Page 9

Chapter 8

I woke to the warm weight of Maeve curled against my side, her fingers tangled in the fabric of my tunic. My head ached, my eyes felt swollen, and the room was bright—dawn long past. I had slept too late.

It took a moment for the previous night to come crashing back. The word smeared on the wall. The shattered ink jar. The way my control had splintered, leaving me shaking in Kazrek’s arms. Heat crawled up my neck, staining my cheeks. I’d cried. Broken down like some… some weak, helpless thing. And he had seen it all. He'd seen me break. Not just fraying at the edges, not just holding myself together with spit and stubbornness—break.

I had let him hold me.

We hadn’t spoken much after that. He’d simply taken the rag from my numb fingers and started cleaning, his movements methodical and precise. I’d helped, too, driven by a desperate need to do something, anything, to erase the mess and the memory of my weakness. We’d worked in silence, the only sounds the scrape of the rag against wood and the clink of glass shards as we swept them into a dustpan.

By the time the shop was somewhat presentable, it was late. Exhaustion had settled deep in my bones, leaving me shaky and hollowed out. I’d mumbled a barely coherent goodnight, stumbled up the stairs, and collapsed into bed. I hadn't even properly thanked him.

I pressed my hands against my face.

This has to stop.

No one stayed forever.

Not when things got hard. Not when there was nothing left to fix.

Kazrek had helped—again—because that was the kind of man he was. But after last night? After seeing me at my lowest, unraveling like a frayed spool of thread?

Surely, that had been enough to make him walk away.

A part of me was almost relieved. If he didn’t come back, I wouldn’t have to face him. Wouldn’t have to see whatever had changed in his expression after watching me collapse beneath the weight of it all.

Wouldn’t have to wonder if he pitied me.

I sighed and scrubbed a hand over my face, willing the throbbing ache in my skull to quiet. I needed to get up, check the shop, and pick up whatever pieces were left. I needed to figure out—

A voice.

Deep. Steady. Familiar.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat.

The sound drifted up from downstairs—low and rumbling, punctuated by the softer lilt of someone else speaking. I couldn’t make out the words, but I knew that voice.

Kazrek.

My stomach flipped. No. He wouldn't still be here. He couldn’t be.

And yet—another murmur. A rustle of movement.

The floor was cool beneath my bare feet as I pushed myself upright, careful not to disturb Maeve. She sighed in her sleep, nestling deeper into the blankets.

Then, heart hammering, I made my way downstairs.

Kazrek stood near the counter, broad shoulders relaxed, hands resting on the worn wood. He looked like he belonged there—solid, steady, as if this were just another morning, as if last night hadn’t left me unraveling in his arms.

But he wasn’t alone.

Perched on a stool behind the counter, small enough that her feet dangled several inches above the floor, was a tiny woman with a cloud of gray curls and eyes as sharp as chipped obsidian.

Kazrek looked up as I descended. “Rowena.” He inclined his head toward the woman beside him. “This is Auntie Brindle.”

The woman—Auntie Brindle—looked me over with a frankness that bordered on rude. Her gaze lingered on the dark circles under my eyes, the faint smudges of ink still clinging to my fingertips, the way my hand still gripped the banister as if I needed the support.

Then, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "You look like you could use a cup of strong tea and a good night’s sleep.”

Heat crept up my neck. I opened my mouth to retort, to tell her it was none of her business, but the words caught in my throat. Because she was right. I did.

Kazrek cleared his throat. “Auntie Brindle has a bit of magic herself,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “And she’s been looking for a place to settle since her last youngling moved on.”

My gaze flicked between them, confusion warring with suspicion. "Settle?"

Auntie Brindle took a long sip from her mug, her eyes twinkling. "Brownies have their uses, you know. Especially around children with a spark. A bit of guidance, a touch of wisdom, a steady hand to keep things from going… boom.” She winked, and the air around her shimmered for just a moment.

It took me a moment to process what she was implying. "You mean… teach Maeve?"

Kazrek’s voice was quiet but firm. "Guide her the way she deserves. The way the Guild won’t."

Something in his tone made me look at him. There was no anger, no bitterness—just certainty, as if he had long since accepted a truth I was only beginning to understand.

