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The party emerges into the weak, endless twilight of the hamlet battered and unsettled but alive. Clouds threaten rain, but haven't broken open yet. It could be worse. Has been, some days. The Custodian of the old manor pays them each their share with shaking hands—his hands shaking, as if he'd been the one to face down that mountain of twisting and shuddering flesh in the dark—and for a moment William is tempted to strike the man.
Fergie whines before he can give in to temptation, and when he looks down at her sad, patient eyes, he relents.
"Aye, girl, you're right. Better to take the chance for solace when we can." He gives her a scratch behind the ears and her tail thumps approvingly.
The group splits up by unspoken agreement, Junia following Boudica who knows where, Baldwin heading resolutely up the hill toward the abbey. May their various pursuits bring them some measure of peace, William thinks as he turns his steps toward the most welcoming place in the hamlet.
"Most welcoming" is a low bar in a place as grim and dark as this, but William has learned to be grateful for the respite he can find. The tavern is warm, with enough lanterns to keep the deepest shadows at bay. There's an assortment of pretty young things working upstairs, for those who have such cravings, and usually a table or two of card or dice players, for those who haven't gambled enough on the damned house and its mysteries. William generally sticks to the pub; the scents of food and beer are wholesome, human things, compared to what the swine in the warrens simmer in their cauldrons.
"Welcome back," the tavernkeep says as William and Fergie come in and take up spots near the fire. "What can I get you?"
"A pint of bitter and a double helping of whatever's on the hob," William says. Fergie's tail thumps against the leg of the table. "I know, girl, that's some for you too." She always has a good meaty bone to keep her strength up when they delve into the manor's dark, but he imagines that does her about as much good as the rations do him—enough to keep them going through the horrors, but not satisfying like a belly full of warm, fresh-cooked food.
The fireplace is doing a decent job of chasing the chill of the warrens out of his bones by the time the tavernkeep brings him an oversized bowl of stew and half a loaf of dark bread. The stew's watery but steaming hot and he recognizes the vegetables floating in it. Fergie whines hopefully.
"Of course, you troublesome mutt," he says, tearing off a hunk of bread. "First bite's for you." He soaks the bread in broth and holds it out to her. She sniffs twice, then stretches out to take it from him with a mouth so gentle she almost seems a different beast than the hound who savaged their foes short hours ago.
The soaked bread disappears in two quick gulps and then she's looking up at him again. William chuckles. "Soon enough," he says. "Let me get a bite or two myself, girl."
His first bite of the stew is about as William expected: watery, with a few small chunks of vegetable in the broth, but the cook didn't spare the sage and thyme, and the warmth in his belly starts to unknot the stress wrapped around his heart. He sighs in relief, his shoulders slumping. Fergie rests her chin on his thigh with a wuff.
They go through the bowl like that, trading off, William sopping up some of the broth for himself and some for his faithful hound. The horrors of the manor recede under the sustained application of hearthfire, warm food, and muddled chatter from the gaming tables.
When the door opens, bringing a gust of chilly air inside, William looks up. Bigby is standing at the door—and never was a man so ill-named, as he tugs his rags around himself and tries to hunch down as small as possible. His hair's plastered down to his face with rain, and he glances nervously at the fireplace where William and Fergie are sitting before slinking toward a seat in the corner instead.
Fergie whines.
William looks down. Fergie looks up at him, then over at Bigby, hunkering down too far from the fire. She barks once, making Bigby's head snap up again. That seemed like a perfectly clear request, so William beckons.
Bigby shuffles over. "Something the matter, sir?" He glances at Fergie like he thinks she's a danger. "Not trying to make trouble for anyone."
"You're fine." William shakes his head. "Not going to dry out so well over there in the corner, are you? Have a seat."
"Thank you." Bigby pulls a chair up close to the fire, and the heat makes steam rise from his rags and his hair. Fergie sniffs at him curiously and he tenses up.
"Don't like dogs?" William asks.
Bigby shakes his head. "Most animals don't like me," he says. "I think the beast makes them nervous."
William nods. "Fergie's a smart dog," he says. "I'm sure she's noticed that beast of yours only fights threats to the pack."
"I hope so," Bigby says. He's still watching her nervously, and doesn't seem to know that the way she's pricked up her ears means she's happy to have him around.
Well, William can do something about that. If Fergie approves of Bigby, that means more than any shackles or punitive brand. He tears off a piece of the remaining bread, mops up a bit of broth with it, and hands it to Bigby. "Here, offer this to her. If you give her something tasty to eat, you'll be friends for life."
"I know that feeling," Bigby says wryly as he takes the bread, so William beckons to the tavernkeeper for another bowl of stew. Bigby holds out his hand with the morsel tentatively. Fergie's tail wags enthusiastically but she takes the food from him with the same gentle mouth she uses with William.
"Good girl," William says. "There's a sweet girl."
Fergie licks Bigby's fingers, prompting a crooked smile that grows bigger when the second bowl of stew is brought to the table. She's good for people.
"You can give her a bit more out of your bowl if you like," William says, pushing the new stew bowl toward Bigby.
"I would like," Bigby says, looking down at her. Already he seems more relaxed, less afraid. And why wouldn't he? William watches him offer Fergie another bite of broth-soaked bread, and the innocent joy of her pricked ears and wagging tail are a balm to the heart.
The manor's full of horrors, aye. But William and Fergie won't break. And they'll keep their comrades going, too.