Page 41 of Till Orc Do Us Part
But then I see the folded quilt on the bed, the small note—“Thank you. D.”—left neatly atop the pillow.
Jamie’s cardboard lighthouse still stands sentinel near the headboard.
And on the writing desk—half-hidden beneath a stack of books—I spot it.
A sketchbook.
I hesitate.
I shouldn’t look.
I’m absolutely going to look.
I pull it free and flip it open.
The first few pages are what I expect—crisp lines of glass towers and sleek façades, modernist dreams caught in graphite.
But beneath that—later sketches shift.
The boardwalk. The old love-lock rail. The fish-fry stand, slanted and stubborn.
And—my breath catches—my bookstore.The Gilded Page rendered in soft, careful strokes. Windows glowing. Lavender bundles hanging crookedly above the door.
Jamie is there too, sketched in the corner with his curls wild and his cardboard lighthouse at his feet.
And me.
Tucked behind the register, sleeves rolled, head bent over a stack of books. Captured with a precision that makes my throat go tight.
I slam the sketchbook shut.
“Gods damn you, Drokhaz,” I mutter.
Because this?
This is not the work of a man indifferent to what he wants to tear down.
And it’s entirely too dangerous for my heart.
I barely make it downstairs before the doorbell jangles sharp and loud.
“Delivery!” comes a voice—young, frazzled.
I yank the door open. A bedraggled kid in a BrightDrop uniform stands there, cart stacked high with boxes markedRare Book Consortium.
“Shipment from Portland,” he says. “Sorry it’s late—storm backed everything up.”
“It’s fine. Bring it in.”
He wheels the cart inside. I grab the clipboard, scrawl my signature.
Of course—another voice.
Deep. Steady. Familiar.
“Morning, Ms. Moore.”
I stiffen.
