Alistair's Coffeehouse was located in the ground floor of a large, semi-Victorian style house. The floor above housed a small art gallery and bookstore, and the top floors made up the residence of the owners. It was a nondescript building for the most part, nothing really stood out on it to make it much of a tourist attraction. The only strange thing about it was the architecture. But as for its appeal... most tourists headed for the chain coffee shop across the street with the flashy signs. But to the locals who inhabited the town and worked in the nearby city, Alistair's was the place to be. There was always the occasional tourist who caught sight of the small sign indicating something more than a house. However, normally you either grew up knowing of it or you were told about it by someone who had. Otherwise, you probably would not even realise it was there. Yet everyone who walked in fell in love with the place.

The Coffeehouse had a comfortable atmosphere and long hours. Students would converge there to study. Artists could be found painting or drawing in a corner (and their work was often displayed upstairs). Now and then there would be poetry readings or musicians livening up the place. But it was never too crowded. The dishes were colourful and though none of it matched, it all seemed to fit together. Seasonal flowers adorned the tables. Separating the front of the café from the back was an indoor hedge planted in large, mismatched pots. The owners always remembered you if you came in once before. A bit eccentric, much like the décor, they were kind people who always knew if a customer was troubled and took time to listen.

One of them stood at the counter, humming as she sliced a plum cake. It was around 11:15 and she and the other owners used this time to finish getting ready for the rest of the day. Jennifer was downstairs in the cellar where the larger kitchen was located, putting the finishing touches on a few deserts before they would be brought up to be put in the dessert case and baking bread. Breanne was busy upstairs putting together some new centrepieces with the flowers that had come in earlier. Sheryl was upstairs with her, matting and framing some new watercolours that had arrived over the weekend. The boys, as she fondly called them even though they were all in their late 20's or early 30's, were out running errands. At this time of the day, the Coffeehouse was rarely busy. They opened early in the morning, but people who came in before lunch either just wanted coffee or would sit out in the gazebo area or, if it was raining, in the Garden Room behind the hedge. They were the most spacious areas and the morning regulars liked the openness provided. The morning customers would get tables set up for them as they came in, and the rest of the café would be set up as the morning went on. It was all casual and laid back at Alistair's.

The sound of laughter drew her attention to the large bay window at the front of the house. There were three small tables in that space, plus the window seats that used the over-sized sill as a sort of counter. In the late afternoons and evenings, it was usually where the students would converge. It was a rather crowded space, but they did not mind sharing with each other, completely caught up in whatever it was they were doing. It was often the last place to be set up since Bree normally did her flower arranging there. Today, however, Bree did not want to leave Sheri without company upstairs and had taken all her things up there. So, Nell had put fresh tablecloths and table settings down in the window area as well. It was a good thing I did, she thought, regarding the young couple sitting at the table closest to the window. With no one else around, it was the most secluded spot in the Coffeehouse. When Katrin came in that morning, she seemed almost relieved that it was already available. Nell realized why when the young man came in. Introducing her friend as Bill, they ordered their drinks and went over to the sun-filled area. She put slices of plum cake on two plates, garnished them, and set the plates on the tray. Adding a sprinkle of cinnamon and a tiny sprig of mint to the foamy lattes, she set those next to the cakes. Taking it over to the two, she caught the tail end of what Bill was telling that seemed to have Katrin in stitches.

"My dad's curious fascination with M--, er, cultures drives my Mum crazy. She thought it endearing at first, that's why she agreed to our names, but it has become something of an obsession of his and kind of gets him in trouble." Bill said with a grin.

Katrin giggled. "So that's why they got shortened?"

"Well, no. It's more because she got tired of yelling our full names after us when we would get in trouble." Katrin started laughing even more. "Seriously. Imagine her running after us with a kitchen spoon yelling, 'Fitzwilliam, Charlemagne, Percival, Frederick, and Giorgione get back in here right now!' It's much easier for her to just use Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, and George. My youngest brother and my sister have it easier. They have been just Ronald and Ginerva, well, Ron and Ginny from birth."

"Oh my," Katrin shook her head, still chuckling, then looked up as a plate was set in front of her. "Oh! Thanks Aunt Nell. That was fast... but we didn't order any cake. We were thinking of having lunch here closer to noon."

"They're on the house, Katrin. One cannot have a vanilla latté without plum cake! Besides, dessert always tastes better when had before the main course."

Bill grinned, "Thank you, ma'am."

"Oh, it isn't a problem, and don't call me ma'am. Just Nell will do fine. I'm going downstairs for a moment to see if Jen needs any help. Just ring a bell if you need anything before I get back."

Katrin nodded. "Ok, Aunt Nell."

Nell smiled at them and headed down the stairs that were near the window section. Just wait until I tell the girls about this one. Her grin got even bigger and she started humming once again.

Bill watched her leave then turned back to Katrin, curiosity on his face. "Aunt Nell?" he asked before taking a bite of the cake. "Wow, this is good."

"Mmmhmm." Katrin agreed, finishing her own bite. "It should be good, it's Aunt Nell's grandmother's recipe. And she's not really my aunt. When I first came Abo--about the area, she helped me get settled. The whole crew of owners adopted me, I guess. They do that with any 'lost souls', as they call them. People who come around looking for something but not really sure what that something is or where to find it often end up here. One of them takes that person in and helps him or her figure out what to do next. That usually includes giving them jobs and a roof until they're ready to get out on their own two feet. They're actually the ones who got me into the Renaissance Faire scene, thinking the interacting with people would do me some good. I guess it did because I got hooked, and have been involved ever since. They're the nicest people."

"Oh." Bill took a sip of his latté and another bite of cake as he thought about that. "So who is Alistair?"

"A stray cat," came the answer from the stairwell. Nell came back into the room carrying a tray of baguettes. She smiled at them again. "Now do stop talking about us crazy owners and go back to discussing each other. I'm sure that is a much more interesting topic." She put the tray behind the counter then picked up a stack of tablecloths and went back behind the hedge. Bill blinked.

"I guess she likes you," Katrin told him as she looked at the entrance to The Garden Room, her fork frozen mid-air.

Bill ate another bite. "Well, I guess I won't beg for her disapproval by going against her orders." Katrin smiled at him. "But first, speaking of the Faire... let's go back to the Barrel of Shame, hm?" He grinned at her.

She laughed again. "Well, it's like this..."