Page 29 of The Orc’s Comfort

I fold it solemnly and set it beside the hair comb.

Tomorrow evening. After the day is done and the condo is quiet. I will bring the broth, and the hair comb, and the recipe, not as an apology, but as an answer. This is what I am. This is what I am offering. She will know everything, and then she will choose.

That is not cowardice. That is consideration.

I almost believe it.

Chapter Twelve

Julia

I told him last night that I’d find the truth myself if he didn’t give it to me. I meant it as a warning. I’m fairly certain he knew that.

I’ve changed outfits twice this morning anyway. Applied makeup for the first time in weeks. Spent twenty minutes achieving hair that looks like I didn’t think about it. I’m aware of the contradiction. I contain multitudes, and some of them are apparently vain.

Whether I’m dressing for the version of this morning where he shows up ready to be honest, or the one where he hands me a thermos and retreats, I’m not sure. Either way, I’m not meeting it in yesterday’s clothes.

His knock comes at precisely 8:00 AM. I open the door.

He stands perfectly straight, maintaining a careful distance that wasn’t there yesterday. Something in his eyes tells me he hasn’t slept. That, and the way his gaze drops to my lips for one unguarded moment before he looks away.

“I’ve prepared the morning healing broth,” he says, holding out a thermos.

“Thank you.” I take it without letting our fingers touch, because apparently we’re doing that now. “Would you like to come in?”

He hesitates for the first time since the day he found me under a bookcase. “I have several errands this morning. Perhaps later.”

“Of course.”

He nods once and turns to go. Just before the door closes: “Julia.”

“Yes?”

“Your appointment with Dr. Shah is at eleven. I will collect you at ten-thirty.”

I close the door.

I stand here holding the thermos and take stock of what I’m actually feeling, which turns out to be: annoyed, attracted, and annoyed about being attracted. He kissed me with something that clearly meant something, dodged every direct question, and is now retreating behind a thermos and a pickup time. I gave him an opening last night. This morning he took the errand route instead.

Fine. I said I’d find the answers myself. Libraries exist. So does the internet.

I look at the shelf where Rhazgar organized my cultural anthropology texts by size and color. Useless system. But I know exactly which ones I need.

At ten-thirty he knocks, and we walk to his car in the awkward silence of two people who have things to say and have agreed, without discussing it, not to say them yet. He opens the passenger door. I get in. He goes around to the driver’s side. We pull out of the lot.

“How is the ankle this morning?” he asks.

“Fine.”

Two blocks pass.

“The broth from yesterday,” he begins. “The second preparation. I should mention that—”

“I did some reading this morning,” I say.

He goes quiet. The kind of quiet that means he understood exactly what I just said.

We don’t speak again until he pulls up outside the clinic. He puts the car in park. Neither of us moves immediately.