“Acorn.”
What? I’m simply observing.
“You’re doing more than observing.”
He chittered and continued grooming, one ear swiveled toward Feral.
“He’s commenting on your cleaning technique,” I said.
“I gathered it was something like that.” Feral moved to the next shelf. “Tell him I’m doing fine without supervision.”
Acorn’s response came right away.The wolf scrubs well but slow as stone. Perhaps his mate should help him, he works alone.
“I’ll tell your squirrel friend about that other squirrel you were seeing at my grandmother’s manor,” I said.
Acorn went completely still.You wouldn’t.
“Try me.”
His tail puffed.That’s cruel.
“It’s fair game.”
He huffed and went back to grooming in silence, his movements sharp.
Feral’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t comment.
I wouldn’t actually do something like that, but my companion didn’t need to know it.
I worked through another round of crystallization notes while he cleaned. The compound analysis from yesterday showed interesting properties I wanted to cross-reference with the bioluminescent samples. My pen moved across the page, documenting my observations, while Feral moved furniture to reach corners that hadn’t been touched in over a decade.
Him in his space, me in mine. The office belonged to both of us now instead of being divided by an invisible line of grief.
Eventually I heard him leave, probably to empty the bucket. He returned with it sloshing again.
“I could’ve spelled it clean for you,” I said without turning.
“I didn’t mind going downstairs. It gave me a chance to check on my pack.”
He got back to work.
“The desk is walnut,” he said after a while.
I looked up. “What?”
“My father’s desk.” He ran a polishing cloth across the now-visible wood grain. “I’d forgotten. It’s been so covered in grime I thought it was darker.”
“It’s beautiful wood.”
“He commissioned it when I was small. Had it made special.” Feral’s hand stilled on the surface. “I remember watching thecraftsman work on it. My father let me help sand one of the legs. I was maybe four and did a terrible job, but he kept it like that anyway.”
I turned to face him. “Which leg?”
He pointed to the right front corner.
I could see it if I looked closely, slightly uneven sanding in one section, but still there if you knew to look.
“He was a good father,” I said.
