Credence spent the morning as Sally's shadow.

Running a tavern involved a tremendous amount of chores, and no one else had presented themselves as workers, leaving Sally as the lone overseer of everything. It became quickly apparent to Credence why the woman appeared a little scatter-brained, for her mind had to be in a dozen places at once. By the time they paused for a midday meal, Sally had finally learned Credence's name, having gotten it wrong several times since breakfast.

While slurping through a bowl of lukewarm broth, Credence asked the question that had been nagging her all morning.

"I don't mean to sound rude," she began carefully, "but I was told I would be assigned to a family. I don't see anyone else here—are they at your home?"

Sally shook her head before taking a long gulp from her cup of mead.

"This is my home. Eat and sleep here. I never leave, 'cause I never need to. Used to be a proper inn, but I didn't enjoy the hassle it brought when people took rest here. So I closed the rooms and made it just a tavern." Sally shrugged and drained the rest of her mead. "It's best this way. I don't have to trudge home in the late hours or leave my tavern unattended for thieves and such. I get to stay in the same spot all the time. It's perfect."

Credence wasn't sure she agreed but remained quiet.

Some people must enjoy staying put, she decided, while others, like herself, preferred to wander.

"Where's the rest of your family? Don't they help run the tavern?"

"There is no family."

"You run it alone?" 

Sally tilted her head to the side, considering the question.

"Huh. Guess I do. Never thought of it, really. Mum used to run it with my da, but they're both dead now. Da went first from a nasty fight. Took a long time for mum to fall though, so we had a few years together. Was some sickness took her, oh, I'd say four summers ago."

"You don't have any sisters or brothers?"

"Just me." Sally winked at Credence as she poured herself another cup of mead. "I'd say I got the hang of things well enough."

Credence frowned.

She's lost everyone, just like me.

"What about you, girl? You got parents?"

"My pa and ma died, too. And my brother."

"Brother?"

"Josiah. He was younger. But he...he..."

Credence's voice trailed off and Sally placed a hand on her shoulder.

"S'all right, love. I know the pain it brings. But listen here—" She leaned in close as if telling some great secret. "The way I think it, you can either sit in the mud with your losses, or you can stand up and keep walkin' the road of life. I was in the mud for a long time before I figured out how to stand back up. But dead people ain't to be cried over forever, are they?" She nudged Credence with her elbow. "No! It's a passing thing, like a cough, that hits you hard but eventually passes. Besides—" She drained her cup before continuing, "—I figure da and mum wouldn't want me in the lumps all the time, not when there's work to be done and life to be lived. Best thing I could do for them, best thanks I could give, is to move ahead and see my own seasons through."

If only Credence had given such words to Josiah when Pa died.

They did a world of good to lighten the burden in her heart, and they made complete sense. What use was it to carry such sorrow for the rest of her life? And the anger Credence had been holding for both her parents, what good did it do her? The Headmaster said atrocious things about them—but what good was his "truth" after he was revealed to be a monster?

Credence knew her parents better than anyone in the towns ever could. She was suddenly very ashamed for thinking ill of them. She looked at her arm, still bandaged tightly, and put her hand over it, not minding the minor ache that pressed back.

Her family was gone, and the sorrow of their loss might always be with her, but Credence would rather remember them alive, and celebrate all they were and all they had meant to her.

Their memory should be cherished.

Credence's face was cold. She'd been so lost in thought, she hadn't recognized that she was crying. She felt guilty that she was too weak to stop her tears, while Sally, whose tragedy was similar to her own, remained strong.

"I'm sorry," Credence whispered and wiped her cheeks.

Sally reached out and ruffled the girl's hair.

"Don't be sorry, girl. Just be alive."

***

As the day progressed, Credence realized the workload was becoming heavier, though no more customers had come through the door. When she questioned Sally why, the woman simply smiled and said, "Taverns are made for night."

Credence repeatedly begged to assist Sally, but the host refused her every time.

"Just keep an eye on me tonight. You can start helping tomorrow."

That evening, as Sally promised, the tavern truly came to life.

Bodies poured into the large room, more heads than Credence could keep count of, becoming a mass of faces and voices. It was an eclectic group of men and women, but no children, all talking loudly over each other, and all in desperate want of celebration. They demanded a never-ending list of things from Sally, keeping the woman running back and forth all night long, usually with a pile of dishes in her arms. The few times Credence was able to catch the attention of her host she begged to lend a hand, but Sally shrugged her off and directed her to stay warm by the fire.

"Watch the people," Sally said with a twinkle in her eye, "they're marvelous fun!"

Credence resigned to sit in a corner and keep watch over the guests.

Around the time she was beginning to yawn frequently, a minstrel entered the fray, wearing faded motley that was patched in a dozen places. He strummed a bulbous instrument with his fingers, which reminded Credence of Ken the jester—though this minstrel's songs were solely focused on lewd pursuits. The few words that Credence understood in his music had her blushing, but elicited cheers and laughter from the tavern guests.

