THAT DAMN SHOE
Mary C. Moore
Copyright © 2012 Mary C. Moore
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means now known or to be invented, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Strands of smoke wafted through the dusky lantern-lit tavern. Loud conversation mingled with the clatter of dishes and the rumble of the self-playing piano in the corner. The smell of too many bodies pressed together made Clara’s nose twitch. She carried platters of food and mugs of beer high above her head, deftly avoiding the hands reaching for her backside and the scattered puddles of spilt beer on the floor. A drop of sticky sweat slid down her cleavage. Her hands were full, so there was nothing she could do, but let the droplet slide further underneath her corset, tickling her skin, until it soaked into the grimy material.
She hated working full moon nights.
Ferg, the bartender and owner of the tavern, winked at her, his arms-hands-fingers busy filling her next order. She scowled in return. Another rowdy group burst through the squat double doors at the entrance. They were scraggly-haired, blue-robed, and loud. Druids.