Chapter 36 #2
She hardly had time for a sip from her mug of tea before the door opened for the first time.
It was Luca, the unfortunate dwarven Gatewarden.
He self-consciously stroked his golden mustaches and stumped into the shop, then stopped short to boggle at Zelia, who regarded him over the rim of her cup with amusement.
“Miss Greatstrider?” he asked. Viv thought if he tugged any harder, he’d yank the braids off his upper lip.
“That’s me,” she replied.
He cast about, saw the pile of Thirst for Vengeance, and seized one, holding it before him in a death grip.
Shuffling closer, he said in a low voice, “I’ve read all your books. Uh, except this one, of course.”
“Would you like me to sign it?”
His eyes widened. “You would do that?”
She held a hand out to him. “What’s your name, then?”
“Uh, Luca, Miss—um, uh, Lady Greatstrider.”
“Call me Zelia.” She took the book, flipped it open, dipped the quill, and signed with a flourish before scrawling a message below her name.
When she handed it back, he read the note while color rose in his cheeks.
Crinkles appeared at the edges of Zelia’s eyes. “You have a question, Luca?”
His voice was barely above a whisper as he asked, “Can … can I tell you one of my favorite bits?”
“Luca, I think you need a scone. Have a seat and let’s chat.”
And that was the beginning.
Viv and Berk observed from the back hall, leaning against opposing walls, each with a similar expression on their face. A fond and watchful interest.
As Viv studied the customers entering the store, circulating in little eddies throughout the shop, she felt a warmth in her chest that didn’t come from the woodstove.
Fern’s starstruck paralysis evaporated quickly in the slowly building swell of custom.
There simply wasn’t room for it to survive.
Potroast wove between people’s legs, alert for any dropped bits of scone. Very few actually made it to the floor.
She was surprised to see Highlark make an appearance, and then highly amused at the youthful awkwardness of his stammered introductions to the great lady.
Zelia’s clear laugh and husky voice were a uniting thread as she chatted and signed and shook the hands of those who stopped by to see her.
Viv glanced at Berk. “She’s never done this before?”
He shook his head, watching with clear affection. “Never. Still amazed she’s here, to be honest.” Viv was surer and surer that he was more than a bodyguard or valet. Something about the look in his eyes—sad, but warm. “Must have been the right time.”
Fern wasn’t there to keep her from asking, but she tried to put it delicately. “So, it’s just you two up there in the hills? Together?”
Berk’s brows rose. “Oh, there’s a groundskeeper, and a few folks come and go. Really just us, though.”
“Huh.” She let that sit for a minute. “So, you’re … ?”
“Oh, I make myself useful,” he replied. “Mostly.”
“Sure.” She couldn’t help thinking about the lifespans of humans and elves and about the silver in his hair.
The corner of his mouth rose in half a smile, as though he’d heard her thoughts. “Sometimes, it’ll never be the right time.”
Viv thought about Maylee and what she’d said about seeing people through a tiny window as they passed, and how nothing seemed to happen exactly when it should.
Then she saw Fern’s face, bright and laughing as she passed a book into hands that probably needed it.
“And sometimes, we aren’t the right people yet,” murmured Berk.
While she and he had different individuals in mind, Viv thought they might be thinking exactly the same thing.
Fern fell into her chair with an explosive, exhausted breath. Potroast leapt into her lap, still wriggling with reflected energy from the day, and spun around in an effort to find a comfortable angle.
Viv was on the verge of locking the door when a knock came from low on the wood.
She cracked it to find Maylee on the step, peering through the gap as though to reassure herself the shop was still there. “How’d it go?” she asked in a stage whisper.
Fern laughed and gestured at the shop. “Better than it had any right to. And not a single scone survived.”
Only crumbs graced the platters on the counter, and while hardly empty, the shelves did indeed look picked over.
Every last copy bearing the name Greatstrider on the cover had been sold, and a great many more besides.
When the supply was exhausted, customers had asked Zelia to sign books from other authors, which she had acceded to with a very amused smile.
Greatstrider had stayed until the end, when Berk ushered her out the door and into the fog after the last exiting customer, even as he buckled his longsword back onto his waist.
“I’m glad for you, hon,” said Maylee, clapping Fern on the shoulder. Potroast extended his neck to sniff at her apron, hoping she’d hidden something in it for him.
After she finished locking the door, Viv threw the latch on Satchel’s box, and he appeared in a mesmerizing tumble of bone.
“Sorry you were cooped up all day,” she said with an apologetic frown. Maylee sidled up to her and wrapped an arm around her hips.
“It was a pleasure to observe,” he said. “Still. I have no memories from the times before … this. And yet, I know the heat of a hearth fire, even though I cannot feel it. Today was like that. Knowing the feel of a thing, without being able to experience it.”
Maylee’s arm tightened, and when Viv looked down, the baker’s face had a pained set to it. “Gods-damned isn’t fair.”
“I think it’s time to get you out of here,” Viv said to the homunculus. “Tomorrow. Gallina’s like to cut herself waiting if she fidgets any harder with those knives. You said you wanted to help with the spinebacks? Let’s do it, then. You’ve been in a box long enough.”
“Spinebacks?” Maylee asked.
“Hells, I guess I didn’t tell you about that,” Viv admitted.
“Just an easy critter hunt south of here that Gallina picked up. Some farmer’s sheep are disappearing.
Shouldn’t be a big thing.” She was about to downplay it even further, but thought better of it, instead asking, “You don’t want to go, do you? It’s been a while, but maybe …”
“Nah.” Maylee patted Viv’s leg, looking up with a tight grin. “Too much to do, and I’d only get in the way.”
Viv thought of Berk saying, Sometimes it’ll never be the right time.
When Satchel was sure that no more words were forthcoming, he said, “I should be glad to go.”
“Did you hear that, Fern? You might as well sleep in tomorrow,” called Viv.
But Fern was already asleep, her gentle snores echoed by the gryphet in her lap.