Chapter 13 #3
"Not yet. But soon. In a few months, maybe."
"I teach her?" Hope lights up his whole face.
Gunther's grinning, that helpless delighted grin he gets when Orry says something particularly Orry. "You can teach her lots of things."
"I teach ABCs. And hewmets. And counting!" He's warming to the idea now, planning already.
"Perfect. She's lucky to have you."
Orry settles in. Sits cross-legged on the bed, watching her with absolute focus. Mesmerized by every tiny movement, every sleepy sound.
"I big brother," he announces after a long moment of study. Says it like he's trying the title on for size, seeing how it fits.
"Best big brother," I say, and mean it with everything I have.
He beams. That sunshine grin that could power the whole city.
The first week home's a blur.
Feedings every two hours. Diapers. Spit-up. Orry's jealous tantrums when Mara gets too much attention.
Gunther's on paternity leave. Thank god. He handles the logistics. Charts feeding times. Tracks diapers. Organizes visitors.
My mother shows up with casseroles. Gunther's mother brings traditional orcish baby gifts. Some kind of blessed blanket. A carved rattle.
The Sparkle regulars rotate shifts. Someone's always dropping off food or offering to hold the baby while I shower.
Colum stops by daily. Always with something ridiculous. A "World's Okayest Dad" mug. A tiny Fishborn Financial onesie. A baby book titled Spreadsheets for Infants.
"You've got to be kidding me," I say, taking the book from his hands and turning it over to read the back cover.
"I never joke about financial literacy," Colum replies with absolute sincerity, though there's a telltale twinkle in his eye.
"She's three days old, Colum. Three. She can't even focus her eyes yet."
"Never too early to start building good habits," he says, completely straight-faced.
Orry adapts faster than any of us expected, really.
He brings Mara toys, his favorites, the ones he usually hoards like a tiny dragon guarding treasure. Sings to her in his off-key toddler warble, the same songs Gunther hums during bath time. Pats her head with surprising gentleness when she cries, his small hand so careful it makes my chest ache.
"It okay, baby. Orry here."
And she quiets. Those crystal-green eyes, so like his, blink up at him with something that might be recognition. Might be trust.
"See, Mama? See, Daddy? She likes me."
"She loves you," Gunther says, his voice soft in that way that means he's holding back emotion.
"I love her too." Orry says it matter-of-factly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Which maybe it is.
One morning, I find Orry lying next to her on the play mat we've set up in the living room. He's making faces—tongue out, eyes crossed, the full theatrical production. And she's... smiling?
"Gunther. Get in here." I don't shout. Don't want to break whatever magic is happening.
He appears from the kitchen, dish towel still in hand. Sees them. Freezes mid-step.
"Is she—"
"Smiling. At Orry."
"That's." He swallows. "That's early. She's only three weeks old."
"I know."
We stand there like we've stumbled on something sacred. Orry sticks his tongue out again, adding a ridiculous noise this time. Mara's tiny mouth twitches. Curves upward into something unmistakable.
A full, genuine smile.
Orry squeals with delight, bouncing on his knees. "She happy! Daddy, Mama, she happy!"
"Because of you, buddy," I manage, my throat tight.
He does it again. Tongue out. Cross-eyed. Adds a hand wiggle for good measure.
Mara giggles.
An actual, honest-to-god baby giggle. Bubbly and surprised and perfect.
"Oh my god," I whisper, covering my mouth with both hands.
Gunther's already got his phone out, recording with shaking hands. "This is going in the baby book. This exact moment."
"The spreadsheet baby book?"
"The real one. I started a real one." He doesn't take his eyes off them. "Last week. Got one of those fancy ones with prompts and pockets for photos."
"You're crying."
"Shut up. You're crying too."
We are. Both of us standing there like absolute fools, tears streaming while our son entertains our daughter with the kind of pure, unselfconscious joy that only toddlers possess.
Orry keeps going, encouraged by success. Making faces. Sounds. Little dances with his hands. Mara giggles every single time, her whole face lighting up like he's the most entertaining thing she's ever seen.
Which, to be fair, he probably is.
"Best big brother," I say again, and this time Gunther squeezes my hand in agreement.
Six weeks in, we venture outside.
The plaza's hosting a spring market—Colum's idea, naturally, because of course it is. He'd cornered us three days ago with that particular gleam in his eye that meant he was about to make our lives simultaneously easier and more complicated.
"You don't have to come," he'd said, leaning against my doorframe like he owned it. Which, technically, he did. "But people have been asking about you. Lots of people."
