Page 4 of Hiss and Tell (Harmony Glen #2)

Chapter Four

S ebastian

The library feels hollow after they leave. My snakes droop slightly, sharing my distress, and Evangeline—the most empathetic of them—nuzzles against my ear in comfort. The children’s section gradually returns to its normal rhythm, but the echo of Milo’s quiet sniffles lingers.

Something about Aspen Walker unsettles me in ways I never expected.

It’s not just the fierce protectiveness in her eyes when she defended Milo, or the way she held herself together even as her voice cracked with disappointment.

There’s something else—a warmth when she looked at me with gratitude, like she truly saw me as someone helpful rather than intimidating.

My snakes noticed it too, the way several of them had started to rise toward her before catching themselves.

I tell myself it’s just professional concern for a library family, but the hollow feeling in my chest suggests something more complicated.

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Randall approaches my desk, pearls still clutched dramatically. “In all my years on the library board—”

“Thank you for your concern.” My voice stays measured, calm.

It has to. My sanctuary effect only works when I maintain control.

It’s one of the gifts—or curses, depending on who you ask—of being a male Gorgon.

The ability to create spaces of perfect calm, to ease troubled minds without them even knowing why they suddenly feel safer.

Most days it’s subtle, just a gentle undercurrent in my corner of the library.

But when emotions run high, like today, it takes real effort to keep it from flooding the whole building.

“The situation has been handled according to policy.”

She puffs up further, reminding me of an agitated pigeon. “But surely—”

“Mrs. Randall.” Keeping my movements slow and deliberate, I stand to my full height. Most days, I try to minimize my size, to make myself less intimidating. It’s not true shapeshifting—I can’t change my actual height—but I can alter my posture, the way I hold my shoulders, how much space I claim.

The difference between standing at my full six-foot-eight with shoulders back versus hunching down can make me seem almost a foot taller. Sometimes it comes in handy.

“I believe the Romance section just received several romantasies you’ve been waiting for.”

The deflection works. She hurries off, already forgetting her outrage in favor of fictional drama. If only real-life problems could be solved as easily as redirecting an upset board member.

As I gather the scattered storytime cushions, my snakes shift restlessly.

They’re more attuned to others’ emotions than I am, and they picked up on both Milo’s distress and his mother’s carefully contained panic.

My sanctuary effect kicked in automatically a moment after her unfortunate outburst, trying to calm the situation.

But she’d already left before it could really help her or her son.

“Mr. Sebastian?” A small voice interrupts my thoughts. Tyler, Milo’s best friend, holds up a red towel. “Milo forgot Steggy’s cape.”

The soggy item dangles limply from my hands. “Thank you, Tyler. I’ll make sure he gets it back.”

After tidying the children’s section, I retreat to my office. The space feels smaller than usual today, but it’s where I do my best thinking. A crayon drawing of a green brachiosaurus catches my eye—Milo’s artwork from last month. He’d been so proud of remembering to add the correct number of toes.

The incident report form glows mockingly on my computer screen. Standard procedure requires documenting all code of conduct violations. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I struggle to find the right words.

The truth is, the incident didn’t fit neatly into any procedure. Most policy violations come from teenagers trying to sneak food, or patrons arguing over computer time limits. Not single mothers pushed to their breaking point while trying to protect their children from disappointment.

My snakes stir as footsteps approach—Jenny, carrying what looks like budget reports.

“Bad timing?” she asks, noting my expression.

“Just finishing the incident report.” I gesture at the screen. “What do you need?”

“The board’s breathing down my neck about next month’s presentation. Attendance numbers, programming effectiveness, budget justifications.” She settles into the chair across from my desk. “Mrs. Randall specifically mentioned ‘incident rates’ affecting our family-friendly reputation.”

My sanctuary effect falters slightly. “One incident in eighteen months hardly constitutes a pattern.”

“You know that. I know that. But budget season makes everyone nervous, and children’s programming is always the first target.” Jenny’s expression grows serious. “They want to see innovation, Sebastian. Community engagement. Proof that we’re not just providing childcare, but adding real value.”

After she leaves, the weight of professional pressure settles on my shoulders alongside my concern for Milo and Aspen. The incident report cursor still blinks, waiting.

Finally, I type:

During the 3:00 PM storytime, a patron expressed inappropriate language after receiving distressing news about a family situation.

A standard three-month suspension from library premises has been implemented.

Recommendation: Review after one month pending demonstration of commitment to library standards.

Clicking submit feels like a betrayal, but policy is policy. My snakes droop further as I set aside the cape, a silent reminder of the collateral damage of rules applied without consideration for human circumstances.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across Main Street as footsteps carry me to Ming’s Garden. Through the window, familiar red lanterns glow against the approaching dusk. A bell chimes as the door opens, and Mrs. Ming’s face brightens with recognition.

“Ah, Mr. Sebastian! The usual tonight?”

My shoulders relax at her warm greeting. “Yes, please.”

She’s already writing the order for extra spicy General Tso’s before the words leave my mouth. “Double rice today? You look tired.”

“That obvious?”

Her laugh rings through the empty restaurant. “Three years, every Friday, same order, same time. Only difference is how much rice you need.” She pauses, studying my face. “Today? Definitely double rice day.”

The routine soothes something raw inside. While the food preparations create a comfortable symphony of familiar sounds, my gaze drifts to the wall calendar featuring a serene mountain landscape. Three years of takeout for one. Three years of quiet dinners in an apartment that feels too empty.

Mrs. Ming slides the bag across the counter, refusing my attempt to pay. “On the house today. You look like you need it.”

My protest dies at her stern look. “Thank you.”

“Next time, bring friend,” she calls after me. “Or date!”

The walk home feels longer than usual, the weight of the day settling heavy on my shoulders. Between the incident report, Jenny’s warnings about the board, and the image of Milo’s devastated face, I feel the familiar urge to retreat into my books and let the world sort itself out.

But something about Aspen’s fierce protection of her son, her willingness to fight for what matters even when the odds are stacked against her, makes retreat feel like cowardice.

Some battles, I’m realizing, might be worth fighting.