"Of course," I lie.
"Great. Email me the details by the fifteenth. Have a good day, Ms. Ellis."
He hangs up before I can respond.
I read my phone. At the blank screen. At my own reflection distorted in the glass.
Cultural programming.
Two weeks.
I don't even have working espresso machine.
"Bad news?"
Stone's voice startles me. I look up. He's finished with the biography section. Standing a respectful distance away. Hands clasped in front of him again. That same waiting-for-detention posture.
"No," I say automatically. Then, because lying takes energy I don't have, "Maybe. I don't know yet."
He doesn't push. Just nods like that answer makes perfect sense.
I appreciate that more than I should.
"The Heritage Festival," I hear myself say. "Next month. I'm supposed to have a booth. And cultural programming. Whatever that means."
"Demonstrations. Performances. That kind of thing." He shifts his weight. The floorboards creak. "My last placement did one. They had me make borscht."
"Borscht."
"Orc recipe. Different from the human version. More root vegetables. Less beet." He pauses. Considers. "Actually, no beet at all. Just things that grow in dark places."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "How'd it go?"
"Three people liked it. Twelve people were polite. One person threw up." He says it matter-of-factly. Like those are reasonable odds. "But the grant inspector counted it as cultural exchange, so."
"So I need to find something that won't make people throw up."
"That's usually a good baseline."
This time I do smile. Small. Brief. But real.
He notices. Something shifts in his expression. Uncertainty to something warmer. His shoulders drop half an inch, relaxing just a fraction, and for a moment he looks less like he's bracing for impact and more like he's actually here, present, part of this strange little space we're sharing.
My phone chimes again.
I glance down. Text from Aunt Rene.
Pharmacy called. Refill ready. Can you pick up before five?
Of course I can. Because I don't have enough on my plate already.
I type back a quick affirmative. Shove the phone in my pants.
"I need to run an errand," I say. Look at Stone. At the shop. At the disaster waiting to happen if I leave him unsupervised. "Can you hold down the fort for twenty minutes? Don't touch the espresso machine. Don't rearrange anything. Don't talk to customers unless they talk to you first."
"What if they do talk to me first?"
"Be polite. Don't mention the borscht incident."
