Page 25 of Till Orc Do Us Part
I freeze. “There is noand.”
Cass grins, teeth sharp as a gull’s beak. “Aye. And yet here you are. Slinking through shadows.”
I set the basket aside. “I seek only to understand.”
“Do you?” He steeples his fingers. “Or are you trying not to remember?”
The words hit harder than they should.
Cass shifts, gaze going distant. “I courted her grandmother once,” he says softly. “Summer nights on this very boardwalk. Danced her beneath lantern light till dawn.”
I say nothing. There is reverence in his voice. A thread of memory spun so fine it threatens to snap.
“She fought for this place,” he continues. “Fierce as any tide. Rowan’s got that same fire. Same stubborn streak.”
“I have noticed,” I say dryly.
Cass chuckles. “Aye. Thought you might.”
He pours himself a splash of amber liquid from a battered flask, sips. “You think this boardwalk needs saving.”
“It needs rebuilding,” I reply. “Its bones are broken.”
Cass leans back. “Bones can be mended. But you’re missing the marrow, boy.”
I frown. “Explain.”
He gestures around the cluttered shop. “These trinkets? Worthless, to the right eyes. Yet each one holds a tale. The boardwalk’s the same. You rip it bare, you strip the stories with it.”
“Sentiment does not fund restoration.”
“True,” he agrees. “But it does give it purpose.”
I lean forward. “Purpose without function is folly.”
His eyes gleam. “And function without soul is hollow.”
We stare at each other across the dim space, silence stretching taut.
He sighs and reaches beneath the counter. From some hidden drawer, he produces a battered brass compass. The glass is cracked, the needle spinning lazy circles.
He slides it toward me.
“North don’t always mean right,” he says. “Sometimes you gotta follow the tide.”
I lift it, weighing the worn metal in my palm. It hums faintly beneath my fingers—old magic, or perhaps only memory.
“Why give this to me?”
Cass smiles. “Because you ain’t beyond saving yet, boy. Not if you remember to listen.”
I stand, pocketing the compass. “I do not require saving.”
“Maybe not.” He leans back, eyes twinkling. “But you sure as hell need reminding.”
I incline my head—a rare gesture of respect.
“Thank you,” I say.
