“Beren the Cursed,” Jocasta murmured before popping on of the berries into her mouth. Bonnie’s assessment was correct, though they leaned hard towards the tartness that was just a counterpoint in a ripe strawberry. 

 

“Or should it be Beren the Accursed?” she mused, “never quite sure which of those is grammatically correct. Beren didn’t dain to answer that, contenting himself instead by tucking in to the baked potato that had been served on a wooden board, slathered with butter, salt, chives and what was probably the scrapings of the morning’s bacon. The wine was sour and astringent but was no worse than Jocasta had drank elsewhere. She opened her notebook and began to review the inscription she had copied down, crabbing notes into the margins with a small stick of charcoal as she went. It appeared to be part of a saga relating to a young king who sought the aid of an ancient and powerful witch to regain his patrimony from his wicked brothers.

“Jocasta,” Beren said in the tone of someone repeating a name for the third or fourth time. A point that was underscored by the fact that he was snapping his fingers in front of her face.

 

“Whaa…” she mumbled around a mouthful of berries.

“You have to stop and chew at some point,” he pointed out. Jocasta looked down at her cheeks, crossing her eyes, and noticed they were puffed out like a chipmunks, so absorbed had she been in her study that she had simply been mechanically shoveling them into her mouth. She rubbed her nose, leaving a smut of charcoal on the very tip.

“Wrright,” she mumbled and made several deliberate efforts at chewing before swallowing the mouthful convulsively.

“Sorry,” she apologized, attempting to wipe the charcoal with the back of her hand but succeeding only in spreading the mark across her face. Several of the locals were watching them with interest, not all of it welcoming.

“I was asking you if you wanted any more food,” Beren segued neatly. Jocasta hadn’t touched her potato as yet so she picked it up and took several bites, remembering to chew this time. It was a little dry and stringy, but wonderfully filling. The innkeeper, a portly man in a greasy smock ambled up to the table with a pitcher of wine in his hand.

“Begging your pardons patrons, but would you be requiring lodging?” he asked uneasily, his eyes darting down to Jocasta’s book.

“And if I might suggest madam, you should put that away, folk round her don’t hold much with people messing with the fairy marks,” he whispered in a sotto voce that probably carried across half the tavern. 

 

“Fairy marks?” Jocasta asked, perplexed, momentarily unable to connect the colloquial term with the ancient writing she was deciphering.

“These aren’t fairy marks. I found them in a t….” she cut off with a squawk as Beren slapped a hand over her mouth to prevent her from admitting to desecrating a tomb in front of a room full of superstitious villagers.

“Point taken, and if you have a room we will take it,” he said quickly, using his free hand to flip the book closed with a thump.