“Do people trap muskrats?”
“Well, not so much anymore. These are lean times for muskrat maidens.”
“We don’t even have muskrats in England.”
“See,” he smiles, “that’s good, that means no one will see the holes in your story.”
“Shepard.”
“Penelope, it’ll be fine. Just stay behind me and stay quiet.”
“Oh, is that a woman’s place?”
He points at me. “Nice. Muskrat maidens are notoriously thin-skinned.”
“Very funny.”
“It’s because they only steal the human epidermis,” he explains. “It’s really very intere—”
The door to the pub opens, and a squat woman leans out. “If you’re not coming in, you need to move along. I don’t like a commotion.”
I duck behind Shepard.
“We’re coming in,” he says, “thank you. I’m Shepard.”
“I don’t need to know your name,” she grumbles, waving us into a small, dark room. She’s wearing black leather trousers and a leather coat （unseasonable）， and standing in front of a second door. “This is a private club. Are you a member?”
“I am a friend of the establishment,” he says.
“Are you now?”
“I’ve walked the hills.”
She folds her arms. “Have you.”
“And crossed the rivers.” There’s a gleam in his brown eyes.
She grunts.
“I’ve sat in the dark and never asked for a light,” Shepard continues. “I carry no weapon, though I may not come in peace. And there’s enough in my purse to cover the night.”
Her mouth is flat. “I suppose that’ll do,” she says, opening the door behind her.
“Thank you”—Shepard pulls me inside by the elbow—“have a great night!”
“Americans,” I hear her mutter behind us.
Inside, the place looks like every other dirty old pub. A bit darker than usual. They’ve got Imagine Dragons playing too loud. Shepard still has my elbow. “I forgot to mention,” he says softly, “don’t stare.”
“I’m not going to—” Nicks and Slick! The barman is an actual tree person. In full leaf! Is that an Ent? Are Ents real? Why would an Ent work in a pub? Don’t they require sunlight?
Shepard takes a seat at the bar and hauls me up beside him. The tree turns our way and sort of rustles. It’s a rowan tree, I think. Immune to magic. That’s probably useful.
“I’ll have a Coke,” Shepard says.
“Pepsi all right?” the tree asks. It has a man’s voice. A very resonant man’s voice. Like someone is knocking on wood right in the middle of it.
“No,” Shepard says, “do you have ginger ale?”
The tree nods its leaves and starts to fill a glass with one branch. It’s wiping the bar in front of us with another.
“I’ll have the same,” I tell it.
“My name is Shepard,” Shepard says. Like someone pulled the ring on his back. “And this is my friend—” I frown at him. “—Debbie.”
The barman gives us our ginger ales.
“We’re not from around here.” Shepard smiles.
“You don’t say…” the barman says. I can’t see its mouth. Does it have a mouth? Is it just emitting words from its leaves? Like pollen?
“We’re looking for someone with a special skill.”
“My special skill is serving alcohol,” the barman says. “Are you going to order any?”
“Definitely,” Shepard says. “Please, pour yourself a drink.”
I get the feeling the tree is giving Shepard a flat look, but I can’t be sure.
After a second, it pulls itself a pint of dark ale, then tips the pint up to a crack in its bark. “What sort of skill?” it asks— while it’s drinking. Which is either a trick or proof that it doesn’t have a mouth. Unless it has more than one …
“Translation,” Shepard says. “We’ve found some old papers—some really old papers. Found a giant who recognized the letters, but not the language.”
“No giants in here,” the tree says. “We’re not zoned for it.”
“I don’t think it’s a giant language,” Shepard says. “Just an old one.”
“This look like a library to you?”
Shepard smiles again. “No.”