“Is that why you came here? Because Grimlock accepts what you are?”
Blue considers the question while we watch the painter add another layer of storm clouds to his canvas. “I stayed because Grimlock accepts what I am without expecting me to become something else.”
“And what are you?”
His laugh is dark. “That’s still under investigation.”
We continue through the artisan quarter, past a glassblower’s shop where rainbow light refracts through the windows and a pottery studio where clay figures seem to watch us from their shelves. Blue points out details I would have missed—the way each building’s architectural style reflects its owner’s personality, how the studiosare arranged to catch different qualities of light throughout the day, the reason certain shops cluster together while others stand alone.
“The silversmith and the jeweler share customers but compete on craftsmanship,” he explains as we pass two shops whose windows display intricate metalwork and fancy necklaces. “The fiber artist and the dressmaker collaborate on custom pieces. The woodcarver makes frames for the painters and sculptures for the gardeners.”
“It’s like a whole ecosystem.”
“Exactly.” Blue seems pleased that I understand. “Everyone here has something they need, and something they can offer. It creates... balance.”
The way he saysbalancemakes me think he’s talking about more than just commercial relationships. As if Grimlock itself is some kind of carefully maintained equation where every element serves a purpose.
We emerge from the artisan quarter onto a broader street that leads uphill toward Grimlock’s residential area. The houses here are larger, more ostentatious, set back from the street behind iron gates and gardens that look like they require full-time maintenance. Gothic Revival mansions stand next to Victorian painted ladies, with the occasional Tudor cottage tucked between them like punctuation marks.
“The old families live up here,” Blue says, following my gaze toward a particularly imposing mansion whose turrets and gargoyles make it look like it belongs in a horror movie. “People whose great-grandparents founded Grimlock, or whose money built half the town.”
“Do you qualify as old family or new money?”
“Neither. I’m useful family.” Blue’s tone is matter-of-fact. “I solve problems that the old families prefer not to acknowledge and the new money isn’t equipped to handle.”
Before I can ask what kind of problems require Blue’s particular skill set, he guides us onto another side street.
We make our way back toward the town center, but Blue chooses yet another route, this one leading us past Grimlock’s cemetery. The wrought-iron gates stand open, revealing rows of headstones and monuments that speak to the town’s long history. Some of thegraves are recent, marked with fresh flowers and polished stone. Others are aged, their inscriptions worn smooth by weather and time.
In the distance, a figure moves between the headstones. A man with weathered features and dirt-stained clothes, methodically digging a fresh grave with an actual shovel. The steady thunk of metal hitting earth carries across the quiet cemetery, punctuated by the scrape of dirt being tossed aside. Even from here, I can make out the intricate tattoos covering his arms, symbols I can’t quite make out but that definitely aren’t your typical tribal bands or barbed wire. Do people even use shovels anymore? I think everything is done with machines these days. But this guy works like he’s done this a thousand times before, no rush, just muscle memory.
“Grimlock takes its history seriously,” Blue observes as we pass the entrance. “Death is just another part of the community here.”
“Cheerful.”
“Reality.” Blue glances at the cemetery with something that might be fondness. “People here understand that everything ends eventually. It makes them appreciate what they have while they have it.”
The comment feels loaded with meaning, but before I can pursue it, we stop in front of a bakery. The building itself is narrow and tall, wedged into a space that barely looks wide enough to hold it. The facade is painted in alternating stripes of deep purple and gold, with windows outlined in white gingerbread trim that’s definitely not regulation. Above the door, a hand-painted sign reads The Upper Crust in flowing script, surrounded by painted roses that seem to melt when you’re not looking directly at them.
“This is where Wren sources her favorite desserts,” Blue explains as his hand presses against the small of my back. The touch is light, automatic, but it sends heat racing up my spine. “The Cupp brothers took special requests for tonight’s party, and I want to make sure Wren has her favorites.”
The gesture is unconsciously protective, casually courteous, and I find myself wondering if Blue realizes he’s doing it. There’s something old-fashioned about the way he moves through the world. Likehe was raised by people who believed in opening doors and treating women like they were made of something precious.
“Smart man. Never anger the person who controls your food supply.”
The front windows display the most elaborate pastries I’ve ever seen—three-tiered cakes decorated with sugar flowers in impossible colors, éclairs filled with what resembles liquid gold, croissants shaped like tiny works of art. But it’s the attention to detail that takes my breath away. Every sugar rose has individual petals, every éclair is perfectly glazed, the croissants are identical to one another, showing obsessive care. Nothing on display is flawed.
A bell above the door chimes a complex melody as we enter. Not the simple ding of most shops, but an actual composition that could be mistaken for wind chimes caught in a gentle breeze. I step into what can only be described as a curiosity shop that happens to sell pastries.
The bakery is crammed floor to ceiling with treasures that have nothing to do with baking. Mismatched chairs surround tiny tables set with delicate china tea services. Shelves line every available wall space, displaying teapots shaped like fantastical creatures, vintage books with cracked leather spines, pocket watches that tick at different rhythms, and an extensive butterfly collection in glass cases that throw rainbow patterns across the walls when sunlight hits them.
But it’s the man behind the counter who makes everything else look ordinary by comparison.
Elliott Cupp moves like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra, his hands dancing through the air as he arranges sugar flowers on a cake that defies several laws of physics. He looks about forty, but his hair is completely gray. He’s wearing a pristine white baker’s apron over a three-piece suit in blue velvet that makes Blue’s beard look subtle. His hair is Einstein-wild, and his pale green eyes have the unfocused look of someone who’s always listening to something just out of earshot.
“Elliott,” Blue calls gently. “I’ve brought someone to meet you.”
Elliott looks up, and for a moment his eyes snap into laser focus.“Blue! Perfect timing, my dear boy,” he says, his voice carrying the faint warmth of somewhere farther south. “Been expecting you.”
