The Luck Uglies by Paul Durham

happier. A huge black shark roasted on a spit over the stone fireplace. Its jaws, filled with sharp teeth, were wide enough to fit a person inside. Every now and then a barmaid would cut off a piece, slap it on a plate, and deliver it to a hungry patron. With each cut the juices of the shark dripped into the fire, sending flames shooting into the air, and everyone would cheer.
    â€œCome on,” Folly said, and they took the stairs down to the second floor.
    The second floor was busier than the third. Guests made their way in and out of their rooms, some disappearing behind latched doors. Over the noise of the crowd, Rye could hear music. There were drums, maybe a lute. Rye was spellbound by the festivities. She crossed her legs and leaned her head against the railing, soaking in the sights and sounds.
    The Dead Fish drew an unusual crowd. Unlike most villagers, these people looked like they had been places and done things. Gambling was everywhere—drinkers wagered on who could empty their mugs the fastest, or who might fit the most spiders in his mouth. A card game heated up at a table in the corner. A man with slicked-back hair and a small black monkey on his shoulder seemed to be doing most of the winning. The monkey shuffled the cards and collected the bronze bits after every hand the man won. At one point someone accused the monkey of cheating. Insults were traded. Someone got bitten.
    Folly’s father, Fletcher, poured behind the main bar, which made him the most popular person at the inn. His hands never stopped working and his gap-toothed smile never left his face. He strung grommets, shims, and bits on the leather coin belt around his waist as quickly as the customers dropped them on the bar. On the shelf behind him, the bottom chamber of a tall hourglass slowly filled with black sand. Rye had never seen anything quite like it. On what kind of beach could you find black sand?
    If Fletcher Flood was the most popular person at the Dead Fish, it seemed to Rye that the man at the Mermaid’s Nook wasn’t far behind. The Mermaid’s Nook was the best table in the house. It was the closest to the main fireplace and it sat higher than the others in a semi-private corner with a view of the entire inn. Folly told Rye it was her favorite on account of the beautiful, life-size mermaid carved into the wooden table top.
    The man at the Mermaid’s Nook had a short, stubbly beard flecked with gray, and dark hair that was long but not unkempt. His nose, though bent, seemed at home between his cheeks. He had more than a few scars. Several ran through his eyebrows and another across his throat. His eyes flashed with delight—or was it wariness? Rye’s eyes followed the man’s as they scanned the inn, seeming to take inventory of everything in it. His eyes found Rye’s, and she looked away until she felt them move on.
    The woman at his table had her back to Rye. Her dress, the color of fresh cranberries, showed off her soft, white shoulders. Rye watched as every few minutes someone would stop at the Mermaid’s Nook to greet the man and his companion. Visitors would shake his hand, heartily slap his back, or almost timidly touch his shoulder. When he waved or reached to say hello, Rye could see the green tattoos that began above the leather bracelets crisscrossing his wrists. They snaked their way up his forearms and disappeared beneath his sleeves. His silver rings and the chains around his neck glinted when they caught the light. He seemed apologetic after each visitor left, and he would lean forward and whisper something to the woman at the table.
    â€œFolly, there you are,” said a voice. “Oh. Hello, Rye.”
    It was Fifer Flood, the nicest of Folly’s brothers.
    â€œHi, Fifer,” Rye said.
    Fifer was thirteen and, for some reason, Rye always found herself blushing when he was around.
    â€œFolly, be a love and bring these down to Mum, would you?” Fifer asked. He