The Ennui predator. “Where did she find these images?”

“On your planet’s holonet,” Nuan Ara said helpfully.

We didn’t have holonet. We had internet… Oh. “So, the esteemed grandmother would like a kitten that looks like Grumpy Cat?” I picked up my laptop, typed in the image search for Grumpy Cat, and showed him the picture.

“Yes!”

“I will see what I can do.”

“Wonderful!” Nuan Ara rose. “Many thanks. You have the promise of our generosity.”

I waited until he returned to his quarters and shut the door behind him. I would have to stop at a local shelter and possibly PetSmart. They had cats for adoption. Interesting how a sweet old grandmother would describe kittens as murderous beasts.

Sophie walked down the stairs and came to sit across from me. She wore soft black pants that flared at the bottom and a bright green tunic that was a cross between a hooded sweatshirt and a blouse. Her feet were bare. She was carrying her sword and her dark hair, previously arranged into a complicated knot, was pulled back into a pony tail.

“I like your floors,” she said, making small fists with her toes on the wooden boards.

“Thank you. Would you care for some tea?”

“Certainly.”

I went into the kitchen and fetched her a cup of green tea.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I restarted the recording. “Stop. Zoom.” Here it was, an emerald the size of a strawberry, the most beautiful intense green you could imagine. If Spring could cry, this would be its tear. That had to be the right emerald. “One quarter speed.”

“Did I scare you?” Sophie asked.

The emerald bounced off the floor in slow motion.

“You alarmed me. The safety of my guests is my first priority.”

“I’m not a psychopath,” Sophie said. “Nor am I psychotic.”

The emerald landed in the path of the other Nuan merchants.

“What’s the difference?” I asked.

“A psychotic suffers a break from reality, often accompanied by hallucinations and delusions. They are not aware of their own illness. I’m quite aware of my reality.”

One of the foxes kicked the emerald in passing, and the big jewel slid across the floor, spinning.

“A psychopath is unable to experience empathy. He can murder without remorse. His existence is free of guilt. His victim has no more significance to him than a used tissue he has discarded into a waste basket. I’m able to empathize. I feel guilt and sadness, and I am capable of acts of genuine kindness.”

She described it so clinically, almost as if talking about someone else.

“However, I am a serial killer.”

“Pause.”

I nudged the screen to the side and looked at her. She sat in my chair, her legs tucked under her. Her sword rested on the floor next to her.

“When I was younger, I experienced some of the worst things adults could do to a child,” she said. “It caused damage and I realize now that this damage is irreversible.”

“I’m sorry,” I said and meant it.

“I spent most of the last ten years at Ganer College, where the best mind-healers of my world tried to mend my scars. I’ve read countless books. I’ve undergone many therapies and meditations. Yet here we are.” She smiled. “There comes a point where you have to stop trying to repair yourself and accept the fact that you’re broken. George is right. I hate him for it, but he is right. Today was the first time I truly lived in over a year, if only for a few moments. I’ve decided that I would rather live for a few moments every few weeks than try to deny my nature.”

As long as her nature didn’t interfere with the safety of my guests, we would be just fine.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Dina. Murder doesn’t interest me. I am addicted to winning fights. I love it, the thrill of it, the rush of testing my skill against my opponent, the sharp finality of it, but I control my sword. My sword doesn’t control me.”

“I am not afraid of you,” I told her. “But if you attack a guest in my inn, I will contain you.”

“We understand each other then.”

“Yes, we do.”

My screen chimed. I reached to my left and flicked it. George’s face appeared on the screen. His damp blond hair fell on his shoulders, framing his elegant face. He was wearing some sort of light white robe… The man was ridiculously handsome. That’s all there was to it.

Something in Sophie’s cup must’ve been incredibly interesting, because she was studying it with cool detachment.

“What can I do for you, Arbiter?” I asked.

“George, please. There is no hot water in my bathroom.”

“Oh really?” You don’t say.

“Yes. In fact, it’s ice cold.” He raised a half-filled glass. Thin slivers of ice floated on its surface. “I drew this from the tap in my sink.”

“How unfortunate. When did this happen?”

“About two minutes ago. “

“While you were in the shower?”

“Yes.”

“My apologies. I will get right on that.”

George squinted at me, his face thoughtful, and waved the call off.

Sophie leaned back and laughed. “You really love those trees.”

I restarted the recording. “When I came here, Gertrude Hunt lay dormant. The inn hadn’t been active for years. Without visitors it slowly starved and fell into a deep death-like sleep. I was told it would be so, but I didn’t realize what that actually meant.”

The memories of that day surfaced and took over, bringing with it a sharp intense dread.

“It was an overcast spring day. The yard was an overgrown tangle of brush that looked like it hadn’t been looked after for years, all old leaves and dead grass, and in the middle of this mess sat a ruin of a house with rotting siding and dark windows. I felt no magic. No presence. There are not many dormant inns left. This was my only chance at becoming an innkeeper. If I couldn’t awaken Gertrude Hunt, I would have to grow a new inn from the seed and that takes years. I was so terrified that the inn was dead, that I couldn’t bring myself to go inside the house, so I picked my way around the house to the back and then I saw the trees. There were twenty of them, and all of them were blooming with these delicate white flowers with a gentle touch of pink. That’s when I realized that the inn was still alive.”