At one point the minstrel began a chord that shifted the entire tavern's attention onto Sally, and after a curtsy in acknowledgment she climbed atop the long counter, not bothering to fuss over any disrupted mugs in her path, where she gyrated and wiggled for them, executing the same frog-like moves she had demonstrated that morning, now with music behind her.

The crowd loved her for it.

At the end of the song, Sally immediately returned to carrying dishes and filling cups, while the crowd turned back to their conversation and drinks after a round of applause and loud cheering.

The dance of Sally must have been a nightly occurrence, and something looked forward to.

She really is a dancer, Credence thought with more than a little amusement. 

A night in the tavern was nothing short of an enormous celebration, and in Credence's mind it lasted for ages. There was only so much fun one could have, she thought, but the guests appeared to be never-filling wells of mirth and playful chaos. Credence noted that the more they drank and ate, the more like toddlers the guests became, stumbling around and babbling incoherent nonsense at each other. Most were happier for it, though there were a few that settled into somber reflection, keeping to the corners and away from others for most of the evening.

Credence must have fallen asleep, for she was woken by a loud yell from several tavern guests. There was nothing amiss, just a bit of raucous laughter, but their noise stirred Credence into alertness—though she was grumpier for it.

At last, in an hour too late to call night but too early to name morning, the people began to leave.

One by one at first, then a few in pairs and groups, and finally the last of the drifters and idlers were ushered out by a stern-faced Sally, who gave them a firm nudge through the door before locking it behind them. With a heavy, contented sigh, Sally slumped to the ground against the door with a silly grin on her face.

The room had been destroyed.

Spilled drink and food, leftover dishes Sally hadn't the time to gather up, overturned chairs, remnants of lost items, and paid coin. It looked like a storm had passed through—and Sally seemed comforted by the mess.

"Aye," she murmured, "a long night and a good one."

She rapped the ground next to her and Credence rose from the chair where she'd remained for the whole of the evening, stretched her stiff muscles, and joined the woman on the floor.

"I'll clean in a bit," Sally mused dreamily. "But let's take a minute to appreciate the sight, eh?"

Credence couldn't understand how a messy tavern could bring Sally peace. After a day and night full of chores, Credence assumed the last thing anyone would want to do was more work, but Sally giggled as she surveyed the wreckage before her.

"What happens now?" Credence asked.

"We clean up. We prepare. We do it again tomorrow."

"Every day is like this?"

"Isn't it wonderful?"

"Does it always carry on so late?"

"Taverns are made for the night."

Credence had never imagined the night could hold such loud, unabashed festivities. In her experience, once the sun had set the world's tone shifted to slight unease and quiet rest. The tavern was a new world and Sally was the queen of it, and Credence thought her very brave for welcoming darkness with such careless joy.

Sally gasped. "I forgot! Did you get any dinner?"

"No, but I don't need any."

"Sure about that? Could scrape something from the stove."

"No, no. I can hold over until breakfast."

"Got to get that started soon."

"Don't you want to sleep?"

Sally let out a long yawn. "Sleep comes when it comes. That's the key to it: Take lots of smaller sleeps during the day. It all comes together in the end. Why? Do you need rest?" She gave Credence a worried look.

With a pang of guilt, Credence answered honestly, "I am a little tired."

"Must've been a long night for you. You're used to falling and rising with the sun, I'd wager."

"Aren't most people?"

"Most," Sally said softly. "Aye, yes. Most." She stood and smoothed her skirts. "Said before the tavern used to be an inn—I did say that, didn't I?" Credence nodded. "There's rooms, but they've not been used for some time. I'll say 'sorry' now for the state you see them in later. But they've got beds, and you're welcome to any of your choosing."

"You don't use any of the rooms as your own?"

"No time to fuss with all that. I rest where I can when I get the chance for it. Never cared much about having softness against my back."

You'd love the woods, Credence thought.

Sally led Credence behind the long counter and towards the doors that stood there. One door, which Credence now knew led into the grease-stained, smoke-scented kitchen, was chipped and splintered from constant use, but the other was near pristine in comparison, save for the blanket of dust over its knob and the abandoned cobwebs in its higher corners. Sally did her best to wipe away the grime then unlocked the door with a thin key and opened it into a shallow passage that was drenched in pitch.

After a few vulgar words from Sally, a candle was fetched and lit, and the pair were allowed a proper view of a short and narrow hall with two doors on the left and one door on the right.

Sally released a low, despondent whistle at the less-than-inviting sight, making Credence feel relieved that she was not alone in being unimpressed by the hall's offerings.

"Well," Sally said with a humorous chuckle, "maybe the floor by the fire would be better—"

"No," Credence said, "it has...a certain charm."

"Charm? Damned place looks haunted."

"I like it."

"Wait until you see the rooms."

"I'm sure they'll be fine."

Sally shrugged, suggesting she'd go along with Credence's wishes even if they sounded foolish.

