Back in the taproom, I made use of the local patrons’ knowledge as well as that of the pregnant serving wench and another serving wench who was less pregnant, which is to say not with child.  When I was done, I had labeled all thirty nine buildings in town—sixty eight, if one included outhouses, and all sixteen outlying farms—sixty one buildings including outhouses, storage sheds, and barns.  I felt as though I had done a full-day’s work.

“It’s nigh on dinner time,” said the serving wench—the not pregnant one.  “Can I get you something to eat?”

“Dinner time already?” I wondered.

“Oh.  It’s what you in Aerithraine call lunch.  Here in Brest, it’s dinner.”

“Oh yes,” said I.  “I had forgotten that you call your dinner, supper; and your lunch, dinner; and your tea, snack time.”

“We still call our tea time, tea,” she said.  “Snack time is mostly in Lyrria.”

She smiled down at me and I gave her a close look for the first time.  She was slightly less medium-plump than the other girl—not surprising as she wasn’t with child.  Still she had plenty of physical charms threatening to escape her blouse, the top three buttons of which were unbuttoned.  I decided that this fashion statement was fifty percent more to my liking than that utilized by other serving wenches.  She had caramel hair and cherry lips, and really big teeth—almost scary big.

“Well, what is on the menu today?”

“I’m afraid we only have meat pie.”

“Only meat pie,” I gasped.  “Why, there have been times when I would have killed for a meat pie, and three times in particular when I was forced to do just that.  One of those times had to do with a slow waitress.”