Chapter 13 #2
After finally connecting with the farmers market organizer, I compiled everything needed for Sunny’s booth application. I’ve worn a smile since I opened the shop this morning, eager to show her when she arrives.
Sunny walks in, bright and bubbly as usual, her beaming smile lighting up her face as we greet each other. When we have a break between customers, I ask her to sit with me, unable to hide my excitement.
“What’s going on?” she asks lightheartedly. “You look almost giddy today.”
“I have some fun news to share,” I begin, as we take our seats.
“You’re under no pressure whatsoever, but I have everything you need to become a vendor at the farmers market.
I want to keep selling your potions here, but that will open even more doors for you if you want to run your own shop in the future. ”
Her jaw drops and she looks stunned. “Mother Earth, I guess I hadn’t thought about going for it yet! I still have time left in my apprenticeship. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind? I don’t want it to affect your shop at all,” she frets.
“Absolutely not! Don’t worry about me or the shop. Your apprenticeship will continue and you can adjust your hours however you need. You’ll be a hit at the market. The organizer says you’re a shoo in. It’ll be a good stepping stone for your own shop someday,” I assure her.
“Thanks, Ada. You’re the best! I’m so lucky you’re my mentor,” she gushes as she leans over and squeezes me in a big hug, rocking me back and forth in her enthusiasm.
“We’re friends above everything else,” I remind her. “I can’t wait to see what you’re going to accomplish.”
When I leave work that afternoon, Norrell meets me to walk over to Walt and Acton’s house. Walt and I worked together to design the campaign posters he picked up from the printer’s this morning.
“Did Walt come up with a slogan?” Norrell asks curiously, having already heard bits and pieces of our phone calls over the last few days.
“Walt barely needed any help with that,” I tell him, laughing at the memory of Walt’s and my last conversation. “He chose ‘A vote for Walt is a walk in the park.’”
Norrell chuckles heartily. “That suits him.”
When I told Walt that Norrell would be joining us this afternoon, he was upfront about his hesitance to include him.
Walt still hasn’t warmed up to Norrell, and I don’t blame him.
My feelings are still thawing as well. But eventually Walt relented since Norrell seemed very serious about not just coming with me but also lending support to the campaign.
I made sure Walt understood that, and he seems to have accepted that he can’t actively ignore Norrell any longer—a big leap forward for Walt, who is as loyal to me as they come.
Walt and Acton are waiting outside, posters in hand. He immediately hands half the stack over to us, looking pleased as punch. “They did such a fine job at Inkling Press. See how bright this green is?” he raves, pointing at the lush shade of green framing the edges of each poster.
“It’s eye-catching!” I agree.
Walt grins at us. “I’m tickled pink that we’re doing this. I never thought of myself as a man who would run for office. I always figured myself to just be a civil servant who tries to spend his days outdoors. But I can’t ignore Ada’s good ideas,” he enthuses.
“There are countless virtues I could extol about my mate, but he is too modest to receive my boundless praise,” Acton chimes in affectionately.
“Oh, Acton, you know just how to make me blush,” Walt says sounding adorably flustered. “Why don’t we walk downtown, and we can each take a side to poster up the street. Then I’ll treat everyone to dinner afterward.”
We split up, and Norrell and I uneventfully visit the first few shops along our side of the street, asking to affix a sign in the window.
I’ve quickly grown tired, walking to Walt and Acton’s house and then back here again.
Norrell notices my struggle and holds out his arm for me to take.
I tightly wrap my hand around the crook of his elbow, locking myself to his strength.
He guides us down the sidewalk, essentially holding up most of my weight. It doesn’t slow him down a bit.
The heat of his skin is a shock to the system, warming me all over in ways I wish it wouldn’t.
His physicality was always so alluring to me, both sexy and comforting.
He made me feel like I could let go and he would carry me through anything.
Well, he showed me that it was just a fantasy.
Still, it’s hard not to let that feeling creep back in again, to fall back into old habits.
When we reach the tailoring shop In Stitches—always a busy place to accommodate Whispered Folks’ many sizes and specifications—the owner, a soft-spoken elfin named Finch, comes out from the back room to greet us. His eyes widen at the sight of Norrell.