"You—" I hesitated, piecing it together. "They didn’t help you either."

"Never had the right name. The right training. The right blood." A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Didn’t come up through their ranks, didn’t study their way, so they had no use for me. The people who needed me weren’t the ones who could pay Guild fees or sit in waiting rooms. So I found another way.”

I thought of how his clinic wasn’t on the main thoroughfare, of the way he never seemed to expect thanks. Of how he took in the ones no one else would.

And now, he had brought that same quiet defiance here—to Maeve, to me.

Auntie Brindle made a pleased little hum, as if she’d been waiting for me to catch up. She set her mug down with a decisive clink. "Teach implies forcing something. Magic is like a wildflower—needs tending, not taming."

The words resonated with a truth I hadn't dared to acknowledge yet, because maybe I’d been looking at it all wrong. Maybe it wasn’t about control. Maybe it wasn’t about stopping it before it slipped loose. Maybe what Maeve needed wasn’t a leash, but room to grow.

“I… I don’t know,” I stammered, the words feeling inadequate. “I don’t have much to offer.” My gaze drifted to the still-visible stain on the wall, a reminder of last night's chaos. “Things are… complicated.”

Auntie Brindle snorted. "Complicated is a Tuesday. Now sit down, dear, before you fall. You're swaying like a willow in a windstorm.” She gestured to a nearby stool. “Kazrek tells me you make a decent cup of tea. Let’s have a chat, shall we?"

I hesitated, the ingrained habit of self-reliance warring with the bone-deep weariness that clung to me like a second skin. I didn’t take charity. I didn't ask for help. I fixed things myself.

But the memory of last night’s breakdown, of the fear that had tightened its grip around my chest, was still too fresh. Too raw.

I swallowed, my throat tight. "The tea is upstairs."

Auntie Brindle’s smile widened, revealing a flash of surprisingly sharp teeth. "Then lead the way, dearie. And tell me what you need."

Three hours.

That was how long it took for Maeve to fall absolutely, irrevocably in love with Auntie Brindle.

Three hours of watching with wide, shining eyes as the tiny woman wove small, harmless enchantments into the air—braiding the golden wisps of her own magic into a string that danced like a living thing before vanishing in a soft pop. Three hours of listening, enraptured, as Auntie Brindle told stories about brownies who had guided great mages and heroes, all while expertly repairing a torn seam in Maeve’s tunic with nothing but a flick of her fingers and a satisfied hum.

And now, Maeve sat on the floor of the shop, utterly captivated, hanging onto Auntie Brindle’s every word as the old brownie guided her through a simple focus exercise—cupping her small hands together and coaxing a tiny, flickering wisp of golden light to bloom between her palms.

It was the calmest I had seen Maeve in weeks.

She wasn’t fighting her magic. She wasn’t afraid of it.

She was playing with it.

I had expected to feel relief. Or maybe wariness. Instead, something deeper settled in my chest. Something that felt uncomfortably close to gratitude.

Edwin chuckled, bringing my attention back to him as he tucked a bundle of freshly wrapped indigo into his satchel. “Well, now,” he mused, watching Maeve with an appraising eye. “She seems to be doing well.”

“She is,” I murmured, the words feeling strange on my tongue. True, but strange.

He gave a satisfied hum, adjusting the strap of his satchel over his shoulder. “Good ground,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s all a young one needs. A place to root and the right hands to guide her.” He glanced at me, eyes crinkling with quiet approval. “Looks like she has both now.”

I swallowed, caught off guard by the warmth behind his words. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I only nodded gratefully as he made his way to the door.

The door chimed again just as Mister Edwin stepped out, and my heart stumbled in my chest. Kazrek filled the doorframe, broad shoulders blocking the late afternoon light. He still wore the same loose tunic from this morning, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms, but his hair was damp, as if he’d just washed up.

And in one hand, he held a basket.

"Kazrek!" Maeve's delighted shriek broke through my stunned silence. The wisp of light she'd been practicing with winked out as she scrambled to her feet.

" Zuzu’rak ," he rumbled, a rare smile softening his features. His gaze shifted to me, and something in his eyes made my chest tight. "Rowena."

