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“A whole jar would be unwise,” Yorrel says.
That isn’t a no. I give him a hard look over the kids’ heads, and he winks at me.
“It is not poison,” he adds for Dana, who looks ready to gather up all four kids and run. “It’s berries and sugar.”
Dana tastes it first, then nods, and Yorrel puts a fingertip of jam on a cracker for each of the kids. He makes mine with a real spoonful. It’s sweet, and then it’s warm all the way down, like a cinnamon candy.
“That’s hot,” I say.
“It’s not hot,” says Ivy, with red berry around her lips.
I’ve been shown up by a four-year-old.
Yorrel is watching me eat it with both ears forward, and I know why. The pamphlet says an orc gives his mate three gifts, and the first one is food he made himself. He got up early to make me jam. Nobody has ever gotten up early for me.
My eyes sting. It’s the jam. I’m sticking with that.
Sadie walks over to him and sits down on his boot. She holds on to his shin with both hands, and he looks down at her.
“The smallest one has sat upon my boot and declared it a mountain,” he says.
“She didn’t declare anything,” Mateo says. “She doesn’t talk.”
“She declared it with her eyes,” Yorrel says, and Sadie nods.
When I stop, three children yell, “Turn the page!” Yorrel says it with them, right on time, and so does Sadie.
It’s the first thing she’s ever said at story hour. Dana puts her hand over her mouth, and I have to look at the book for a second before I can keep reading.
Friday and Saturday, he’s on the steps early, and I teach him more of the alphabet. Sunday and Monday, I practice what I’m going to say to the board until I have it memorized. The hearing is Tuesday at the county seat, which is forty minutes down the highway. I’m closing the library early and I told Yorrel I’d pick him up at half past four.
Elsie is on the porch of the Whitaker House when I pull in.
“He’s been ready for an hour.” That’s all she says. Elsie is the quietest person in Venn’s Crossing, and I’ve always liked her for it.
He comes out and folds himself into my car. Even with the passenger seat as far back as it goes, his knees are still against the dash. My stomach does the flip it does every time I see him now. I’m getting used to it. I don’t like that I’m getting used to it.
“Your car was built for a smaller people,” he says.
“It was built for me. Your jacket was built for someone smaller too, and you wear that.”
“Yes.” He grins. “The jacket is a small jacket.”
Is he ever in a bad mood? I’ve never seen it. Everything I throw at him, he takes with a grin and a yes. He doesn’t mind the small car or the tight jacket. So far he doesn’t mind me either, and I don’t trust that yet.
We drive with the heater off. An orc in a small car keeps the air warm. My thighs are pressed together, and under the engine noise, he’s humming. It’s making me wet. I’m going to walk into a public hearing turned on and furious at the same time. This is what my life is now.
“You are nervous,” he says.
“I’m not nervous. I’ve been waiting two weeks to yell at these people.”
“Yes. That is nervous.”
I’m not sure the implant got that word right. Or it did, and I don’t like it.
The board meets in a room with a drop ceiling. Three men sit behind a desk. The chairman is Whitcomb, and next to him is Kessler, the county library director, with an official-looking binder. Fran is in the second row in her mayor blazer, and nine people from Venn’s Crossing sit behind her. Yorrel stands at the back wall because none of the chairs will hold him.
Fran goes first. She speaks for the town for three minutes, explaining what the library means to the residents. She’s good at public speaking, and when she sits down, I have newfound respect for her.
