King’s Fool Inn
The insignia on the slow-swinging sign that proclaimed the King’s Fool Inn was almost completely faded. The edges of the three-tipped hat were still glimmering where the paint had not chipped off, and looked fresh, the painted bells twinkling as if they rang.
The King’s Fool… how appropriate, Jack thought as he walked through the battered old doors. A bell sounded above his head, but he imagined he was the only one who could hear it—the tavern was alive with talk and jeer. The smell of hard alcohol, sweat, and smoke filled his nostrils. He could nearly taste it. It was exactly like all the other taverns Jack had stepped into in his search for 1783, a classic, picturesque inn with nothing remarkable about it at all…
Except.
Except that standing in the doorway of this particular tavern, Jack couldn’t help but feel like something wasn’t the same. There were the roguish older men, dirty children and barmaids, not paying him a bit of mind. Still. Something did not smell right. He couldn’t help but feel that there was something underneath this setting, something hidden by his senses, something that his mind could not touch. A familiar sense of paranoia gripped him. Something did not sound right. He couldn’t help but feel doubtful of what his senses were telling him—there was something in the back of his mind, nagging him, thinking softly something doesn’t feel right. He collapsed in a seat and ran his hands over the wooden table, tracing the cracks with one finger, wondering if what he saw was real, or if it was the smell or slight scrape vibrating through the tiny bones in his hand that was true; or maybe each one was true, each sense of table overlapping each other to create this real object. And why was it that when he thought table it was what he saw that he associated with the word instead of how it felt, and then with that logic of course why did he assume that everything he saw was real, when clearly the faint traces of purple lingering behind his eyes––
“Hi Jack.”
––Weren’t really there.
Jack jerked his head up, surprised to see Jess sitting on the table he was bent over. He blinked, looking up at her with confusion on his face and eyes that pleaded for an answer. What’s real?
She grinned. Everything.
“Jess, hi, am I late? I had a little trouble finding this place—nice hat by the way.”
She giggled, the bells on her jester hat jingling as she adjusted it.
Jack opened his mouth again, the words ready on his lips… but he paused. It paid to be paranoid in this city; it was probably what kept Jack safe even if he didn’t feel the security. But why here, why now did that feeling grip him? What the fuck just happened?
“Glad you could make it. Would you like something to drink before we move downstairs?”
“Sounds fine,” Jack said shakily.
Jess signaled to the bartender. In a moment, two mugs sat between them on the table, and Jack didn’t hesitate before taking a long drink.
“It’s much quieter up here,” Jess remarked. “But we’ll have plenty of time to talk.”
“Uhuh.” Jack wondered if they shared the same idea of what was quiet. Although the tavern was only half-full, the buzz of talk was all around.
“I suppose you’d like to know about the Resonance.”
Jess caught Jack’s eyes. He felt his stomach clench as she spoke that name. It was a name he had been chasing for months, ever since he first heard it whispered. And it was an idea that he had dreamed of for years— an organization of musicians, a musical safe-haven, an answer. Any answer.
“I want to know,” Jack mumbled, almost ashamed. “I want to know everything.”
“Oh Jack,” she said sweetly, draping one hand over his and squeezing it tight. Her hand felt like the realest thing in this whole room, realer, Jack thought, than him. His eyes flicked up to meet hers as she said, “You’ll see soon enough.”