Jasper smirks. “And long may you survive.”
I shake my head and knock back the drink in one go, but there’s a reluctant smile there too. “Fine. You can both be there. Misery loves company.”
Jasper claps his hands once. “Excellent. I’ll bring emotional support. And popcorn.”
“You will bringnothing,” I say.
Theo stands and starts stacking plates. “We’ll make a plan.”
I watch them, my brothers, already sliding into protective mode, already treating this like something shared.
It’s daunting. Terrifying.
But, as I sit there in Theo’s café, surrounded by empty cups and crumbs and people who’ve got my back whether I like it or not, one thing feels solid.
Whatever comes next, I’m not facing the Queen alone.
13
Goblin Life
Christa
Calling in sick wasthe best idea I’ve had in weeks.
One carefully worded email. A strategic mention of nausea. A polite nod to my condition. Enough truth wrapped around the lie to make it untouchable. I’d hit send and waited.
No follow-up questions. No requests to just pop in for an hour. No passive-aggressive reminder about how busy things were. That told me everything I needed to know.
I spread the receipts out on the coffee table and immediately run out of space. The table was clearly designed for mugs, not ambition, but I make it work anyway, shuffling paper into rows and nudging my laptop closer with my knee. The flat is quiet in that late-evening way where everything feels temporarily paused, like the world is giving me a moment to think.
Task-Goblin has slipped into my life with alarming ease. I hadn’t planned it that way. I’d told myself I was just trying it out, seeing what was there, proving to myself it wasn’t ridiculous. Then the jobs started coming in.
Inbox clear-outs. Calendar rescues. Life admin that had been sitting untouched because people were too tired or too overwhelmed to deal with it. I’d been picky from the start. Nothing involving heavy lifting. Nothing that required pretending I had more energy than I did. Just the things I’m good at. The things I already do, only this time without someone hovering, barking, or acting like it’s a personal favour.
I flip a receipt over and jot the amount down in my notebook. One job had taken an hour and paid more than a full morning at reception. Another had been so straightforward I’d felt almost guilty accepting the money. Almost.
I open the spreadsheet. Because of course there’s a spreadsheet.
Dates run neatly down one side. Tasks logged across the top. Fees added without rounding up, because I refuse to lie to myself even when optimism would be convenient. I start adding again, tapping numbers into the cells and watching the total climb in small, sensible increments.
I pause, then adjust a figure.
Three evenings a week, comfortably. Four if I’m careful. Higher-paying admin jobs only. Nothing that leaves me wrecked the next day.
The number changes.
I lean back against the sofa and rest my tea on the floor, having forgotten to drink it again. My hand drifts to my stomach without thinking, then stills. That part still feels strange. Like something I haven’t quite caught up with yet.
I glance at the calendar on the wall. Colour-coded, obviously. Workdays blocked out. A few evenings alreadymarked where I’ve booked myself for tasks like I’m my own boss and can’t quite believe my nerve.
My phone buzzes.
Ivy
How’s goblin life?
Me
