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After zeyde decided, without consulting sam, to hand over the tavern’s cellar to a noble, Sam—whether he agreed or not—set about transforming what had been nothing more than a storeroom into the most comfortable living space he could manage, following the precepts drilled into him by his family.
He placed a bed finer than his own, and laid down furs so that his noble feet would not grow cold.
He hung fabrics along the walls so the room would not resemble a dungeon, securing a place befitting John’s status.
He even went so far as to procure wine that the tavern itself could never afford to serve.
For a temporary refuge meant for keeping a low profile, the arrangements were more than sufficient.
The only problem—it failed to satisfy his restless curiosity.
When Sam returned to the tavern in the evening, Miriam and Esther both caught their breath as if they had been caught sneaking a bite of something. Then they glanced at each other and began to giggle.
“What happened?”
“Did you tell Sir John that Joel is off today?”
Joel had indeed asked for three days off starting today to prepare for his cousin’s wedding. And Sam had mentioned it to John the day before.
“He said he wanted to attend the wedding?”
John had a keen interest in the customs of the Jewish community. New knowledge seemed to amuse his mind even more than wine.
“No. He said the shop would be in trouble, so he’d help.”
“What?! Where is he?”
Miriam jerked her chin toward the main room.
There stood John of Liechtenstein, dressed in a worn white shirt and an apron, carefully carrying two tankards in both hands.
“You’re making him carry food?!”
“You can’t exactly trust him with the kitchen.”
“That’s not the issue.”
After setting the tankards down at a customer’s table, John lingered, speaking with them—apparently even taking an order. There was something strangely familiar about the sight, quite apart from the fact that he was John of Liechtenstein.
“And he’s wearing my clothes!”
Sam stared in disbelief and gestured sharply, demanding an explanation. The succession of incomprehensible developments was pushing his already short temper to its limit.
Miriam folded her arms and answered without hesitation, unfazed by her employer’s wide-eyed stare.
“You know how he walks—chest out, those quick, proud strides of his? He was carrying two tankards….”
She broke off, the corner of her mouth twitching.
Esther could not hold it in any longer and burst out laughing.
“He spilled all the beer down his front!”
Their shrill laughter rang through the kitchen, and Sam tipped his head back toward the ceiling.
“Just then your mother brought the apron she’d washed for you, so we had him change into that.”
“What are you doing, deciding all this on your own?”
“Oh, let it go. We’re genuinely busy, you know. You’re the one wandering around outside all day. Honestly, we ought to be paid extra.”
“And besides, he’s nice to look at,” Esther added under her breath, peering into the tavern with narrowed eyes.
He had shed his usual unapproachable attire for something far more common, and he was indeed drawing attention from the entire tavern.
Some of the younger women kept pushing back their hair and fussing with their necklines. Even those who had once avoided meeting his eye were now seizing the chance to follow him openly with their gaze.
“He’s gotten quite good at serving, too. He’s carried about twenty tankards already. Including the ten he had to carry again after spilling half of them.”
That made ten in reality.
“You’re fired,” Sam muttered, stepping into the tavern—only to collide chest-to-chest with Lichtenstein, who had just returned with another order.
“Sam! You’re back!”
Lichtenstein’s cheeks were flushed, his apron—hardly looking freshly washed—already in disarray. The sight of the irritable proprietor confronting his carefree server drew grins from the surrounding patrons, who watched eagerly to see what would happen next.
“Why are you drunk?”
“Isn’t it splendid? They all thank me for my hospitality and raise a toast!”
His face shone with satisfaction as he said it.
“No. They’re waiting for you to get drunk enough to announce you’re paying for everything.”
“Ah! I hadn’t realized. In that case—”
Before Lichtenstein could shout anything further, Sam shoved him straight into the kitchen.
“What are you thinking? You’re supposed to be hiding here.”
“Oh? Then there’s no safer place than this, is there?”
Lichtenstein turned back, rubbing the shoulder Sam had grabbed. Sweat from his first taste of manual labor dampened his skin; his long hair clung to it. The ill-fitting clothes sagged at the shoulders and chest, giving him an oddly subdued appearance.
The women flanked him on either side, as if taking his side.
“Sam, don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry! I’m worried. If something happened to you—”
Large, uncertain eyes looked up at Sam from beneath lowered brows, cutting him off mid-sentence. It was unfair. Having finally found something to stave off his boredom, Lichtenstein seemed to be enjoying even this situation.
Suddenly cast as the villain, Sam twisted his mouth and folded his arms.
An awkward silence followed.
“You brought back an order, didn’t you?”
Esther bravely broke the tension with a bright voice.
At once, Lichtenstein’s expression shifted back to his usual aristocratic composure. He changed so easily that Sam wondered whether disguise might be a prerequisite for being a spy. The only thing he seemed incapable of mastering—probably—was women.
“Yes. They asked for a recommendation, so I told them about the roast chicken with that sweet-tart sauce. They’ll have two plates. I don’t know what you call it in your terms, but—”
“Sweet sauce?”
“We don’t have anything like that.”
“Of course you do. Sam, you bring it to me for supper all the time.”
All eyes turned to Sam.
He knew exactly what John meant.
Crushed ripe berries simmered in red wine, three spoonfuls of honey, a pinch of salt. Cooked down until thick, a touch of clove added at the end—then deliberately scorched just slightly, scraped up from the bottom, and poured over roasted chicken. The bone left clean so fingers wouldn’t get messy.
A secret recipe he had refined again and again, just to see the deep crease between Lichtenstein’s brows soften into something gentle.
“So you make that specially for Sir John?”
“Fine! I’ll make it right now—just give me back my apron.”
Sam raised his voice before anyone else could say another word.
“Thank you. On second thought, make that three plates.”
Beaming, Lichtenstein slipped off the apron and handed it to Sam, then hurried back to the floor before anyone could stop him.
“Gentlemen! Tonight, the drinks are on me!”
Cheers erupted through the tavern, tankards clashing together in bright celebration.
As Miriam and Esther shrieked, Sam set a pot over the fire and ran through every curse he knew in his head.The worst of them was reserved for himself—because even now, imagining the smile that must be on Lichtenstein’s face, he felt as though he might forgive him for everything.
Left alone in the emptied tavern, Lichtenstein scrubbed the floor in silence, just as the proprietor had ordered.
His fingertips were red. His back ached from hauling water, and his knees cried out against the hard boards.
He might not be able to walk tomorrow.
What would his family say if they could see him like this?
His mother might very well faint.
He straightened and sank back onto the floor. From the kitchen came the steady rhythm of Sam’s knife striking the cutting board as he began the next day’s preparations. Somewhere upstairs, something—perhaps a mouse—gave a faint squeak.
It was louder than the cellar, alive with small, everyday sounds, and yet it felt like the quietest night he had known.
“Hey. Don’t slack off.”
Sam’s sharp voice carried in from the kitchen, and Lichtenstein’s shoulders drew in reflexively. When he glanced back, he found himself under the glare of a scowl sour enough to make a baby cry.
“It’s a good night,” Lichtenstein replied with a soft smile.
“You planning to stay there till morning?”
“You’ll help me, won’t you?”
“Hah?”
No one who could create that dish so full of warmth could possibly be unkind.
Turning his back to the kitchen, Lichtenstein resumed his cleaning, listening for the sound of footsteps drawing nearer.