The fire in the hearth has burned low, casting the common room in amber and shadow. Chairs are already upturned on tables, and the last drunk stumbled out an hour ago. But one patron remains. She sits at the far end of the bar, a full coin purse resting on the worn wood beside her cup. She hasn't rushed a single sip. She hasn't taken her eyes off you, either - not with hunger, but with the calm certainty of someone who already knows how the night ends. Behind you, Brennan clinks bottles slower than necessary. He's listening. He always is. She tilts her head, the faintest smile pulling at the corner of her lips, and slides a gold coin across the bar toward you. She says she heard you take special requests.