Page 144 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

“Does he always just…stand there?”

“No. Usually he doesn’t stop at all.”

She’d looked confused. I hadn’t elaborated.

Greth had been leaving things in the entryway too. Small paintings, no bigger than my palm, propped on the windowsill or tucked near the coat hooks. A sleeping snugglethorn. A mossnibble nest rendered in such detail I could see the individual threads of Krem’s shirt.

Gorgeous art.

Now there were seven small canvases scattered around the front area, and Tenley had started asking whose work it was.

I hadn’t told her yet.

Greth would get there eventually. Maybe.

I sat behind my desk and pulled up the intake form on my computer, the redesigned version I’d spent two weeks building after the last school session showed us exactly where Traig’s original system got in its own way.

He’d made one adjustment when I’d showed it to him.

I’d let him, because this was how we worked now.

A family in Presque Isle wanted to meet some thornsprigs. They had a greenhouse and thought the plant sprites might keep pests away from their more exclusive plants. They were right. Thornsprigs were very territorial. I logged their information, sent the response Traig and I had written together, and added them to next week’s schedule.

My tote bag sat on the floor beside the desk, slouched against the wall.

I reached for my water bottle and felt something else at the bottom.

My notebook.

I pulled it out slowly, the cover soft and worn from months of being carried everywhere. The pages fell open to an entry in the front.

Traig brought me coffee before I arrived.

I closed it.

The good things were right here, in the coffee mug on my desk that Traig had filled this morning, in Fred’s soft grumble and Amanda’s pink crown.

I didn’t need to write them down anymore.

The afternoon passed as usual. A family stopped by to meet Gerald, who was in a social mood for once and let three children pat his woolly sides.

Laina appeared in the entryway around three, Sofia perched on her shoulder, one hand resting on her belly in the unconscious way she’d been doing for the past few weeks.

“Brovish wants to know if you two are coming to dinner on Friday,” she said. “He’s making something with trellfruit that he won’t stop talking about.”

“We’ll be there.” I gestured at her hand. “How are you feeling?”

Her smile widened. “Good. Tired, but good. The morning sickness is torture.”

“Two months now?”

“Almost ten weeks.” She patted her still-flat belly. “My mom’s planning to come up soon so she can touch my baby bump. And Brovish has been impossible. Yesterday he wouldn’t let me carry a box of tissues because it was ‘too heavy.’”

“It’s sweet.”

“It’s overbearing.” But her expression said she didn’t mind at all. “Drogar’s already planning to teach them how to climb trees. Krem’s started a developmental milestone tracking system. And Greth painted a tiny nursery scene. He left it on our kitchen table one afternoon without saying anything.”

My chest tightened. “That’s very Greth.”