Olazábal straightened himself and removed his wine-and-grime-stained apron. “Well, well,” he said, one hand wiping at a particularly stubborn table top stain for the umpteenth time. “It seems our young stranger has a real appreciation for the old ways.”
For the briefest of moments, the old woman stopped and turned to look at Ramuntxo, but quickly turned back to playing with her tiny, glowing patterns of lights, all that was left of her old magic.
Ramuntxo kept quiet, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead.
“I think,” the barkeeper picked up a pipe that obediently lighted itself with an orange flame, and took a few quick puffs. “I get the message. You had an unhappy childhood and the only person you truly loved had been taken from you far too soon.”
Ramuntxo’s intelligent eyes d