I'd crossed my arms. "People or reporters?"
"Both?" He'd had the decency to look sheepish. "Maybe a few lifestyle bloggers too. The wholesome kind."
Gunther had wanted to stay home, obviously. He'd made a very detailed list of reasons why venturing into public was premature, citing Mara's feeding schedule, Orry's unpredictable nap windows, and the statistical likelihood of viral photography.
I'd convinced him anyway.
"We can't hide forever," I'd said, watching him adjust his glasses for the fourth time in as many minutes.
"We can absolutely try."
"Orry needs fresh air. So do I. Mara needs to experience something other than our living room walls." I'd softened my voice. "And honestly? I need to prove to myself we can do this. Just. Be a normal family. In public."
He'd sighed in that particular way that meant he was capitulating. "Fine. But if someone asks for a photo—"
"We'll smile politely and move on."
"And if they post it online—"
"Then they post it online. We can't control that part."
So here we are. Loading up like we're preparing for an Arctic expedition instead of a thirty-minute walk to the plaza.
Double stroller—the fancy one Colum bought us as a "moving-in gift" that I'm still not totally comfortable accepting.
Diaper bag stuffed to bursting. Snacks in three separate containers because Orry's developed opinions about which crackers are acceptable at which times of day.
Enough supplies for a week-long camping trip, minimum.
The plaza's absolutely packed when we arrive.
Vendors everywhere, their colorful awnings flapping in the spring breeze.
Food trucks lined up like a delicious barricade.
Live music drifting from the central stage—some local folk band playing something cheerful and forgettable.
Kids running in packs, faces already painted, clutching balloons and oversized cookies.
People spot us immediately.
"It's them!"
"The orc family!"
"Oh my god, can we get a picture?"
Gunther tenses beside me, his hand tightening on the stroller handle. I squeeze his other hand, the one that's found mine without either of us discussing it.
"One picture," I say to the small crowd that's already forming, phones emerging from pockets like magic tricks. "Then we're walking, okay? We've got kids to wrangle."
We pose. I paste on my customer-service smile—the one that's gotten me through a thousand difficult interactions at Sparkle.
Orry waves enthusiastically at the cameras, delighted by the attention in that unselfconscious toddler way.
Mara sleeps through the whole thing, tiny fist curled against her cheek.
Cameras click in a rapid-fire flutter that makes my teeth itch.
Then we move. Fast.
The Sparkle booth's set up near the fountain, exactly where I'd suggested to my assistant when she'd volunteered to run it. She's doing a brisk business—I can see the line from here—and waves frantically when she spots us.
"Boss! You actually came!"
"Needed out of the house before I lost my mind," I say, rolling the stroller to a stop beside her table. "How's business?"
"Killer. That new lip tint's flying off the shelf." She peers into the stroller, making the cooing noise that seems genetically programmed into humans around babies. "Oh my god, how's the baby? She's so tiny!"
"Adorable and exhausting in equal measure."
"The best kind." She grins. "Orry, you're looking very grown-up today."
Orry puffs up his little chest. "Big brudder!"
"The biggest," she agrees seriously.
Orry spots the face-painting station across the way and practically launches himself toward it. "Mama! Paint! Paint now!"
"Okay, okay. What do you want painted?"
"Hewmet!" He points at his head with both hands, emphatic.
Of course. The helmet obsession continues unabated.
We get in line behind a pair of twins getting matching butterflies. The artist running the station is the retired drag queen who sometimes does events for Sparkle, full stage makeup today despite the afternoon heat, complete with a magnificent feather boa in electric purple.
"Well, well, well." She looks up from her brushes, eyes sparkling with mischief. "The celebrities grace us with their presence."
"Don't start," I say, but I'm smiling.
"Wouldn't dream of it, darling." She kneels with impressive grace, boa pooling around her like plumage. "Now then, handsome. What'll it be?"
"Hewmet!" Orry bounces.
"A helmet. Fierce choice. I like it. Very warrior-prince."
She paints with quick, confident strokes while Orry sits still, barely, vibrating with the effort of staying in place. When she's done, he's got an intricate silver helmet design across his forehead, complete with tiny details that suggest rivets and scrollwork.
"Warrior!" Orry shouts, examining himself in the hand mirror she offers.
"The fiercest," she agrees solemnly. "You go conquer that playground, sweetheart."
Gunther pays, tips extra, probably too much extra, knowing him, and we wander deeper into the market.