17. Traig
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TRAIG
The scribe arrived at my cottage at exactly six.
I watched from the window as he emerged from the truck he’d rented to carry him from wherever he was staying to here. He carried his ledger tucked under one arm.
The cottage looked mated.
Willa’s coat hung beside mine by the door.
Her boots sat next to my larger ones. Her coffee maker claimed space on the counter beside my tea kettle.
But it felt wrong. Like I’d arranged furniture in a room I’d never actually lived in.
Two tusk—tooth—brushes in the holder. Her bottles scattered across the counter in a way that made my organized brain itch.
My single towel next to her blue one, the colors wrong together but somehow right.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
I’d spent three years building a life here, and now I had one night to prove I’d built something that mattered.
One night to prove Willa mattered.
“He’s here,” I said.
Willa appeared from the bedroom, smoothing her dress, the blue one she’d worn the other day.
“It’s going to be alright,” she said.
The knock came before I could respond.
He would see proof we shared a life.
Willa went to the door and opened it, her smile warm and natural. “Scribe Kelthren. Please, come in.”
He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the entryway. Taking in everything.
She took his coat and hung it on an empty peg beside ours.
“Thank you,” he said.
He walked into the living room, settling in the chair I’d positioned for him, the ledger laid on his lap. His pen appeared, hovering over a blank page.
We sat on the sofa together.
“Your space is maintained with care,” he said, making a note. “How many turns of the moon have you shared this space?”
A trap question. If we were too specific, he’d verify dates. Too vague, and we’d look like we were hiding something.
“As we said, not long,” Willa said. “We’ve been—”
“Settling in,” I finished. “Making it ours.”
The scribe’s pen moved across the page.
He set the ledger on a nearby table and stood, walking down the hall, stopping at the bathroom. He stepped inside and closed the door, then entered my—our—bedroom, returning and sitting to make another note.
“You’ve made space for her,” he said, looking at me. “In your closet. On your shelves.”
“Yes.”
“That required effort. Moving your belongings. Rearranging things.”
“She’s worth it.”
Willa’s breath caught.
“I’d like tea,” he told Willa. “Could you please prepare some for me?”
She nodded and headed for the kitchen.
I started to follow.
“Stay,” the scribe said.
My stomach dropped.
Through the open doorway, he watched Willa move through the kitchen, opening cupboards, searching for what she needed. She found the mugs on the second try. The tea on the third.
If she lived here, she would’ve known where they were right away.
My pulse throbbed in my throat. He’d seen her hesitation. The searching. But she’d opened the third cupboard and pulled out the tea like she’d recalled where it was. This showed she was learning my space the way anyone learned a new home. Maybe that would be enough.
The scribe kept writing notes.
“What does she fear most?” he asked, his voice low enough that Willa wouldn’t hear from the kitchen.
For a moment, I couldn’t think of what to say. He was asking me to reduce her to observations. But she wasn’t data. She was—
“Being useful instead of seen,” I said. “She organizes things for people. Remembers what they need. Makes sure everyone’s comfortable.” I paused. “But she’s afraid that’s the only reason people want her around.”
His pen stopped moving, and he looked up. “What does she do when she’s upset?”
“She takes a walk. Visits with the creatures at the rescue. Writes down the good things in her life. When the world gets too big, she makes it smaller by looking for the simple things that bring joy.”
“I see.” The scribe’s eyes lifted to mine. “What made you think she was yours?”
The kettle whistled in the kitchen. Willa poured water, the sound filling the silence.
“When she teased me about labeling everything in the supply room,” I said.
“She was kind about it. It helped me see that I didn’t always need to be in control of everything.
” I scraped my tusks across my lip. “She just smiled. Suggested a better way to handle my stress. That, among so many other ways, was how I knew she was mine. She understands me.”
The kitchen had gone quiet.
“Here’s another reason. She brought Fred—one of our grumbletoads—a treat she’d bought in town,” I said.
“She didn’t have to do that. He’s not her creature.
But she thought about what would make him happy.
” My soft smile rose as I remembered. “That’s who she is.
She notices when others need something, and she gives it without expecting anything back. ”
The scribe studied me for a long moment.
“You notice a great deal about her,” he said.
“I notice everything.”
Willa walked into the room with a mug of tea. Her hands were steady, but her eyes met mine.
She’d heard.
She set the tea on the table beside him.
