Page 31 of Never Been Gargoyled
“If you do that, you apologize and try again.”
“Thank you.” I pulled out my wallet. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Consider it an investment in our education.” His face darkened again, and he directed his gaze at the floor. “We could help each other out. Compare what works and what doesn’t.”
“You meanIshould experiment and tell you what works and what doesn’t so you don’t make the same mistakes as me.”
He looked almost hopeful. “Unless you think that's a terrible idea.”
“No, I think it's a good one.”
He grunted.
“In between then, you should get up the nerve to speak with the woman you’re interested in.”
“I’ll try.”
With a nod, I stepped out into the morning air, box in hand, and realized I was smiling. It had been great talking to Dorvak. Easy and comfortable, like we were old friends instead of near strangers.
I guess I did have a friend. Two, if I counted Dazy.
The thought made my chest feel light as I took to the sky.
The flight back to the estate was shorter, wind carrying me swiftly over the trees. I landed on the front lawn and folded my wings. Closing my eyes, I sought the feel of the building as all house gargoyles do. No movement I could discern the second floor. Dazy was still sleeping.
Wonderful. I had a lot left to do.
I let myself in through the front door and carried the box to the kitchen. New treasures that would make my sweet-loving woman happy. I arranged them on one of Helga's good plates, the blue and white china she'd brought back from a trip to England.
Now for a note. I found paper and a pen in the drawer by the telephone.
Thank you for lunch yesterday. Returning the favor with breakfast. -F
I stared at the words. Were they too formal? Should I hint at romance? I’d heard it said that it was the thought that counted, but my thoughts might not be good enough.
Hopefully she’d know who F was.
I propped the note against the plate.
After admiring my gift, I went to the sink to wash the stickiness off my hands. The faucet turned easily, but only a thin trickle of water emerged. I tried the other handle. Same problem.
This wouldn't do. Dazy deserved proper water pressure.
I made a mental note of what the faucet looked like and headed back outside. Another flight, this time to the hardware store. The owner knew exactly what I needed.
“Old faucet like that, you'll want to replace the aerator and maybe the cartridge,” they said, pulling parts from various bins and handing them to me. “Got everything right here.”
Twenty minutes later, I was back in Dazy's kitchen with tools and replacement parts. The repair took longer than expected. The old cartridge had corroded in places and required careful coaxing to remove. But when I turned the water back on after I’d finished, it flowed strong and clear.
Much better.
I cleaned up my tools and washed my hands properly, then stepped back to survey the kitchen. Faucet working as it should. Pastries arranged beautifully. Note positioned where she couldn't miss it.
Upstairs, I could hear the faint sound of an alarm clock ringing. Footsteps crossed the floor above me.
She was awake.
I slipped outside and settled on the front porch, positioning myself where I could hear but not be immediately visible. My heart kept jolting against my ribs. Would she like the pastries or notice the faucet? She might think I was being presumptuous, rather than helpful.
