Chapter 3
STONE
Ispend the entire evening drawing.
Not poetry this time. Floor plans. Shelving configurations. The optimal traffic flow for a small bookstore-slash-cafe with limited square footage and one very large orc who keeps bumping into things.
My landlady, Mrs. Kowalski, peers over my shoulder while I work at the kitchen table. "You're making diagrams now? This is new."
"I need to be useful."
"You could be useful by not breaking things."
"That's literally what these are for." I tap the paper with my pencil. A little too hard. The tip snaps.
She hands me another one from the mug on the table. The mug says World's Okayest Landlady. I bought it for her last month.
"You like this job," she observes. Not a question.
"I like all my jobs."
"No. You tolerate most of them. You like this one." She squints at my diagram. "Why did you draw a muffin?"
I look down. There's a small doodle in the corner. An orc-sized muffin with a tiny flag that says SORRY.
"For the awning," I explain. "I'm going to leave her a note."
"Of course you are." Mrs. Kowalski pats my shoulder. The gesture is affectionate but also slightly pitying. "You're a good boy, Stone. Weird. But good."
I finish the diagrams around midnight. Start on the note. Rewrite it four times because my handwriting looks like a particularly violent chicken learned to hold a pen.
Final version reads: I'm very sorry about crushing your awning. I brought spices to make up for it. Please don't fire me before the octopus demonstration.
I add the muffin doodle. A small curb in the background with an X through it. Visual emphasis on my commitment to not repeating past mistakes.
Then I pack everything carefully. The diagrams. The note. The crate of spices I've been collecting since I knew about this placement. Cardamom from the last city. Smoked paprika I bartered for at a farmers market. Star anise. Whole cloves. Things that smell like comfort and possibility.
The crate is heavy.
I carry it to the shuttle stop at dawn.
Lacy's already at the shop when I arrive. Hair twisted up in some kind of complicated knot thing. Pencil stuck through it. She's on a stepladder arranging the romance section.
The door chimes.
She looks over her shoulder. "You're early."
"I brought plans." I heft the crate. "And apologies. In spice form."
Her eyebrows rise. She climbs down from the ladder with that careful grace that seems fundamentally human. All compact efficiency. No wasted movement.
"Spice form."
"For the cafe." I lower the crate. Gently this time. Hyper-aware of every surface, every potential disaster. "I thought if we're doing cultural programming, we could incorporate flavors. Make signature drinks. Show people that orc cuisine isn't all fermented cabbage and bone marrow."
She peers into the crate. Her expression shifts. Curiosity replacing the usual wariness.
"This is cardamom."
"Yes."
"Real cardamom. Not the pre-ground stuff."
"Grinding it fresh is important. Changes the whole flavor profile." I'm talking too fast again. Can't help it. This is the part I know. The part I'm good at. "I was thinking we could do a spiced coffee. Maybe with honey. Cinnamon. Make it smell like winter markets."
Lacy picks up one of the pods. Turns it over in her fingers. Her nails are short, practical, unpolished. She crushes the pod slightly. Breathes in.
"That's gorgeous."
My breath hitches.
"I can show you," I offer. "How to make it. If you want."
She holds my gaze. Holds my gaze for three full seconds.
"Okay," she says. "Show me."
The coffee machine defeats me immediately.
Not the concept. I understand heating water. Pressure. Extraction. The theoretical framework is sound.
The execution is catastrophic.
"No, you have to tamp it," Lacy says, watching me fumble with the portafilter. "Press down. Firm but not crushing."
I press.
Something crunches.
"That was crushing," she says.
"Sorry."
"Try again."
I do. This time I'm too gentle. The water flows through like I've made coffee-flavored water instead of actual espresso.
Lacy takes the portafilter from me. Her fingers brush mine. Just for a second.
I freeze.
She doesn't seem to notice. She's already dumping the grounds, refilling, demonstrating the proper tamping pressure with focused efficiency.
"See? Firm. Even. Then twist to lock it in."
I watch her hands. The competent certainty of the movement. The way her whole posture shifts into teaching mode.
"Your turn," she says, handing it back.
I try again. This time it works. The espresso flows dark and perfect into the small cup below.
"There," Lacy says, and she's almost smiling. "You can be taught."
"I'm very teachable."
"Debatable." But there's warmth in her voice now. The smallest crack in the armor.
I add the spices. Cardamom. Cinnamon. A tiny scraping of nutmeg. Honey that I sourced from a beekeeper three districts over. The whole shop starts to smell like something from a memory I don't actually have but wish I did.
