Barnabas had settled himself at the end of the bar of The Three Broomsticks, a dead-eyed stare at a spot somewhere near his dinner plate, and nursed a glass of whiskey. The plan for today had gone to shit. He'd forgotten his cravat in America. His morning had been a right mess. His visit to his ex-beloved's grave had not turned out how he'd thought it would, and now here he was, having dinner in an incredibly public place because at this point, he didn't even care if people knew he was in town. That ship had sailed the moment he'd ventured out of Mrs. Stewart's boarding house.

And still, his pounding headache hadn't gone away. He could really use some coffee. The thought of another day of running into people he knew, being judged, and dealing with the whole... mourning business... without any coffee sounded less enticing than scooping his eyeballs out with his spoon. (That was saying something–Barnabas was quite attached to his eyeballs.)

He'd already asked multiple times. But nothing could stop him for reaching for the sleeve of someone who had just stepped through the staff door nearby. "Are you absolutely certain you don't have any coffee?" He croaked.

Apollonia Honeycutt