“Why Norrell, I haven’t seen you in an age.
It was so long ago, but I don’t believe I properly thanked you for helping with my deliveries after I broke my foot.
I was about ready to hobble all over town dropping off those garments.
I’ve never forgotten your kindness. Please accept my very belated thank you for helping me when I needed it. ” There’s genuine warmth in his voice.
“No thanks necessary, Finch. It was no trouble at all,” he tells the elfin kindly.
Finch’s pink-hued skin deepens in color as a blush blooms on his cheeks. “I’m glad to finally be able to tell you. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again. Now, what can I do for you both,” he asks, his eyes shifting between us curiously.
“Walt Sutton is running for a town council seat. Would you mind if we put a sign in your window?” Norrell says, keeping a light tone. We’ve both been mindful to not pressure anyone, though so far everyone has been enthusiastic about it.
“Anything for him. Walt is a true gentlemale. I haven’t seen him around as much since he retired several years ago,” Finch replies. “Tell him he has my vote!”
“We will. And I’ll remind him to stop by and say hello,” I add, earning a toothy grin from Finch.
After adhering the poster to the window, Norrell and I wave goodbye and then continue down the street.
On the next block, we reach the door beneath the pink Pearlhouse Pastries sign.
The head baker Marius Pearlhouse, whose family owns the bakery, is cleaning out one of the ovens.
Mars—as his friends call him—and I go way back, but I haven’t seen him in a while.
Norrell hasn’t mentioned him, so he may not have either.
As we approach the counter, Mars jerks toward us in a clumsy manner, at odds with the agility I know him to possess, jolted by the shock of seeing Norrell.
“Moon and stars, I scarcely believe my eyes. Norrell Snowstrider? Is it really you?” he asks incredulously. “It’s been years! I was gutted when I heard you had left.” His eyes dart between us speculatively. “And the two of you had parted ways.”
Mars and Norrell became friends while he was here, even socializing somewhat regularly.
The tarasque steps out from behind the counter and embraces Norrell, a large leonine paw tipped in long claws smacking his back affectionately.
It amazes me how his unexpectedly nimble hands create pastry masterpieces each morning, using his claws so expertly and delicately.
He holds Norrell by the shoulders now, taking a long look at his old friend.
“I thought I’d never see you again. What brings you back?
” Again, his eyes flash quickly to mine and back. “And how long will you be staying?”
“It is so good to see you, Mars. I have sorely missed our friendship. I returned a few weeks ago to attend the safety council and am now assisting the team investigating the attack. There has not been much free time yet, to be honest, but I will have more now that the council has gone home. As for how long I will stay…” Norrell hesitates, his gaze now searching mine momentarily as if I have the answers.
“I will be here for some time, it seems. Much of it depends on the investigation. We should plan a time to catch up.” He carefully sidesteps talking about me, which I’m thankful for.
Mars’s large golden eyes shine and his wide mouth splits into a delighted grin, making his rugged face, a blend of leonine and human features, look almost boyish.
A feat when many consider his appearance—with a long reddish-brown mane that extends from his head to around his collar bone where his skin turns to scales—to be intimidating.
“I would love nothing more, old friend,” he replies.
They exchange phone numbers and agree to figure out a date to meet up soon.
When we ask Mars if we can put up a sign, he takes a small stack, promising to circulate them for us.
“It’s about time he runs. I’ve seen few as committed to the well-being of this town as Walt.
You may be one of the few exceptions,” he tells me with a friendly wink.
He stops us before we go, piling a box full of pastries for us and handing us a couple bags as well, one for the box and one for the rest of our campaign signs. We gratefully accept them as we leave.
Stopping and chatting with people at the businesses and shops along the next few blocks eats up nearly two hours.
When we reach the square in front of town hall, Walt and Acton follow close behind, their experience similar.
“Well, you run for office and suddenly everyone wants to talk your ear off about the changes they want to see. I haven’t even been elected yet.
” Walt chuckles, shaking his head in good humor at the situation.
“Guess that’s what campaigning is all about! ”
“They sense your inner goodness and know you to be an honorable male worthy to entrust the town’s future into your care,” Acton lilts in his airy voice.