When the Merchant Met the Orc (Leafshire Cove Monsters #4)

Chapter 1

Rychell

Ireach high and point to a plum-colored book, Spices and Edible Plants of the Eastern Veiled Kingdoms, sitting on my small library’s back shelf.

The book shimmers with golden magic, slides from the bookshelf, and lands gently in my lap.

The pages shush against one another as I open the tome.

I lean back in my emerald green armchair by the fire.

Our town witch bespelled the library as a gift to the last person who lived here.

As a human, I will never stop being impressed by her and her power.

My library is one of the most perfect places in the world. The way the dust motes dance in the sunlight from the window. How cozy I feel surrounded by full-to-bursting bookshelves. The particular brand of quiet here. It’s exactly as I want it to be.

I chew the inside of my cheek as I flip through the illustrated pages of the spice text to decide what I need to purchase during my trip. The book smells like garlic; I shouldn’t have left it in my spice room last week.

Turmeric, I have. Hmm. Arrowroot? I do need more of that, I think. I’ll check. Yarrow. Wolffang mushroom. Ooo, maybe.

Pushing my hair behind my ears and thinking, I look up at the sun streaming in.

My son bursts into the library, hair in all directions and his pixie wings—the same blue as his skin—fluttering behind him. “It’s almost time for the herald’s broadsheet. Get ready for morning reading!”

Before I can answer him, he flashes his smile—missing two teeth at the front—and disappears into the kitchen. Nate is my little western wind, wild and free. The best day of my life was the day I adopted him.

I lift the quill from the small table near my favorite chair, dip it into the inkwell, then scribble the rest of my list.

Cardamom, ginger, sandalwood. Vanilla, starspice, and leafeen.

“Your handwriting is bad, Ma.”

I jump and realize Nate has returned. He rubs his eye with one small fist and holds the day’s news sheet with the other.

“So horribly bad that it hurts to look at?” I say dramatically, putting a hand to my chest like he’s stabbed me through the heart.

He grins and laughs. “No, Ma. Not that bad. Just not as good as most adults.”

I set the spice book aside and pull him into my lap, the herald’s broadsheet crinkling between us.

“Blessed Stones, you are getting heavy,” I say.

He nods against my shoulder and twirls a lock of my hair around his finger. “I’ve been eating extra scones at the bakery.”

I ease him to a sitting position in my lap and study his face. “Are you going to be fully grown by the time I return?”

He giggles. “Probably. Mistress Kaya spoils me.”

The baker adores him. “Truer words have never been spoken.”

“But don’t make her stop, Ma.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ll be okay with her, right? Are you worried at all?”

Usually, I take him with me to fetch more spices to sell at the market.

My upcoming journey to the port is the first step in my plan to expand my business so I can pay for Nate to attend Ivydowns.

The specialized school has a tutor for each student, and they teach using the student’s interests.

Nate has difficulty paying attention, so Ivydowns means the difference between him failing and thriving.

But the special school isn’t cheap. I’ll have to get my hands on more exotic spices to sell as our town grows and competition blooms.

Nate nods, and his hair flops across his forehead. “I will be very fine,” he says. “Mistress Kaya said I’m going to take care of the maplecats.” Holding up his hand, he counts off. “Water. Food twice a day. Tidy up shed hair. Make sure they aren’t underfoot when she’s baking.”

“Wonderful. You’ll be grand at that, I’m certain.”

Wearing a proud smirk, he leans back and studies my face. There’s a flicker of unease in his eyes. “There aren’t any ruffians on the road to the coast, are there?”

My heart cinches. Ever since he heard that ridiculous story about the thieves and the talking goat—a story fabricated in the moment—he’s been obsessed with the word ruffians.

“I’ll be fine, love.”

Nate eases the broadsheet out and spreads it on his lap. I watch over his shoulder as he skims a line with his index finger. We read together every morning, even on market days when we sell spices to our fellow Leafshire Cove townsfolk.

“T,t,heeee,” he sounds out.

“The.”

Nodding, he stares at the columns of print. “The king deeeee…”

I follow the word with a finger. “Declares,” I say.

