“A tax form!” That’s Carl’s kid. We don’t ask questions.
The kids know us as Miss Rianne and Mr. Frost, the librarian and the meteorologist who met during last winter’s “gas leak explosion.” They don’t need to know about the magical bond that shows in how we move in sync without trying, or that I can tell he skipped lunch again by the distracted look in his eyes.
“Five-minute warning for snack time!” I announce.
The kids disperse to wash hands, leaving us momentarily alone.
“Good story?” he asks, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
“The ice elf was very heroic.”
“Vetrfolk.”
“Still?”
“Always.”
Mister Poofypants the Third, now a solid thirty-five pounds and definitely glowing, walks past carrying a shadow mouse in his mouth. It’s his afternoon snack. We’ve given up trying to stop him.
“Keith’s presentation about summer reading starts in ten minutes,” I remind Stenrik.
“How many slides?”
“Forty-seven.”
“Still excessive.”
“Keith believes in comprehensive coverage!” comes from the conference room.
Keith is on the porch, laptop out, preparing tomorrow’s presentation. Carl is in the garden, tending to his shadow roses that only bloom at night.
“Ready for dinner?” Stenrik asks.
“Carl made reservations.”
“How does Carl always get reservations?”
“Carl has connections. Shadow connections.”
We go inside, and I catch our reflection in the hallway mirror.
“Any regrets?” Stenrik asks.
“Only one.”
“What?”
“We never did finish that cart race to Biography.”
He laughs. “Rematch tomorrow?”
“You’re on. Winner gets to pick Keith’s presentation topic.”
“That’s cruel.”
“That’s motivation.”
But I’m smiling. Stenrik’s smiling. Even Poof, who’s somehow managed to get onto the kitchen counter despite his bulk, appears to be smiling.