Lacy accepts the cup. Sips carefully.
Her eyes close.
"Oh," she says. Just that. One syllable.
I wait.
"This is really good, Stone."
The way she says my name. Like it's a real thing. A solid thing. Not just a placeholder for the orc who broke my awning.
I might actually combust from pride.
"We could call it the Winter Market Latte," I suggest. "Or the Cross-Cultural Blend. Or the Please Don't Fire Me Special."
She laughs. That surprised sound again. The one I'm starting to collect like precious things.
"We'll workshop the name," she says.
The small business networking mixer happens on Wednesday.
Darius told me about it. Said it was important for cultural integration. Meeting other business owners. Making connections.
"Bring something to demonstrate your value," he'd advised. "Show what you contribute to the community."
So I bring a net.
It's a good net. Traditional orc fishing net. Hand-knotted. Sturdy. The kind of thing that shows craftsmanship and cultural heritage.
I'm very proud of it.
Lacy stares at me when I arrive at the community center. The net is draped over my shoulder. Properly coiled. Very professional.
"Stone," she says carefully. "Why do you have a net?"
"For networking."
She blinks. "Networking."
"Yes. Darius said to bring something that demonstrates value. This is a traditional orc net. Hand-knotted. Very strong. Good for fishing or carrying heavy loads or demonstrating cultural craftsmanship." I'm explaining this very reasonably. "I thought it would be a good conversation starter."
Someone behind us snorts.
Then someone else.
Then actual laughter ripples through the small crowd of business owners gathered in the community center lobby.
My face heats. That particular orc flush that starts at the collar and works up.
I've made a mistake.
I'm not sure what kind of mistake, but it's clearly a mistake.
Lacy closes her eyes. Takes a breath. When she opens them again, she's not angry.
She's trying not to laugh.
"Stone," she says, and her voice is shaking with the effort of staying composed. "Networking doesn't mean actual nets."
"Oh."
"It means making connections. Meeting people. Talking about business."
"That makes more sense."
The laughter is getting louder. But it's not mean. Not mocking. It's the kind of laughter that happens when something is absurd but also somehow charming.
A woman approaches. Fifties. Sharp suit. Name tag that says Councilwoman Jenkins.
"Is that a genuine orc fishing net?" she asks.
"Yes." I straighten slightly. "Hand-knotted. Traditional pattern from the northern settlements."
"Gorgeous work." She examines it with clear interest. Professional interest. "Would you consider selling these? My daughter runs a artisanal goods shop. She'd love this."
I blink. "Really?"
"Absolutely. Do you have others?"
"I could make more."
"Perfect." She hands me a business card. "Have her call me. We'll work something out."
She walks away.
Lacy stares at me. "You just accidentally networked."
"With a net."
"With a net."
We look at each other.
She starts laughing. Really laughing this time. The kind that makes her eyes crinkle and her whole face transform into something completely unguarded.
I laugh too. Can't help it. The absurdity of the whole situation. The genuine confusion. The fact that I somehow succeeded while completely misunderstanding the assignment.
"You're ridiculous," Lacy says when she catches her breath.
"I know."
"But you sold a net."
"I'm very surprised about that."
She shakes her head. Still smiling. "Come on. Let's actually network. Without props this time."
She takes my arm.
Just casually. Like it's nothing. Her hand rests in the crook of my elbow. Small and warm and completely unexpected.
I stop breathing for approximately three seconds.
Then I follow her into the crowd of business owners, the net still coiled over my shoulder, my heart flip-flops. I absolutely will not examine it right now.
The mixer lasts two hours.
Lacy introduces me to approximately seventeen different people. I remember maybe six names. My brain is too busy being hyper-aware of how close she stays. How she explains Ellis Books & Brews with pride. How she includes me in that explanation.
"Stone's handling our cultural programming," she tells a coffee roaster from three districts over. "Heritage Festival demonstration. Cooking and community education."
The roaster, Marcus, nods with interest. "What kind of cooking?"
"Orc preservation techniques," I explain. "Smoking. Pickling. Traditional spice combinations."
"That could be really popular. People love that rustic, old-world stuff." He hands me a card. "If you need quality coffee for the cafe, call me. I'll give you the cultural programming discount."
He walks away.
Lacy looks at me. "You're accidentally collecting business cards now."
"This is very strange."
"Welcome to networking." She plucks the cards from my hand. Tucks them into her bag with efficient care. "You're doing great."
"I brought a net."