Nate clears his throat and starts again. “The king declares a new market day in Kingstown,” he sounds out slowly.

“Very good.”

Nate wrinkles his nose. “I can’t remember the. It looks weird.”

“It does.”

We work our way through each of the headlines and start on the advertisements.

“A life partner,” Nate says, "for trade, for co, com, commm..”

“Companionship,” I say gently. “That is a big word.”

“It’s huge! What’s it mean?” he asks.

“Friendship. Enjoying someone being around. Doing things together.”

His lips turn down and he narrows his eyes. “Why is there an advertisement for a friend?”

“I don’t know. That is odd.” I look closer at the ad.

Are you a pleasant person who would like to marry without the fuss of love?

Want someone who will support your endeavors and invite you to support them in theirs?

Marriage can be viewed as a contract rather than a romantic notion.

If you’re reading this and it sounds appealing, visit 1345 Coast Crane Lane, Honey Sands, and ask for Master Osric Breakwave anytime this month. I would love to talk!

Nate has moved on to our second regular reading activity—counting the vowels—but I can’t turn my focus from the ad.

It’s like I wrote it. That’s exactly what I want.

I didn’t realize it until this moment, but it is.

A commitment and a cure to loneliness without the hassle and heartbreak of love.

This ad is meant for me. It’s fate. It has to be, considering I already have a trip to the port town of Honey Sands planned.

“Ma!”

“What?”

“I’ve asked three times if my count is right,” Nate says.

I hug him. “All right. Sorry. What was your answer to the As?”

He lifts his chin proudly. “In this paragraph, there are fourteen.”

I quickly tally the As. “Correct!”

He hugs me and the broadsheet flits to the floor. “Thanks, Ma.”

“You’re such a hard worker, Nate.”

An old woman once told me that you should praise your youngling for things they can control, not for inborn traits, and I always appreciated that tidbit of advice. I think it’s quite sound.

I kiss Nate on the head, and he shifts in my lap to lean back and look at me. He takes my face in his little hands and stares at me intensely.

“Why are you smiling like that, Ma?”

I laugh and tousle his hair. “Because my trip just became even more productive.”

He slides off my lap and flutters his nearly transparent wings. “Proshuckdive isn’t why people smile. You’re mixing it up with fun. Fun is what makes smiles.”

“Not for me, sweetie,” I say, chuckling. “Not for me.”

“You’re weird, Ma. But I love you!”

He kisses my cheek, and I thank the Blessed Stones that I’m such a lucky person. I look to the second chair in the library, swallow, and hug Nate more tightly.

My parents were in love when I was very young, but their feelings soured as I grew.

Instead of hugs and smiles, shouting filled our house.

Every day, it grew worse. I swore to myself I would never fall in love, would never marry, and never experience that agony again.

There isn’t any place in my life for romance.

I’m committed to giving Nate the peaceful life I never had as a child.

Nate skips away, his footsteps padding down the corridor in the direction of the kitchen.

The kitchen is the opposite of my quiet library.

His eighth birthday will be here soon, and he’s covered every surface with models of the cake he wants to make while I’m gone.

The designs are made of anything and everything he can get his little hands on—rocks, sticks, empty crates, a hat box, and numerous chunks of tree bark.

“I think this one is the winner,” he says around a mouthful of apple as he points to the cake model to his left.

A cluster of oak leaves crowns the top of five stacked lengths of bark. Acorns ring the bottom layer.

“Is that moss you're using for icing?” I ask. “Sounds delicious.”

“Ma, stoppppp.” He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “You know it’s supposed to be vanilla icing.”

“Why not chocolate?” I ask.

“That’s your favorite,” he says. “Not mine.”

“It was your favorite a moon ago.”

“But not now. Now, I love vanilla the best. And nuts!”

I rub my stomach. “Ooo, yum. How about some cinnamon?”

“Maybe. Not too much.”

“Kaya will know exactly how much to add, I’m certain.”

Nodding vigorously, he bites into his apple.

A knock sounds at the front door, and he’s off and running before I can say a word. He trips over a stool, and I start toward him, but he is up and moving again in a blink. He jerks the door open, and a massive shadow falls over him.