or too uptight to come into his inn.

  But he had competition. It took only a few days after he started selling them for sandwich stalls to open up in the market. They sold not just the pickled fish sandwiches Jon did, but also all kinds of fillings, with new ones being introduced every day. Salty, sweet, tangy, spicy, ones that were grilled over a fire, others with sliced fruit and honey, or ones of just butter for the cheap or desperate. But his inn and the market were in different parts of town, and hopefully they wouldn’t interfere too much with each other's business.

  As Jon browsed the stalls, he spotted a new addition. Old Tim sat on a blanket, on which laid a dozen small items and trinkets. Jon knew the man. He had once been employed at the Hiveworks, operating the presses that crushed the hives. But one day, one of the large vats that melted down the harvested wax tipped over, and boiling hot wax coated half of his body. Maester Robert had been called down, but people had tried removing the wax too early and it had ripped huge chunks of skin off. The learned man had applied a salve of herbs and beeswax which saved his life, but Tim’s right arm still got infected and needed to be amputated. Now he survived off of alms and performing what small tasks he could around town, and Jon had paid him a few times to deliver messages or direct people to his inn from the docks.

  But now, Tim had the air of a peddler. He hawked and called out, trying to get people to look at his wares. Jon decided to humor the old man, and walked over. “Hello, Tim. What are you up to now?”

  The man gave a smile with his few remaining teeth. “I’m helping out the lord’s son, s’what I’m doing.” Tim motioned to the contents of the blanket with his one good hand. “Little Barret wants to see if anyone would like these things he’s come up with.”

  Lord Lytton’s second son? Barret had become a regular fixture of Honeytown in the past few weeks, with how he and his swarm of friends made a ruckus every afternoon. Jon often caught his daughter looking out the window at them playing, but she hadn’t asked to go play with him yet.

  It was nice to see Lord Beesbury’s son so energetic. Perhaps when his brother became Lord of Honeyholt, Barret could be his eyes and ears in the outlying villages, traveling around and informing his brother of any issues.

  Jon was snapped out of his thinking by Old Tim’s words. “Come on, come on. Don’t you wanna see what I’ve got for sale?”

  “Oh, alright then.” Jon said. He looked down at the goods, expecting the usual things children collected and made. Perhaps a flower crown, or maybe some shiny rocks plucked from the river. Instead, he saw mostly common goods, candles and bars of soap and things made of yarn. But something stood out.

  He picked up one of the candles and a bar of soap. They both had a strange color, and little bits of flowers embedded in them. As he brought them up to his face the smell of flowers came with them. It was a nice scent, reminding him of warm spring days and harvest festivals.

  “Nice, aren’t they?” Old Tim said with a smile. “It’s not just the flowers, Barret put something called ‘essential oils’ in them. I think he learned how to make them from Maester Roberts, the Seven bless his soul.”

  They were indeed nice, and even though he already had some soap for bathing and cleaning burnt pans, Jon wanted to buy them. “How much are they?”

  Old Tim raised a finger. “A groat for the bar, and a star for the candle.”

  So the bar was a bit more than what he would pay at the soapmaker, but what the hells, business had been going well recently. He put the candle back but kept the bar of soap. “And what is this?” Jon asked, reaching down for the little bunches of yarn. As he looked closer, he realized it was in the shape of a flower!

  “Crochet, little Barret calls it. It’s like knitting, but with a single hook instead of needles.”

  Jon turned it around in his hand to inspect it. It was cute, and wouldn’t wither like a picked flower would. There even was a wooden hairpin in it. Old Tim continued his pitch. “Imagine little Jenny with that in her hair. She’d be the envy of the town, she would.”

  Jon hummed an unsure note, before nodding in agreement. “Okay, I’ll take two flowers, a bar of soap, and a candle.”

  “Perfect, perfect,” Old Tim said in a happy voice as he took out a coin purse that had a bee embroidered on it. He muttered to himself as he counted out the price on his toes. “One, two… that’ll be two groats.”

  Jon harumphed at the cost, but that was more of a habit than anything. Always looking like you were getting robbed by the prices was a basic skill for any merchant. He pulled out two stars and handed them to Old Tim who put them in the purse and made a mark on a small piece of wood with his knife.

  Some sort of tally mark? Jon shook his head. It wasn’t his business, so he wouldn’t pry. As he placed the goods in his pouch, Old Tim gave him a smile and a wave. “You have a good day. And hey, could you tell anyone who asks where you got that stuff? It would really help little Barret.”

  It took less than a second for Jon to nod and say, “sure, why not.” Barret had helped him already with that sandwich idea, and it didn’t cost Jon anything to say a few words. As he stood up to leave, Old Tim scrounged around his bag and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in cloth. As he unwrapped it, Jon’s interest was piqued.

  The filling was definitely some sort of chopped fish, but it wasn’t pickled like the sandwiches he served. Instead, it was mixed with some sort of creamy sauce, with little bits of onion and green vegetables in it as well. “What is that?” Jon asked.

  Old Tim looked up. “Oh, this? It’s a sandwich little Barret made for me. I can’t eat most of the regular one, they’re too tough and chewy. But this ‘tuna salad’ is soft enough that it doesn’t hurt my teeth.” He took a bite and chewed, then swallowed and laughed. “Or what’s left of them.”

  Tuna… salad? Jon thought in amazement. The world of sandwiches really is wide.