"When my folks ran the inn they kept this hall open for those needing a good rest. Charged decent coin, too. When they died I just didn't have enough hours or arms to keep it in fair condition. I used it for storage but it's more of a forgotten place now."

"I think forgotten places are charming."

"All right. Choose your door."

Credence chose the second door on the left and pushed it open to reveal a plain room with more than its fair share of dust and cobwebs. The hall had an old smell to it, the kind of scent that sometimes, very rarely, blew through the trees in the middle of fall. A scent of dust and dirt, damp leaves and wet stone. That same smell was amplified in the room Credence chose, but she was comforted by it, for it gave her a vague reminder of the woods.

Sally sneezed, interrupting Credence's nostalgia.

"I'll get a broom in here," Sally said through a sniff. "I know you won't be here long, but I want you to be comfortable. You can sweep and tidy to your leisure, and I'll see about getting you a blanket not covered in dirt."

"Thank you."

"Eh, sorry...for not preparing something for you."

"I understand. It's no trouble for me, really. I'll enjoy making this space my own."

Sally's face, which had fallen into guilt, rose back into glee.

"That's a good way of looking at it, aye. A space of your own."

Using the candle that had guided them there, Sally lit several misshapen lumps of wax that were spread throughout the room, old remnants of long-gone hospitality, and she had to blow the dust from each of their tops before touching fire to their wicks. When they all had a flame, the candles lit the room into the perfect calming dimness for sleep. Sally smacked the mattress chosen as Credence's bed and a cloud of dust rose to her face.

More sneezing followed, and this time Credence joined.

"Are you sure you want to sleep in this?" Sally asked once they'd calmed.

"I'm sure," Credence said, wiping a few dust-born tears from her eyes.

"Just shake loose any creatures who saw fit to build a home here. You don't mind the odd spider for a neighbor, do you?"

"I've shared a room with worse."

Sally laughed. "Haven't we all. Glad the school hasn't taken your grit away. I like you, Credence."

"I like you, too. And I like this room." 

She was telling the truth. Credence much preferred a forgotten corner in Sally's tavern over one of the Headmaster's starched beds.

She was far safer here, among the spiders and the dust.

Sally left and quickly returned with a broom and a long coat.

"Found this in the main room," she said of the coat as she handed it to Credence. "It's not much, but it'll do for one night until I can get that blanket washed. It's a gentleman's coat. Should be enough to cover you."

"Won't the owner miss it?"

"Serves him right for being clumsy enough to part with it in my tavern. Now let's get that blanket off so we can smack the dirt from your mattress."

As Sally was leaving the room, she turned to bid Credence goodnight.

"Have a nice sleep. I'll be about when you need to find me."

"Sally," Credence called just as the woman was about to close the door.

Sally poked her head into the room. "What is it?"

"I know I'm only here for a few days, but I want to help you. As soon as possible, if that's all right."

Sally's face fell for a whisper of a second, as if she hadn't considered that at all, before returning to its usual soft expression.

"I'm not sure that you—"

Credence rose from the bed, keeping the oversized coat around her shoulders, and moved to Sally. Startled, the woman opened the door and stepped back into the room. When Sally was within reach, Credence lifted her arms and embraced her.

Credence wasn't sure what had moved her to do such a thing. Maybe it was Sally's unexpected benevolence, something Credence never thought she'd find in the towns.

Kindness, she discovered in that moment, could exist anywhere.

Sally's arms covered her shoulders, reciprocating the hug with equal affection.

"All right," Sally whispered, and Credence could hear the smile in her voice, "we'll start you as a helping hand tomorrow."

~~~~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~~

AUTHOR NOTE

I wanted to make a note at the end of this chapter, the only time I intend to break the fourth wall, and give a little backstory on one particular line because I believe it's worth sharing.

I was working in a small retail shop a few years ago when a man in his fifties burst through the door, wearing what I can only describe as a Mardi Gras jester outfit. This was odd, because we were in Texas and it was July. He didn't want to buy anything, and was obviously a little inebriated after a trip to the bar next door. He sat down and chatted with me about life, and it was a pleasant conversation as he was a good-natured fellow.

He was carrying what he proudly called a "man purse", and dug through it for some tissue before revealing that all of his closest friends were gone. They had died from one illness or another, mostly cancer. When I told him I was sorry for his loss, he held a tissue up to his nose and sniffed, then tossed it back into his man purse and declared:

"Don't be sorry, girl, just be alive."

He told me that people were meant to be celebrated, and he was happy to have had the friends he'd lost, because their life was worth more than their death. The joy of knowing them outweighed the price of their loss.

Don't be sorry, girl, just be alive, has been a kind of mantra for me since then, and I think it might be the kindest, most wise piece of advice I've ever been given. I've always known I wanted to include it somewhere in my writing as a way to honor that wonderful person.

Shoutout to that awesome, magical human who brightened my life forever. I hope he's happy, wherever he is, and I hope he knows that he will always be cherished.