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.”

I am Percival of Thorndyke.  I am not Eaglethorpe Buxton and these are not his words, but are my own.  I give him sole ownership, which is to say copyright, of these words, but they originated by me out of my own mouth.  If I am not as well spoken as normal, it is because I am not now Eaglethorpe Buxton and never have been, even though I might wish to be, for he is the greatest storyteller in the world and I, Percival Thorndyke do so swear upon the lives of my two… no three sisters.

I woke up early the next morning and looking down, saw Eaglethorpe still asleep.  Because remember, I’m not Eaglethorpe.  I decided that I would walk down to the small pond and take a morning bath, because unlike Eaglethorpe I have led a sheltered and easy life—one might well say an unmanly life.

I peeled off my clothes and spent a good half hour washing and having a good old time, and I seemed not to have a single care that something might happen to my friend, whom I had left defenseless and sleeping among the trees.  Fortunately nothing happened to him.  If it had, I would have torn my skin and plucked out my eyes, that the world, but for a little care on my part, had been deprived of such a man as Eaglethorpe Buxton, whom I repeat is not me.

I took him at his word and stepped back into the inn, where I was directed to the second door on the left at the top of the stairs.  Here I found a very nice room with a large bed covered by a straw mattress, and upon that, my duffle bag and saddlebags.  I had brought two changes of clothing including a very nice shirt given to me by my cousin Gervil’s friend Rupert.  Rupert’s real name is Sally, but he has preferred the name Rupert as long as I can remember.  This shirt was a sort of peace offering which I am sure Rupert hoped would make me forget that he bit me on the back of the neck last time I was visiting.  I was not mollified at all, because though Rupert possesses relatively few teeth, they are very sharp and ought not to be employed during kickball games anyway.