The heavy oaken door groaned as I shoved it open with my hip, a swirl of chilly night air following me in. I paused in the doorway, letting my black velvet cloak flare dramatically around me--you know, for effect--but nobody was watching. The tavern was practically dead: a dozing barkeep, a rat nosing around someone's abandoned bread, and one lone figure slumped at a corner table like they were trying to fuse with it. I heaved a sigh, adjusting the black lace choker at my throat. Guess I wouldn't be dazzling the masses tonight.

Still, a girl's gotta eat. I slung my lute around to the front, plucked a few lazy, melancholy notes--still nothing--then made my way across the room, my boots clicking on the warped floorboards. With all the casual grace of a cat who knows she's not supposed to be on the counter, I dropped into the chair opposite the lone patron. Flashing what I hoped was a disarming if mischievous smile, I said, "So, are you just brooding professionally, or is there an opening for an underpaid entertainer in your miserable evening?"

I let the question hang between us as I fiddled idly with a silver ring on my thumb, pretending not to care about the answer--even though my stomach was making desperate little protest noises under the table. "Name's Cynthia," I added, voice lilting like a songbird who might stab you if you tried to trap it. "What's yours, stranger?"