Page 12 of Till Orc Do Us Part
She swipes the card with a sigh. As the receipt prints, she folds her arms again, tone colder.
“You’re wasting your time. Buying books won’t change anyone’s mind.”
“Perhaps,” I say. “But words have power. Even when unread.”
Her fingers still. For a breath, I see the flicker of doubt in her eyes. Then the mask returns.
“Enjoy your books, Mr. Vellum.”
“I intend to.”
I take the bag, nod once to Jamie, and move toward the door. At the threshold, I pause.
“Your son is… insightful.”
She stiffens. “He’s five.”
“All the more reason.”
Without waiting for a reply, I step into the salt-laced night, door creaking shut behind me.
As I walk toward the trailer, books in hand, her scent lingers—ink and sugar and sea air. Unexpected. Disarming.
And I wonder if perhaps this fight is not so simple after all.
The night air bites sharper than before.
I walk slowly, deliberate as ever, back toward the trailer. The paper bag crinkles under my arm, corners softened already by salt-heavy mist.
I glance at it once—three books I chose at random. Or so I thought.
Salt and Story. The Boardwalk Companion. Oceans Within.
Without meaning to, I repeat the titles silently, one after the other. As if cataloging something precious.
I frown.
This is foolish. A distraction.I do not indulge in distractions.
But her scent lingers in my throat. Ink and sugar and salt. The way her fingers trembled, barely, as she rang me up. The fire behind her eyes when she said:“I survive.”
I grit my teeth.
Rowan Moore unsettles me.
Not because she’s loud. I have faced louder. Not because she fights. I have outlasted fighters.
But because she does not cower.
And because her son—wide-eyed, curious—walks through my world like he belongs there.
That is dangerous.
I adjust my grip on the bag, spine straightening.
Tomorrow, I will read none of these books.
Tomorrow, I will review my plans again—clean, sharp, untouched by sentiment.
