Ambrose

When Ambrose ran out of excuses not to leave for the networking night, he formulated his plan on how to get out of the event as quickly as possible.

He’d wear his robes there, definitely. Tell the others he couldn’t stay long—true—because he had to brew potions—not true—then would gracefully bow out after one drink. Just long enough to make the requisite appearance while still leaving room for a book and a cup of tea at the end of the night.

“Took you long enough,” Dawn said as he locked the shop door. She leaned against the wall outside, parrying his scowl with a bright smile.

“I shouldn’t have agreed to this,” Ambrose muttered.

“Oh, please.” Dawn looped her arm around his elbow. “You’re just going to say you have to brew a potion and leave after thirty minutes anyway. It’s not going to kill you to show up.”

***

The Jumping Ogre was close to overflowing. As a favorite of adventurers and locals alike, the tavern brimmed with boastful heroes, relaxed civilians, and, thanks to the networking event, chatty shopkeepers.

“How’s everyone doing over here? Doing good?” Eli stopped by a cluster of apothecaries across the room, his voice breezing over the din. With his everlasting smile and charmingly tousled hair, he slipped easily into the role of gracious host. Offering appetizers here, making jokes there. He had dressed up for the event, too, sporting a purple vest that hugged his waist and quartz earrings that clinked against his jawline whenever he laughed—which he did often. “Yes, I highly recommend the goat cheese. I think they were passing a plate back that way. . .”

Ambrose glanced around him—there was no direction in which someone wasn’t passing around a plate. How was Eli paying for all this? Had he already stolen that many sales?

He glared at the name tag Sherry had slapped on him—a piece of paper with a sticky spell, sure to leave a mark on his robe—and returned his focus to a nearby booth, where an adventurer gestured with his frothy mug.

“So, the dragon’s coming at me, right?” the elven hero boomed with the voice and chest of an empty barrel. “Mage was knocked out cold, ranger was out of arrows, and it’s just me, my axe, and my last levitation potion. I down the vial, give the beast the middle finger, and—”

“Orange,” Banneker said, breaking Ambrose’s attention. In order to avoid small talk with strangers, Ambrose had found meager protection between Sherry and Banneker in the crowd. As he suffered in the combined ambience of iron and patchouli, the artificer squinted over at Eli. “Or gold. Or. . .something in between. Like a sunflower.”

Ambrose frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Eli’s aura.” Banneker folded his freckled arms. “It’s orange. Orange-gold. Gorange.”

Ambrose rolled his eyes. “You’re just saying that because of his earrings.”

“Hey, Eli!” Banneker called. “You ever work around sunflowers?”

Eli looked over. “I. . .worked on a farm for a bit?”

“See?” Banneker grinned at Ambrose. “Knew it, dude. In my heart.”

“You were a farmer before you bought the shop?” Sherry leaned around Ambrose’s shoulder. Holding a plate of honey cakes, Eli pivoted to join the Rosemond Street circle.

“For a few months,” he said. “I took classes before that. Worked under a tanner after.”

“Wait, I thought you worked for a griffin trainer?” Banneker asked. Eli passed the cakes to Grim, then gestured to the white scars on his arms.

“Sure did,” he said. “Two years ago. Learned proper feeding techniques the hard way.”

Grim frowned and stacked three cakes onto their massive palm. “Was that before or after the botany gig in the Driftwood?”

“After.”

“Tell me about the Driftwood,” Dawn cut in eagerly. “Does it really drift as much as people say?”

Eli’s dark eyes glinted. “That’s the thing—it never stops drifting.”

Everyone except for Ambrose leaned in, but the barmaid tapped on Eli’s shoulder, sparing them the insipid travel stories.

“We’re starting to run out of cheese rolls,” she said to Eli. “If you’re up to pay for three more trays, that should cover you for the rest of the night.”

Eli’s smile faltered, then forcibly brightened again. “Yeah, let’s do it. Thanks.”

Ambrose raised his eyebrows. Perhaps Eli hadn’t stolen enough customers to fund this stupid event after all.

“So, why a potion shop?” Grim asked, already halfway through their cakes. “It’s a far cry from griffins and farming.”

Eli shrugged. “Those other gigs were fine. I just. . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I couldn’t see myself doing them for the rest of my life.”

Sherry’s smile was as honeyed as the cakes. “I’m glad you landed here, then,” she said. “You can grow old on Rosemond Street with the rest of us.”

Eli nodded firmly. “Absolutely.”

Gods, Ambrose hoped not.

Then Eli’s gaze swept over the rest of the circle. “What about you?” He nodded to Ambrose. “Did you always know you wanted to be a potion master?”

Ambrose smoothed out his expression. “Yes,” he lied easily. “Always.”

He kept the words pointed and gave no elaboration. When Dawn elbowed him, he pretended not to notice.

“Eli, have you been to a Fireball game yet?” Dawn piped up in Ambrose’s stead. “My brothers and I go every weekend. You should come with, if you want. You a fan of the Kolkean Bonekeepers?”

Eli’s eyes lit up again. “Born and bred. You a Sussa or Stone Dragons fan?”

Dawn snorted. “Don’t even bring up Sussa.”

“Ah, jealous of their defense, I see?”

As the Fireball chatter continued, Ambrose assessed the level of everyone’s drinks, then the pathway to the door. He could sneak away now, he reasoned. Get out before he actually had to talk to anyone. . .

