Page 32

Part I

I t wasn’t even the tenth morning bell, and already, Maeve was glowing.

Light shimmered at the edge of the shelves—gold threaded with something new now, something soft and wild, like sunlight through leaves. It danced across the jars and paper bundles in warm, quiet pulses.

I wiped my hands on a cloth and turned toward the front counter. “Maeve Byrne,” I said, arching an eyebrow. “What did I say about glowing?”

Maeve, perched cross-legged on the stool behind the counter, didn’t look the least bit repentant. She grinned, palms cupped together, light flickering between her fingers like a captured star.

“You said not to blind the customers,” she replied. “But Mister Edwin said it helps his eyesight.”

“That I did,” came a voice from the front corner of the shop.

Mister Edwin sat patiently on the old wooden bench near the window, one sleeve rolled up and a crooked cane leaning beside him. He lifted his hand—gnarled and stiff with age—and waved it half-heartedly in Maeve’s direction. “Bit of light does wonders for these old bones.”

“You know what else does wonders?” I called, stepping around the counter. “A spoonful of Kazrek’s joint tonic, which I’m guessing is why you’re really here.”

He chuckled, the sound low and sheepish. “Well. That, and your walnut ironroot ink. Letters’ve been coming out sharp enough to impress my grandson, and he thinks everything before steam-presses is ancient.”

I sighed and shook my head, but the smile tugged at my mouth before I could stop it. “I’m nearly finished mixing it. But as for Kazrek, I'm not sure when he'll be back."

"Ro! The lavender's turned!" Maeve's voice carried from the back room, followed by the clatter of what sounded like several jars hitting the floor at once. "Don't worry! I've got it!"

I paused, pestle hovering mid-grind. There was a time I would have rushed back there immediately, certain disaster was unfolding. Now, I found myself smiling.

"Use the bronze tongs, not the wooden ones," I called back. "And mind the—"

"I KNOW!" she shouted, indignant. "I'm seven, not a baby."

More clattering. A small crash. Then triumphant: "Got it!"

Behind me, the hinges of the shop door creaked in that specific way they always did when someone was trying to be quiet and failing. I didn't turn around.

"If you're trying to sneak up on me, you need to oil that door first," I said, resuming my grinding.

A familiar grunt answered me. "Been meaning to."

I glanced over my shoulder to find Kazrek standing there, arms laden with supplies—fresh bandages, herbs from the market, a small clay pot that smelled like one of Grok's roasts. His hair was pulled back in a short tail, revealing the strong line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his tusks.

Even after all this time, the sight of him sent a bubble of warmth through my chest. Just a few years ago, I didn't believe in things like this. Not really. Not for me. But then Kazrek arrived, and Maeve glowed, and I broke—

Not apart.

Open.

"You were gone all night," I said.

He set his burdens down on the counter and moved behind me, his hands coming to rest on my hips. I leaned back into the solid warmth of his chest without thinking—a habit formed over countless mornings just like this one.

He pressed a kiss to the side of my neck, just below my ear. “Vorgath’s youngest decided to arrive early.”

I turned to glance up at him. “Everyone alright?”

“She’s fine.” His voice held that worn edge of fatigue—too many hours and not enough rest—but underneath it, I could hear the satisfaction. The quiet pride. “Loud. Healthy. Strong grip for someone five minutes old.”

I smiled. “And Soraya?”

Kazrek huffed a low sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Swore at him in three languages.”

“Let me guess—something about never doing this again?”

“And about the size of orc babies,” he added dryly.

I snorted. “She knew what she was signing up for.”

“She says no one warned her properly.” He tilted his head, that rare ghost of a smile flickering across his mouth. “Wants to write a pamphlet.”

I laughed. “I’d read it.”

Kazrek stepped away just long enough to pull a small jar from the satchel he'd set down—a thick, dark salve that smelled faintly of pine and something peppery. He handed it to me with a nod.

“For Mister Edwin,” he said simply.

I crossed back to the front and passed both the salve and the freshly prepared ink to the old man, who’d risen slowly from the bench.

“Apply it morning and night,” I said, placing the jar gently in his hand. “Don’t skip, or you’ll start creaking again.”

“And use the ink before it dries,” Kazrek added from behind me, voice dry.

Edwin’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve lived this long creaky and dry, but I’ll do my best.” He tucked both into the worn satchel slung over his shoulder, adjusted his cane, and gave us each a nod. “You two make a good pair. Glad you figured it out.”

Kazrek only grunted, but there was a faint warmth in it.

The door swung shut behind Edwin with a quiet click. I had just turned back toward the counter when it opened again, and an elderly gnome shuffled in, leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick. Her white hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she wore at least three shawls despite the warming spring air.

