“No thanks necessary, Finch. It was no trouble at all,” he tells the elfin kindly.
Finch’s pink-hued skin deepens in color as a blush blooms on his cheeks. “I’m glad to finally be able to tell you. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again. Now, what can I do for you both,” he asks, his eyes shifting between us curiously.
“Walt Sutton is running for a town council seat. Would you mind if we put a sign in your window?” Norrell says, keeping a light tone. We’ve both been mindful to not pressure anyone, though so far everyone has been enthusiastic about it.
“Anything for him. Walt is a true gentlemale. I haven’t seen him around as much since he retired several years ago,” Finch replies. “Tell him he has my vote!”
“We will. And I’ll remind him to stop by and say hello,” I add, earning a toothy grin from Finch.
After adhering the poster to the window, Norrell and I wave goodbye and then continue down the street.
On the next block, we reach the door beneath the pink Pearlhouse Pastries sign. The head baker Marius Pearlhouse, whose family owns the bakery, is cleaning out one of the ovens. Mars—as his friends call him—and I go way back, but I haven’t seen him in a while. Norrell hasn’t mentioned him, so he may not have either. As we approach the counter, Mars jerks toward us in a clumsy manner, at odds with the agility I know him to possess, jolted by the shock of seeing Norrell.
“Moon and stars, I scarcely believe my eyes. Norrell Snowstrider? Is it really you?” he asks incredulously. “It’s been years! I was gutted when I heard you had left.” His eyes dart between us speculatively. “And the two of you had parted ways.”
Mars and Norrell became friends while he was here, even socializing somewhat regularly. The tarasque steps out from behind the counter and embraces Norrell, a large leonine paw tipped in long claws smacking his back affectionately. It amazes me how his unexpectedly nimble hands create pastry masterpieces each morning, using his claws so expertly and delicately. He holds Norrell by the shoulders now, taking a long look at his old friend. “I thought I’d never see you again. What brings you back?” Again, his eyes flash quickly to mine and back. “And how long will you be staying?”
“It is so good to see you, Mars. I have sorely missed our friendship. I returned a few weeks ago to attend the safety council and am now assisting the team investigating the attack. There has not been much free time yet, to be honest, but I will have more now that the council has gone home. As for how long I will stay…” Norrell hesitates,hisgaze now searching mine momentarily as if I have the answers. “I will be here for some time, it seems. Much of it depends on the investigation. We should plan a time to catch up.” He carefully sidesteps talking about me, which I’m thankful for.
Mars’s large golden eyes shine and his wide mouth splits into a delighted grin, making his rugged face, a blend of leonine and human features, look almost boyish. A feat when many consider his appearance—with a long reddish-brown mane that extends from his head to around his collar bone where his skin turns to scales—to be intimidating. “I would love nothing more, old friend,” he replies.
They exchange phone numbers and agree to figure out a date to meet up soon. When we ask Mars if we can put up a sign, he takes a small stack, promising to circulate them for us. “It’s about time he runs. I’ve seen few as committed to the well-being of this town as Walt. You may be one of the few exceptions,” he tells me with a friendly wink. He stops us before we go, piling a box full of pastries for us and handing us a couple bags as well, one for the box and one for the rest of our campaign signs. We gratefully accept them as we leave.
Stopping and chatting with people at the businesses and shops along the next few blocks eats up nearly two hours. When we reach the square in front of town hall, Walt and Acton follow close behind, their experience similar. “Well, you run for office and suddenly everyone wants to talk your ear off about the changes they want to see. I haven’t even been elected yet.”Walt chuckles, shaking his head in good humor at the situation. “Guess that’s what campaigning is all about!”
“They sense your inner goodness and know you to be an honorable male worthy to entrust the town’s future into your care,” Acton lilts in his airy voice.
He blushes at Acton’s praise. “Or maybe I’m just an old familiar face,” he teases. “But thank you for your sweetness, Acton. I continue to be the luckiest man in the world to be your mate.”
Norrell’s mouth tips up into a smile as he watches them, and I realize mine has done the same as my eyes move back to my uncles, still deliriously in love after fifty years.
“So,” Walt says with a light clap of his hands. “How does Midnight Mystic sound? Acton wants to try their new bee pollen smoothie.” He puts his arm around Acton, settling a hand on his waist while pulling him into his side.
“Sounds great,” I agree. “I’ve been so curious about it too!”
Walt marvels at all his signs in the windows along the street as we walk back to the coffee shop and café. They’re unmissable with their cute slogan in big print.
Midnight Mystic has a full menu catering to nearly every Whispered Folk diet. I always enjoy seeing the food Acton orders since I never quite know what to expect.
Though we arrive during the dinner rush, we’re still able to get a table, claiming it with our leftover campaign posters and then order at the counter. I order spiced pumpkin soup with a side of fresh baked bread. Norrell orders a beef and vegetable pot pie with a side salad. Looking at him, I would have figured him to be much more carnivorous than he is. But long ago he told me his people somehow grow fields of vegetables and grains in the expansive underground cavern they live in.
When we sit down, Walt sizes up Norrell more directly than he had earlier. And frankly I’m surprised he hadn’t said anythingsooner. “So, we haven’t spoken since you came back,” he starts, sounding hesitant. “I’m not saying I forgive you for what you did, but I’m glad to hear about everything you’re doing for Ada since you’ve returned. And for your help today. I feel a little out of my element with this upcoming election, so I appreciate the support.”
Norrell inclines his head. “You are welcome. If there is anything else I can do, just name it. And I have not forgiven myself either, so I would never expect it from anyone else, especially her beloved uncles,” he responds, his voice turning pensive. “A lifetime of good intentions may never make up for that one terrible decision that led to my profound betrayal. And I will live with that knowledge for the rest of my days.”
Walt looks at me for a long moment and sighs, rubbing an unsteady hand over his mouth. It’s a difficult topic and I’m sure the expression on my face reflects my own range of emotions.
“It shows maturity that you understand the impact it had on Ada that you had the audacity to leave her. When you did. I’ll follow Ada’s lead on this, but it may take some time for me to come around again,” he admits plainly. It looks like it pains him to say such a thing to someone he once cared for. Acton surreptitiously rubs a soothing hand along his back.
“I understand. I failed Ada. And you and Acton by extension of that. Leaving her meant I left her family as well. I am eternally sorry. I hope to earn your respect again one day,” he says, his voice unexpectedly thick with emotion.
It’s a crazy notion, considering everything, but I want to comfort both males, even though it’s clear they need to work this out between themselves. Walt took the abandonment very personally since he embraced Norrell as a nephew, though that hadn’t blinded Walt to his shortcomings as a mate to me. Acton was also upset, but he never expressed his heartbreak as outwardly except to comfort me.
Watching us, Acton adds, “Seasons of change bring out the best and worst of those in its midst. We shall let this metamorphosis play out until we cast any more judgment.”
“That’s wise counsel as always, Acton. If my situation is the metamorphosis, I feel like I’m turning into a slug rather than a butterfly. But I do feel like a well-cared-for slug, if that makes y’all feel better about things,” I note with an easy laugh.
“You are not turning into a slug, my dear. They do not go through a metamorphosis,” Walt gently corrects me.