He took one step toward the door, then Grim leaned forward and tapped on his mug. Ambrose stiffened again, expecting some sort of admonishment for his attempt to retreat—but the orc’s look behind their glasses wasn’t unkind. “You give any more thought to those potions we talked about?”

Ambrose blinked. “Um—yes, I did.” It wasn’t a lie this time. Brewing in the afternoon had given him plenty of time to think. “I was considering brewing an upgraded psychic resistance potion. The Adventurer’s Guild should be releasing cairn cat licenses within the week, and that’s the first thing they’ll need.”

“Smart.” Grim gave a short nod. “Should attract the right customers.”

Ambrose held back a grimace. He hoped so—the potion’s main ingredient equaled the cost of another two workroom upgrades.

Grim stepped away. “Right. Well, you were looking to leave. I won’t stop you.”

Ambrose let out a relieved breath. “Really?”

Grim smirked. “I’m surprised you lasted this long. Go on.”

Ambrose set his mug on the bar and strode off. Only a few steps now, around the huddle of bakers, past the gaggle of cobblers—but right as the path to the door opened up, the sound of his name made him freeze.

“Yeah, Ambrose is helping her,” Eli said. “Hey, you’re searching for the moss together, right?”

Eli, Dawn, and several local silversmiths were huddled off to the side, all staring at him. Ambrose turned on his heel—slowly, making sure to glare—but Dawn was unfazed, pulling him into the circle with her. He tried tugging out of her grasp, but her grip firmly communicated that he was going to be polite for once and he was going to like it.

“Talking about the Thirty Under 130,” she explained sweetly, her tone not at all matching her grip. “How I’m going to use the moss in the birthday fireworks.”

“Ah, yes.” He tried to play along. “With your pink dragon shapes?”

“Purple,” Dawn corrected. “Birthday girl’s request.”

One of the silversmiths nudged her. “Like the Thirty needs your purple dragons to know you’re the best.”

“Hey, you’re only as good as your last award.” Dawn held up a finger. Eli shook his head.

“How do you fit everything in with running the shop?”

“Magic.”

The shopkeepers all laughed, and slowly, they slipped into a meandering conversation about traveling merchants and the weather. Ambrose itched to escape, but every time he slipped closer to the door, Eli would ask him questions, forcing him back into the conversation. Then Eli would smile, and laugh, and smile some more. Gods, did the man ever stop smiling?

Finally, the silversmiths wandered away, and Ambrose stretched his neck. He could almost smell the cool, fresh air out in the street. . .

“No, no, Lily’s great.” Eli toyed with his earring as he chatted with Dawn. “Wants to hop on a griffin and visit tomorrow, but she’s going to train with my cousin up north. As if having one Valenz in the village wasn’t enough, you know?” He nodded to Ambrose. “Probably not far from where you grew up, I’m guessing.”

Ambrose’s hands went cold. “I beg your pardon?”

Dawn’s smile fell off her face, but Eli didn’t notice.

“You grew up in the north before you started apprenticing, right?” His line of questioning lost none of its speed. “You’ve got a bit of the accent, and blue hair’s pretty common up there. I was gonna guess Woodfall, but—”

“I have to go,” Ambrose heard himself say, and he was out the door before he could process where he was going. How dare he bring that up, how dare he ask—

“Hey, hey, hold on.” Eli followed from behind, shifting the cool air. “Ames, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Ambrose.”

“What?”

Ambrose ground his heels into the road, anger crawling up his throat. “It’s Ambrose, not Ames. You don’t know me.”

“Well, I’m trying to fix that.” Eli gestured to the tavern. Out here, he dropped his cheery showmanship, though the tavern light still drew a warm line over his slouched shoulders. “Listen, I promise I won’t ask you any more questions if you come back in. I know the Rosemond folks were looking forward to seeing you—”

“Why?” The word snapped more harshly than he intended, but it wasn’t directed at them, not even at Eli. He opened his mouth, then closed it with a click. “Please just let me go. I’m not good company.”

Eli folded his arms and glanced at the ground. When he spoke again, his voice was softer than Ambrose expected. “I’m sorry you think that. Have a good night.”

***

Ambrose cursed and poured himself a third cup of tea. The warmth usually helped break the cycle in his mind, the one he had worked against for years. But it wasn’t helping, not this time, and his thoughts plodded along familiar stops like a donkey in a deep rut.

He didn’t care about his family. He didn’t care that they had dropped him at The Griffin's Claw when he was eight, barely old enough to take on an apprenticeship. He didn’t remember their accents when they spoke to Master Pearce about taking him in, and he didn’t recall their hair color when they climbed back into the wagon and never returned. He didn’t remember, and he didn’t care.

Then the mental rut grew deeper, unearthing his more childish thoughts. Where was Woodfall, anyway? How far away was it from the Scar? Would he remember any of it if he visited? Would anyone remember him? Would he find his—

He downed the rest of the tea, tensed his jaw, and swept into the workroom. His tears blurred the ingredients and hissed in the cauldron fire, but that didn’t matter. He mixed and poured on instinct, forcing his focus onto the clinking of glass and bubbling of water.

As the bitter tang of herbs filled the air, the lump in his throat lessened. He let out a long breath, wiped his cheeks, and watched the bubbles form and break. Throwing himself into one or a dozen potions always made it go away, made it feel better. It had done so for the past twenty years, and he saw no reason to stop now.