Free Wonderful by Jill Barnett

where do you think it would be?”
    He thought for a stretch of minutes; then his expression brightened. “In the beehives?”
    “I meant I need a honeycomb in a bowl on a table. Now try again.”
    Thwack frowned, then raised a finger and guessed, “In the kitchens?”
    She shook her head.
    Old Gladdys craned over and muttered something at the boy. He looked at the old woman, then shrugged as if he couldn’t believe it. His gaze went from one table to the other and back to Clio. He chewed his lip for a second, then said, “On that table?”
    “Aye. On that table.” Clio smiled and went back to work measuring and sorting her spices and herbs.
    He must have stood there for a long time, because she felt him tap her on the shoulder a good time later. “My lady?”
    “Aye?”
    “Why did you tell me to look on the ‘other’ table instead of ‘that’ table?”
    Clio looked from one table to another, then sighed. “Don’t fret over it, Thwack. ’Twas me. I was confused.”
    “Aye.” He agreed. “That you were, my lady, that you were.” He shuffled over to the table with all the speed of a passing eon, then spent a few minutes foraging through the jars and bowls and other containers on the table.
    Each item had his full attention for a good few minutes. Finally he found the bowl, examined it for the longest time, then moseyed back across the stone floor.
    He handed her the bowl. Inside was a deep amber wedge of sticky honeycomb. “Do you suppose someone stole the ‘other’ table?”
    Clio shook her head.
    Thwack walked away mumbling, “Perhaps Lord Merrick replaced the ‘other’ table with ‘that’ table.”
    Before long he would forget about the tables. But now she had her own work to do. She mixed the salix and thyme, then ground a pinch of heather flowers together and added them to the mash that was cooking in one of the huge black pots lining the eastern wall. Beneath the hanging pot, a low, banked fire sent smoke curling up through one of the crude smoke holes in the thatched roof.
    Later the ale was bubbling and steaming. The room had grown moist and warm. The pots boiled brews that filled the air with the scents of herbs and malt.
    Clio took a wooden bowl and dipped it into the ale. She let it cool slightly, then stuck her thumb in to test the temperature. She turned her thumb up, judged the consistency by the texture and the way it coated her thumb with a light frothing.
    The ale was done.
    She took a sip from the bowl and swallowed. Like a bubble of beer, a small giggle burst from her mouth. Surprised, she licked her lips, then realized she was just happy because she had brewed the first of her Camrose ale.
    Surely that was something that would make her feel like laughing out loud. She proudly took another sip and got another giggle.
    ’Tis wonderful, she thought, and lifted the bowl to her lips, downing the rest.
    She heard Old Gladdys cackle wickedly, and Clio lowered the bowl from her lips.
    “I told ye there was a storm brewing,” Old Gladdys announced, then rushed out the door in a flash of white hair and swirling black wool robes.
    Clio covered her mouth to stop another bubble of laughter and turned back around.
    Her urge to laugh died as swiftly as it had come.
    Merrick stood in the doorway, his expression blacker than any storm clouds she’d ever seen.
     

Chapter 8
    “The castle well collapsed,” Merrick barked, and took two steps into the brewery, searching for the source of his problem.
    He found the source.
    Lady Clio stood with her back to him before an ale pot, giggling.
    Merrick fixed on her with a dark look that matched his black mood.
    She spun around suddenly and faced him. Her happy expression quickly melted away, which annoyed him. The fact that he was affected by something as foolish as her smile annoyed him even further.
    He looked away from her expressive face and crossed the steamy room in a few long strides to a water cistern and tangle of old iron siphoning pipes