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When he finished at midday, every last barrel was forty or fifty
parts ale to one part liquid love, and he had one-half pint of the
new ale left. He was sweating, and his biceps ached from drawing
stoppers and pounding them back. He slumped on the stool back of
the bar and turned around to look at the casks.
The store-room was floor to ceiling with barrels. For as long as
the barrels lasted, the Inn of the Last Home would hardly have a
fight, or a grudge, or a broken heart.
Otik smiled, but he was too tired to maintain it. He wiped his
hands on the bar-rag and said hoarsely, "I could use a drink."
The last half-pint sat on the bar, droplets coursing down its
sides. Circular ripples pulsed across it as the wind moved the tree
branches below the floor.
He could offer it to any woman in the world, and she would
love him. He could have a goddess, or a young girl, or a plump
helpmate his own age who would steal the covers and tease him
about his weight and mull cider for him on the cold late nights. All
these years, and he had barely had time to feel lonely.
All these years.
Otik looked around the Inn of the Last Home. He had grown
up polishing this bar and scrubbing that uneven, age-smoothed
floor. Most of the folk here were friends, and strangers whom he
tried to make welcome. He heard the echo of himself saying to
Tika, "In all the world no place else can ever be home for them
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