"I thought you..." The words tangled on my tongue. Had gone. Left. Realized this was too much . "...had patients," I finished lamely.

He set the basket on the counter between us. "I did." His voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "Now I'm back."

Maeve launched herself at Kazrek's legs, wrapping her small arms around his knees with enough force to make a lesser man stumble. But Kazrek merely chuckled—a deep, warm sound that seemed to come from somewhere in his chest—and scooped her up as easily as if she weighed nothing at all.

"What's zoo-zoor-ack mean?" Maeve asked, her face scrunched in concentration as she tried to pronounce the unfamiliar word.

" Zuzu'rak ," Kazrek corrected gently, the orcish syllables rolling off his tongue like music. "It means 'little spark' in my language." His eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked at her. "Because that's what you are—a bright little spark."

Maeve's face lit up with pure delight. "I'm zuzu'rak !" she declared proudly, though her pronunciation was still charmingly mangled. Her attention quickly shifted to the basket sitting on the counter. "What's in there? Is it treats?"

Kazrek's eyes flickered to mine for a moment, and I could have sworn I saw a hint of color darken his cheeks beneath the green. "Ah. It's... lunch. For Ro."

"For Ro?" Maeve's bottom lip jutted out in an impressive pout. "What about me?"

Before I could intervene, Auntie Brindle's cheerful voice cut through the tension. "Now then, I thought you and I were going to make honey cakes for lunch? With the special sparkle-sugar on top?"

Maeve's eyes went wide. "Sparkle-sugar?" She wiggled in Kazrek's arms until he set her down, then bounded over to Auntie Brindle. "Can we make them now? Please?"

"Of course, dearie." Auntie Brindle's eyes twinkled as she took Maeve's hand. "Let's leave these two to their lunch, shall we? And if lunch happens to take them to the riverside for a nice relaxing afternoon in the sun... Well, I don't see any problem with that."

I stared at the basket, realization dawning slowly. "I can't just—" I gestured helplessly at the shop, at the ledgers that needed balancing, at the orders waiting to be filled. "There's too much to do."

Kazrek's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened. "The work will still be here in a few hours."

"That's exactly the problem," I muttered, but the words lacked their usual edge.

"Go," Auntie Brindle called over her shoulder. "The shop won't burn down while you're gone. Though..." She paused, considering. "Perhaps best not to tempt fate by saying that too loudly, given recent events."

I opened my mouth to protest again, but the words died in my throat as I looked at Kazrek. He was waiting, patient and steady, holding the basket in those strong hands that had helped clean up my mess last night. Hands that had held me when I broke.

He'd stayed.

He'd come back.

He'd done this—whatever this was—for me.

The realization hit like a physical thing, stealing my breath. When was the last time someone had done something just for me?

"I..." I swallowed hard. "I should at least change first."

Kazrek inclined his head, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Take your time."

I climbed the stairs on unsteady legs. My tunic was smudged with ink, my sleeves wrinkled from sleep, and I didn’t need a mirror to know my face was still drawn from the weight of everything that had happened. I should have felt foolish for caring—but I did.

So I washed up quickly, running cool water over my face, brushing my fingers through the worst of the tangles in my hair. I changed into a soft, deep green dress—not fancy, but clean, simple, the kind of thing I would have worn to the market when I still had the energy to care about such things. When I wasn’t just surviving. The dress skimmed my hips, snug in places it hadn’t been a year ago. I told myself it didn’t matter—but still, I checked the mirror twice before going downstairs.

Kazrek waited just outside the shop, the basket still in hand. His eyes flicked over me, slow, assessing, before he gave a small nod of approval.

Something warm uncurled low in my stomach.

He turned toward the path leading away from the shop, away from the city’s usual noise, and I fell into step beside him. We walked in silence, the easy kind that didn't demand to be filled.

Then, as we passed beyond the last row of buildings and into the quiet shade of the trees, he shifted—just enough that his fingers brushed against mine.

I hesitated.

Then, before I could think better of it, I let my hand slip into his. His fingers curled around mine, warm, solid, and I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I was stepping off the edge.

But maybe, this time, I could let myself fall.