19th December, 1891 — The Three Broomsticks
Barnaby had overcome his hatred of all such taverns as this – well, he was still loath to go anywhere near the Hog’s Head, filthy pigsty that it was – because the holidays were come and the pub was bursting with good cheer, and Barnaby might not be able to feel the cold of the snowy out-of-doors, but he could suffer the distinct sting of that old foe, the Feare Of Myssinge Oute.
And ‘twas nearly Christmas, so he was feeling generous and charitable and some remnant of his former self, given to good cheer and abandoned revelry – so Barnaby had produced himself as a particular carol-singer one evening, for those very fortunate patrons of the Three Broomsticks tonight. (He did not know what the owner of the place made of it, but he had not paused to take no for an answer – and they could not exactly slam the door in his face.)
Ghostly lute in hand, Barnaby drifted to and fro up by the rafters of the inn, regaling the revellers with a long medley of Christmas carols (some which had fallen a few centuries out of style, mayhaps, but the sentiment remained). As the peasants of the place had drunk a little more, Barnaby felt as though their patience might be waning – so he took a strategic pause, letting the silence swell and instead drifting down towards a table where someone was tucking into an evening meal. Barnaby, now half-immersed in the table, stared longingly down at the food for a protracted moment. “How is the fare here?” He quizzed, of the meal-eater. “Much to your liking?”
And ‘twas nearly Christmas, so he was feeling generous and charitable and some remnant of his former self, given to good cheer and abandoned revelry – so Barnaby had produced himself as a particular carol-singer one evening, for those very fortunate patrons of the Three Broomsticks tonight. (He did not know what the owner of the place made of it, but he had not paused to take no for an answer – and they could not exactly slam the door in his face.)
Ghostly lute in hand, Barnaby drifted to and fro up by the rafters of the inn, regaling the revellers with a long medley of Christmas carols (some which had fallen a few centuries out of style, mayhaps, but the sentiment remained). As the peasants of the place had drunk a little more, Barnaby felt as though their patience might be waning – so he took a strategic pause, letting the silence swell and instead drifting down towards a table where someone was tucking into an evening meal. Barnaby, now half-immersed in the table, stared longingly down at the food for a protracted moment. “How is the fare here?” He quizzed, of the meal-eater. “Much to your liking?”
