Chapter 92 Certainly Not an Epilogue. Nope!

My ingredients lay scattered in front of me. I had maybe an hour until service started to figure out this special cocktail for The Good Inn. Less than that, actually, since I still had nearly an hour of prep to do.

But I was a pro. It shouldn’t be too hard to come up with a solid cocktail in five minutes…

And with the weight of emotional pressure weighing the situation.

The familiar light pattern of rain sounded against the windows. A gust of bracing coastal air rushed in. I could practically taste the salt on my tongue as it traveled through my nose. The familiarity of it—the climate, the scent—eased something in me, and despite the coolness, tension left my body.

My hands moved by rote. They set out my mise en place, putting almost everything I needed easily within reach. One minute down.

Instinctively, I reached for a dark rum behind me on the shelf. One of the islands down south, far enough off the coast that you could barely see it through a telescope on a clear day. I still hadn’t memorized the names or anything.

Then orgeat to add depth and complexity. Also, I needed to use it up.

My hand hovered over the citrus, ready to make something bright, fun, and fruity—but I paused.

Citrus would make the drink playful. We needed something more somber. Something stately and refined.

I slowly drew away, fighting against instinct. There’d be another way to balance the cocktail.

Two minutes.

Adjusting my strategy, I snagged a second rum. The first rum—the dark rum—was lower proof, I knew. It carried a hint of sweetness already. But I needed something with bite if this drink was going to stand up to the syrup on its own. I pulled a high-proof light rum from the bottom shelf. Again, the name of the island didn’t matter much. All I knew was that it put navy strength rum against the ropes and added hair to my chest.

Then, just because more flavor is more better, I snagged some bitters. Intellectually, I knew a single dash would be enough. Emotionally, I knew I’d add two.

Measuring things out, I put about an ounce of each rum into my mixing glass, followed by a little less than half an ounce of syrup. Finally, I dashed in bitters until the whole thing was cloudy and dark.

I stirred, strained into a coupe, and garnished with a peel of orange after expressing the oils over top.

Four minutes.

It looked familiar.

Had I just reinvented the Japanese cocktail?

Not exactly.

But it was close. It needed a name. Seaport was already taken by the Seaport Mule, and a good name never requires disambiguation from something else entirely. Yet it needed a sense of place and locality.

It would come to me.

I took a sip. The richness of the dark rum contrasted beautifully with the aggressive, sharp bite of the younger rum. The almond added a respectable depth to the flavor, bringing warmth to the baking spices. And the bitters did what bitters do best—added complexity where things might otherwise feel too one-note.

It was phenomenal. Sweet without being cloying, spirit-forward without being overbearing. What better way to celebrate The Good Inn being rebuilt from the ashes than by resurrecting a little-known classic in a new world?

I took another sip and frowned when I put down my glass.

The thing was halfway finished already.

This drink could be trouble.

Without thinking about it—just for quality control, I was sure—I began building a second in the shadow of the first.

Besides, a second drink never hurt. It was the ones after it that made their mark. And I could just prep faster. No need to count the minutes.

This was to make sure I had things right. Dial down the sweetness, play with the rum ratios, adjust the garnish. That sort of thing.

My writing professor always said that editing and revision were the most important steps of writing. That if you spent all day revising a single sentence fifty times, taking out a comma and putting it back in, that was still writing. He claimed that sentence was fifty times better just for having been considered that deeply.

And if I needed to build this cocktail fifty times, adjusting rum ratios slightly with each iteration just to arrive back at a 50-50 split?

Well, not all heroes write books.

Just as I began stirring the second cocktail, the front door opened. Lady Talia walked in, looking tired but triumphant. Immediately, her eyes locked on mine, and she crossed the room with long, purposeful strides.

"I was hoping I'd find you here."

"Why? Needed a drink?"

"That's not at all why I came here. That's not what I was looking for." Her attention flicked over to my cocktail, still being stirred. "But yes. I could probably use a tipple."

I slid the first coupe over to her. "Maybe you can help me. I'm working on a recipe. Want to compare between these two?"

"Were you drinking out of this cup?"

"Yes."

She paused for a second, then shrugged halfheartedly. "Okay."

She tasted it as I strained the second cocktail. She nodded slowly, then smacked her lips lightly. "A bit sweet."

"That's what I was thinking. Here. Now try this."

She took the new cocktail, sipped, and allowed a small smile to brighten her features. "What did you change? Less sugar?"

"Cut the syrup almost in half, and did a five-to-three ratio of young rum to dark rum."

"I like this one better, but I think it's missing the complexity of the first one." She handed it back, letting the coupe slide across the wooden bar top with an earthy scraping sound. "Am I crazy to think that?"

"Let's find out." I took a sip. Her analysis was spot-on. "Yeah, it's closer, but not quite there. Still gotta play around with it. Want to help?"

She glanced back at the door, which had remained slightly ajar, not having closed all the way. Another breeze rolled through, pushing it in an inch, then nearly closing it again with a light clatter.

The hearth—unused for days—suddenly looked tempting. Seaport was cooling down quickly. Soon, it would be sweater weather and damp as ever.

It would be nice to have a fire in the room once again that comforted rather than threatened. I made a mental note to get the flames rolling as soon as Lady Talia and I were settled in.

"I'd love to help, but you'll have to promise me we'll stay sharp. My thing can wait, but not for long."

"And you'll want to be sober for it?"

"Absolutely." She looked over both shoulders, making sure nobody else was nearby. "The Dreaded Pirate Robertson is in the infirmary. He's in bad shape, fluttering in and out of consciousness. I figure the best time to get answers from him is while he's in this weakened state."

My breath caught in my chest. As if I needed another reminder of the stakes looming over our heads.

I needed to rebuild and run a second inn. There was some kind of merfolk conspiracy unfolding just off the coast. And oh yeah, the Black Ship Raiders were involved.

Back on Earth, my biggest worries had been managing a growing drinking problem and losing a few pounds. Here, I'd finally cut back, dropped at least a full pants size, and found a loving, supportive relationship—and yet things were crazier than ever.

"Yep. That makes total sense. How long till he’s awake enough to question?”

Lady Talia sipped her drink, closed her eyes, and let a beat pass. “Could be within the hour. Or, according to Nurse Heddingfield, it could be a few days.”

“Well, I’m with you. Let's interrogate this guy, full send."

"Full send?"

"Never mind. It just means I'm all in."

She smiled and reached for one of the drinks. "I'm glad to hear it. I know I shouldn't have gotten ahead of myself, but I was counting on you. I just figured... I figured you wouldn't let me down."

Say what you will for raw talent. Dependability was the best ability for any bartender to have.

"I can promise you that I’ll always do my best."

Lady Talia stuck her pinky out as she held the coupe delicately. Then she swigged it, downing the rest in one go, and let out an exaggerated, "Ahhh!"

She put the glass down, slid it back across to me, and heaved a satisfied breath. "Another!"

I started building a third. Ten minutes was fine. I’d finished prep after service started before.

"So, got any tips on how to interrogate a guy?"

She smirked. "Oh, you know. The usual. But I think we have an advantage if we want to use it."

"What's that?"

"I almost hate to ask, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but..." She curled her lips and the pause grew increasingly dramatic with each beat. "Do you think Shivai would be willing to join? We could really use her. It’s time to get to the bottom of this conspiracy with the merfolk and the pirates."