"Young man!" she called, squinting up at Kazrek. "My knees are speaking to me again, and they're not being polite about it!"

Kazrek straightened, turning toward her with practiced patience. "Morning, Mistress Twigg. Sit down, and I'll see what I can do."

The gnome ignored him completely and hobbled over to my workbench instead, peering at the blue pigment I'd been grinding with sharp, critical eyes. "Hm. Ultramarine? No, no. You want lapis for that. Deeper blue. Lasts longer on parchment."

I bit back a smile. "Thank you, Mistress Twigg. I'll keep that in mind."

She jabbed a finger toward the wall of ink pots. "And you're storing them all wrong. The west-facing shelf gets too much sun. Fades the colors."

"I've told her the same thing," Kazrek said mildly, guiding the gnome toward the small examination area we'd set up in the corner. It wasn't much—just a cushioned chair, a footstool, and a rolling cart of bandages and salves. But it served its purpose.

"See!" Mistress Twigg exclaimed. "Even the orc knows better, and he's only been in the ink business—what, two years?"

"Three," I corrected automatically.

Kazrek knelt before the gnome, gently examining her swollen knees with careful hands. I turned back to my workbench, trying to focus on the ink I was mixing. But my eyes kept wandering to him—to the steady movements of his fingers, the gentle way he spoke to his patient, the quiet confidence that came from knowing exactly what he was doing.

Auntie Brindle appeared in the doorway next, her tiny form practically vibrating with energy despite her advanced years. She carried a leather-bound notebook nearly as large as herself, the pages spilling over with pressed herbs and scribbled notations.

"Rowena, dear, you're out of feverfew again. And moonroot. And—"

"Is that Brindle?" Mistress Twigg interrupted. "Brindle, you old troublemaker! You still running that book club that's just an excuse to drink elderberry wine and gossip?"

"Of course I am," Brindle replied with dignity. "Though we do occasionally discuss books. Last week it was 'Proper Techniques for Herb Preservation,' which I found lacking in both practical advice and narrative tension."

I looked around at the chaos filling my once-quiet shop. Maeve was giggling quietly as motes of golden magic orbited her like dust in sunlight. Brindle and Mistress Twigg were engaged in a spirited debate about the merits of various tinctures for joint pain, their voices rising in competitive volume. Kazrek had moved on to fix the squeaky cabinet hinge, pausing occasionally to interject a calm fact into the brewing argument.

And hanging on the wall behind the counter was a map—marks placed in ink across the expanse of Alderwilde. Not plans for leaving, but dreams for someday. Places we might see, things we might do. Together.

The shop was too small for all of this life. Too cramped for these voices, these bodies, these dreams that kept expanding beyond the walls.

And yet, somehow, it held us all.

Brindle's voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and decisive. "Come along, May. Let's go to the riverside and steal some of those sticky buns from the market. The ones with cinnamon."

"We're buying them, not stealing them," I corrected automatically.

Brindle waved a dismissive hand. "Semantics. Maeve, get your shawl. It's still brisk by the water."

"Can I bring back rocks for my collection?" Maeve asked.

"Only the shiniest ones," Brindle agreed. "No more than you can carry. And none that speak, mind you. We learned our lesson last time."

I opened my mouth to ask for clarification on that alarming statement, but Maeve was already racing toward the door, Brindle following at a surprisingly quick pace for someone her size.

"We're going on an adventure!" Maeve announced dramatically. "If we don't return by sundown, tell the Guild Mages we were brave!"

"Be back for dinner," I called after her.

"What she said," Kazrek added, not looking up from the hinge.

Mistress Twigg rose from her seat with a satisfied grunt. "That salve is already working better than the last one. You've got a talent, boy."

Kazrek inclined his head in thanks.

"Still terrible with shelving, though," she added, shuffling toward the door. "Good day to you all."

Quiet descended on the shop, sudden and complete. I turned back to my workbench, expecting to resume my grinding. Instead, I heard the distinct sound of a lock clicking into place.

I looked up to find Kazrek standing at the door, one hand still on the latch, his gaze fixed on me.

"Did you just lock the shop?" I asked. "It's barely noon."

He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping just before me. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him through my dress.

"Maeve's gone for hours," he said, voice low. "No patients. No customers." His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my face, his touch lingering. "First time we've been alone in days."

I raised an eyebrow. "I do have work to finish."

"Mm." His thumb traced the curve of my jaw. "So do I."

And then his mouth was on mine, warm and insistent, and the pestle slipped from my fingers, forgotten.