Page 34 of Pursued By the Orc
Each suite-style room bore a discreet brass nameplate beside the door, engraved with elegant fonts. Inside, the rooms were anything but institutional.
Crown molding and high ceilings, with large bay windows that spilled golden sunlight across plush area rugs and tastefully upholstered armchairs. I made my way to my grandma’s knowing that the door would already be unlocked.
I swung the heavy wooden door open, knowing what I would see inside but also trying to see it from Krusk’s point of view. Based on what he knew of me, I was almost certain he was confused about how we were able to afford this level of elegance.
A muted palette of sage green and cream invited calm, while built-in bookshelves and a vintage record player allowed a touch of my grandma’s personality to shine through. She had her own bathroom lined with heated marble floors and safety features so seamlessly integrated they seemed designed more for comfort than necessity.
Outside the French doors of her corner suite, a private terrace overlooked the manicured garden. When we’d first done the tour, she’d been delighted. It was so similar to the house she’d grown up in. The house that we’d been forced to leave.
She sipped morning tea from her porcelain cups while birdsdarted among the fountains and so far hadn’t had to worry about anything other than what she’d be having for dinner. It was the way I wanted it to stay.
The staff was one of the reasons that I adored this place for her. They were attentive without hovering. It helped her to forget that it was a nursing home. They were quietly invisible, handling her needs without her need to recognize them asstaffdirectly.
Every interaction was laced with warmth and dignity. Conversations happened over the sound of a distant piano, always tuned, always playing something soft. They were so kind to her, and the nurse that had been directly assigned to her care was one of the reasons I had to ensure that she could stay.
She cared for her almost as if she was her own grandma, going above and beyond to ensure that she had everything she needed, contacting me if she had any suggestions or information that was pertinent. We both loved the teal-skinned naiad so much.
She was so dedicated to her job that she barely took any time off, and while I appreciated that she could be there with my grandma on the holidays that I couldn’t, I also knew that it must affect her personal life.
This place never felt like a nursing home to me. It was as though my grandma could continue her life without the stress that had been thrown on us a few years earlier. If I could give that to her, I always would.
“Grandma,” I called, tugging Krusk along behind me, “I brought you a guest.”
“A guest?” my grandma gasped from inside the beautiful kitchen.
The kitchen nook in her suite was more a statement than necessity—compact, exquisite, and barely used, yet always immaculate. It wasn’t the kind of kitchen where meals were made from scratch anymore.
Not like the one in our old home, where I’d sit at the kitchenisland for hours, just watching my grandma as she whipped up creations that my young mind could barely fathom, but rather where tea was steeped in bone china and fresh fruit waited in cut-crystal bowls.
Cabinetry, custom-built in dove-gray maple with matte brass handles, hugged the walls in clean lines. Soft-close drawers held neatly arranged silverware, napkin rings, and an untouched spiral-bound recipe book that I had already made a copy of for myself.
A small but gleaming induction stove sat beneath a vent hood so silent it might have been ornamental. Most residents didn’t cook anymore, but the option—a whisper of normalcy—remained. If my grandma’s hands weren’t as fragile as they were from age and arthritis, she would have been one of the few that used it.
The countertops were veined marble that was cool to the touch and always spotless. A tall display cabinet of tea pots, with matching sets of fine porcelain cups, stood proudly next to a kettle. Above the sink, a narrow window framed a different view of the gardens below—a still life of roses and soft light.
A discreet under-cabinet refrigerator, stocked daily with cream, her favorite fruit preserves, and glass bottles of mineral water, hummed with barely a sound. The microwave was cleverly hidden behind a paneled door. While she had a beautiful sitting area, this was always where we met, and I appreciated the throwback to more familiar times.
As was usual for my grandma, there was no clutter, no crumbs and most definitely no evidence of rush or disorder. Everything was always returned to its place and there was never any sign that anyone had used a single plate or cup.
Even now, I lived in awe of this female who had raised me. The one who had been by my side whenever I needed a mother, and then after my father had passed, she’d stood by me in that roleas well.
CHAPTER 22
Emma
My grandma was sitting at the kitchen table, turned toward me with a table set for tea. It was our favorite tradition and one that I adored. Every Sunday, she would request the tea service to be brought in for us to enjoy.
Even though she didn’t make it herself anymore, I still loved every bit of it. A throwback to simpler, happier times.
The china was hers. A set that I knew well. Bone-white with a faint gold rim, and so fragile I always hesitated before touching it. Each cup sat on its matching saucer with perfect alignment next to tiny silver spoons so dainty they barely fit right in my hands.
A tiered stand of sandwiches—crusts meticulously removed—stood at the center of the table. Smoked salmon on rye, cucumber with mint, egg salad with just a touch of truffle oil. Scones were in a cloth-based basket, warm and soft, with clotted cream and her favorite strawberry preserve, the sweetnessalmost too much but perfect when added in the right proportion.
The tea itself was loose-leaf, steeped in two porcelain pots under the quilted cozies that had been a present from my grandpa. Silly cozies that were covered in bright orange dancing cats and laughing mushrooms. They were the most out-of-place things in the entire suite, but I knew they were her favorite.
And next to all of it sat my grandma. My favorite person in the world. The one person who had been there through my entire life for me. The lines on her face didn’t make her any less beautiful.
Her hands may have curled with arthritis, but her tongue was as nimble as ever—sharp, clever, and never unkind, just precise. She moved like someone who refused to let age rush her; every step was a quiet rebellion against the world’s impatience.
