Page 95 of Something Handsome This Way Comes

Milo sighed, pausing the grind on his mortar and pestle. “You’re distracting me.”

“Mmm.” Grievance buried his face against the side of Milo’s neck. “Just let me hold you.”

“You held me all last night.”

“No.” Grievance tightened his arms. “You rolled away.”

“You snore.”

“I only snore when I fall asleep after I’ve been very satisfied.” He punctuated the sentence by gently nipping Milo’s ear. “And you, my mate, managed to satiate me thoroughly last night.”

Exactly as intended, Milo’s entire face turned the most wonderful shade of pink to match his sweater.

“I—I am trying to make medicine.”

“You’re making horny chicken powder.”

“It’s important, horny chicken powder! Those eggs save us a ton on groceries.”

Pip clicked his mandibles happily from atop the shelf, the way he always did after a meal.

“Monster fusses over Nestmaker. Nestmaker pretend not to like fussing. Same conversation every morning. Pip bored.”

Before his mate could come up with a response, the apothecary bell rang as the door swung open.

“Healer Pembrooke?”

“Shit!” Milo cursed, ducking free of Grievance’s arms and darting through the connecting door leading deeper into the cottage.

Grievance smiled at their customer. “He’ll be right back.” The man, a father with two young boys, looked momentarily stunned but nodded. “In the meantime, feel free to peruse.”

“Yes, yes, yes! Nestmaker make best medicines! Buy much. Spend money.”

Grievance sighed. Pip still hadn’t mastered the art of subtlety. Luckily, before the spider could speak anymore, Milo re-entered the storefront, now in his full professional Healer’s uniform.

The pink sweater had disappeared, replaced with his formal navy Healer’s coat fastened with polished brass clasps. His pointed hat sat neatly atop his copper curls, though several rebellious strands had already escaped around his ears.

He carried himself differently, and Grievance took a step back, ready to watch his mate go to work.

“Good morning,” Milo said, confidence bolstering his voice. “What seems to be the trouble?”

The father stepped forward, one frightened-looking boy clinging to each side of him.

“We’ve got a bit of a situation,” he said, then ushered his boys forward. Neither child could be older than ten. Both were crying. “Show the Healer, boys.”

They held out their hands. The fingertips were an alarming shade of violet.

“We went to collect their racing brooms this morning, but the moment they grabbed the handles…”

“It hurt.” One of the boys sniffled.

“It was so cold.” The other one added.

Milo walked around the counter and knelt until he was eye level with the children, taking each tiny hand with practiced care. Healing magic shimmered beneath Milo’s fingertips as pale blue light spread across the children’s hands.

“Can you wiggle them for me?”

They did, but winced from the pain.