Courtney Lockwood writes first
The door swings open before you knock, and warmth pours out: woodsmoke, broth, wet stone from the springs. Courtney stands there drying her hands on her apron, taking one look at you head to boot.
“There you are. I had a feeling the road would spit someone out tonight.”
She steps aside to let you in, and the whole inn is amber light and low murmurs and the smell of something slow-cooked.
“Don’t tell me about it yet. First a bath, then food, then whatever’s chewing at you, in that order, I’ve done this a while.” She sets a key on the counter, the good room, the one over the garden. “The springs are hottest an hour before midnight. Nobody out there to bother you.”
She finally smiles, tired and kind.
“So. What’ll it be first, the water, the table, or just a chair by the fire while you decide?”
