Page 42 of Her Orc Healer

I froze.

Maeve’s question landed like a stone in my chest, solid and heavy. I forced my fingers to still on the ink pot, my grip tightening just slightly before I set it back down.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, because lying wouldn’t do either of us any good.

Maeve frowned. “But he always comes.”

Notalways. Just… often enough that she had started counting on it. Just often enough that she had started trusting it.

I had, too.

Auntie Brindle’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, dry and knowing. “Funny thing about men like that,” she mused from where she sat at the worktable, plucking stems from a bundle of dried nettle. “You tell ’em to stay away, they listen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She gave me a look that made it painfully clear she thought I was slow. "You shut him out, girl. And now you’re surprised he ain’t kicking the door down to change your mind?"

"I did not shut him out," I said, bristling.

One gray brow arched.

I crossed my arms, feeling very much like Maeve must when I caught her red-handed in a mischief she wasn’t ready to admit to yet.

Auntie Brindle made a soft noise under her breath, somewhere between knowing and amused, and when I finally looked over at her, she was watching me with those sharp, glittering eyes.

"Well," she said, dusting her hands off, "I'll be glad to stay with Maeve while you go check on him."

I scowled. “I’m not checking on him.”

Auntie Brindle just kept plucking nettles, utterly unbothered.

Maeve, on the other hand, perked up, turning wide, curious eyes on me. “Why would you need to check on him? Is he lost?”

“No.” I crossed my arms tighter. “He’s fine.”

Maeve’s frown deepened, like she was solving a puzzle in her head. “Then why did you shut him out?”

“I didn’t,” I huffed.

Maeve’s brow furrowed. “Does he need a key?”

Auntie Brindle snorted. “Something like that.”

I shot her a sharp look, but the damage was done. Maeve’s face lit up like she had solved a great mystery.

“Oh! I can make him one!” She scrambled up and darted to her stash of paper scraps. “I’ll write Kazrek’s Key on it, and then he can—”

I groaned, rubbing at my temples. “Maeve, he doesn't need a key. He just—” I stopped, because I didn’t have a good way to finish that sentence.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t just vanished.

I had run.

"I'm not going over there," I insisted, running out of arguments.

Auntie Brindle hummed. "Suit yourself. But you're like a kettle left on the stove too long, girl—tense, steaming, about ready to whistle. And that little one’s not the only one missing him."

I turned my glare on her instead. “I don’t—”

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