“Thank you,” he said.
She sat beside me on the couch.
The scribe sipped his tea, made another note, and set the mug aside.
“I must watch how you move through the day’s ending,” he said. “Please, continue as if I am not present.”
Continue as normal? We’d never had a normal evening together.
“We should start dinner,” Willa said, getting up again.
I followed her into the kitchen.
She opened the refrigerator and pulled out vegetables I’d bought yesterday. Carrots. Potatoes. A piece of meat wrapped in paper.
“What are we making?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.”
Her eyes went wide. We were supposed to have cooked together many times. We were supposed to know each other’s favorite meals.
“We’ve never made dinner together,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“Lunch. We made lunch.”
“Once.”
The scribe’s chair creaked in the other room.
“Stew,” I said, louder. “We’ll make the stew you like.”
“Right. The stew.”
I pulled out my big pot. Willa found the cutting board. We moved around each other, bumping elbows, reaching past each other for ingredients.
She chopped vegetables. I prepared the meat and took the broth out of the cupboard. Spices. The pot went on the heat with oil and herbs.
The scribe appeared in the doorway, watching.
Willa glanced at me, and our eyes met.
I picked up a piece of carrot she’d just cut and held it to her mouth.
Her lips parted in surprise.
I fed it to her. Her tongue touched my finger. My hand dropped to my side, but I could still feel it.
She chewed slowly, her eyes locked on mine.
Then she picked up a piece of celery and lifted it to my mouth.
I bit it from her fingers, the gesture more intimate than I’d expected. She tasted like the vegetables she’d been cutting. Her fingertips lingered on my lower lip.
The stew simmered. The cottage filled with warmth and the smell of food.
Willa added salt. I stirred and got out the loaf of bread Krem had made. He often shared after he baked, though he didn’t make sweets.
Our hands bumped reaching for the same spoon.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be.”
The scribe watched it all.
After I’d borrowed a third chair from Krem’s cottage, the three of us sat at the table, and I served. Willa passed bread and butter around, and we ate in near silence, the scrape of spoons against bowls loud.
“This is good,” the scribe said.
“Thank you,” Willa and I said at the same time.
After dinner, we cleared the table together. She washed the dishes while I dried and put things away. We formed a rhythm that made my chest ache. She’d hand me a bowl, I’d dry it and reach for another. Her arm would brush mine. My arm would bump her shoulder.
Small touches that felt too big for my heart.
I turned to take a mug and found her collar had folded under. I straightened it, my fingers lingering on her neck.
She stilled, her pulse jumping under my fingertips.
I should pull away. This was for show. But I couldn’t make myself move.
She tugged at my hair tie, which had loosened during cooking. When I stooped down, her fingers slid through my hair, gathering it, securing the tie again with gentle pulls.
I leaned into her touch.
The scribe cleared his throat from where he sat at the table but neither of us looked his way. This wasn’t for him anymore. Maybe it never had been.
He made another note in the ledger he’d brought into the kitchen and continued observing.
A drop of water clung to her jaw. I wiped it away.
She dried her hands on the towel tucked into my waistband instead of reaching for the one on the hook.
“We should finish,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
The rest of the evening crawled. The scribe sat in the living room, recording every glance, touch, and moment we existed in the same space.
I retrieved a book from the shelf. Willa brought her notebook to the couch. We sat side by side, not touching but aware. Always aware.
When I reached to turn a page, my arm brushed hers.
When she shifted to write something, her knee pressed against my thigh.
The scribe watched from his chair, his pen moving occasionally. Recording what, I didn’t know. The number of times our legs touched? How long Willa spent on each page of her notebook? Whether I read my book or just turned pages? All of the above, probably.
At nine, the scribe stood.
“I’ll gather my things from my vehicle,” he said, “and prepare myself for bed, though I note you do not have a second bedroom.” His gaze swept the room. “I’ll sleep here, since you two will use the bedroom. I must see how you begin your day. Together. From first waking.”
“Of course,” Willa said, looking up at me. “We should go to bed as well.”
Bed. Together.
Once he’d finished in the bathroom, we got up and walked down the hall.
We took turns in the bathroom. No one would expect us to share that. While she was using it, I changed quickly, leaving my loincloth on, though I usually wore nothing.
She returned to the room wearing a short, loose gown, not meeting my eyes. Her attention remained on the bed.
I’d never seen her this vulnerable.