Page 31 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
IVY
The inn smells like the kind of place where too many hearts have been broken and not enough windows have been opened since. There's a tiredness to the walls, a groan in every board beneath my feet, and I think even the bedsheets are mourning something. I don’t ask what. I’m not in the mood for answers anymore.
The room they gave me is upstairs, facing the side alley and an abandoned garden full of weeds and rusted tools. I pretend the withering lilac bush out there doesn’t remind me of the one Garruk trimmed with that half-grumble, half-sigh he does when he pretends to be annoyed. I pretend a lot lately.
I unpack nothing. There’s nothing to unpack.
My boots sit by the door, mud still clinging to the soles. My coat hangs over the back of the chair like it might still smell faintly of sawdust and orchard wind if I’m foolish enough to bury my nose in the collar. I sit on the bed, back straight, hands in my lap, like I’m waiting to be called to the principal’s office instead of hiding from the one place in the world that might still want me.
I haven’t cried. I’ve come close—once, when I burned my tongue on coffee and another time when I saw a familiar redleaf float down the inn’s stairwell like the orchard was trying to follow me—but I haven’t broken yet.
I don't know if that means I'm strong or just hollow.
The second night, the dreams start. Not the pretty kind where Garruk holds me like he means it and the orchard hums content under our feet. No. These are feverish things, all snarled branches and crumbling dirt, where my hands are full of rot and my voice echoes back at me, unanswered. I wake up with his name tangled in my throat and fingers clenched in the bedsheets like they’re the only thing tethering me to myself.
By morning, the mirror doesn’t recognize me.
I look older. Or maybe just scraped raw in a way makeup can’t fix and sarcasm won’t cover. My eyes are puffy, my hair’s doing that uncooperative curl it always does when I sleep too little, and I miss him with an ache that’s all sharp corners and slow bruises.
It’s day four when Lettie storms in like the avenging spirit of questionable choices and cinnamon spice.
The door creaks open under her elbow and she breezes in, arms full of scarves and a thermos that sloshes ominously.
“You look like the orchard spat you out and then thought better of it,” she says cheerfully.
“Good morning to you too,” I deadpan.
She gives me the once-over, lips pursed like she’s counting sins and finding me wanting. “Sit down. Drink this. Don’t ask what’s in it unless you’re emotionally prepared to handle the phrase ‘batwing bitters.’”
I don’t argue. Mostly because I don’t have the energy, but also because the thermos is warm in my hands and, god help me, it smells like home—like cloves and wet dirt and something older than either of us can name. I take a cautious sip. It tastes like revenge.
“You trying to poison me?” I ask.
“If I wanted you dead, Ivy, I’d use something with less kick,” she says, settling onto the armchair and pulling a deck of cards from her coat. “That’ll stitch up what’s left of your nerves and maybe convince your magic not to implode next time you sneeze.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that what this is? Imploding?”
“You tell me.” She fans the cards, face-up, all strange symbols and flickering edges. “The orchard’s sick. The trees are weeping sap. The magic’s erratic. You think that’s coincidence?”
I say nothing. I already know.
I’ve felt the pull every night, like phantom roots wrapping around my ankles, trying to tug me back. I’ve felt the hollow space where Garruk used to be, a silence so loud it makes the air taste like burnt sugar and regret. And worse, I’ve felt the way the land leans toward town—towardme—like it’s searching for a piece of itself it can’t live without.
“I didn’t mean for this,” I murmur, staring into the tea like it’ll give me answers. “I just… needed air.”
Lettie snorts. “Sweetheart, you didn’t open a window. You set fire to the whole damn house.”
I look at her sharply. “I couldn’t stay. He lied to me.”
“He withheld,” she corrects, gently this time. “Which is practically a love language among grumpy old orcs.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I. He made a mistake. You left. And now the orchard’s dying because the bond you didn’t ask for is still yours whether you’re standing on that land or not.”
I feel it then—the crack just beneath my ribs, the truth sliding in like a splinter. She’s right. Of course she is. The land called me back for a reason, and I answered without even realizing I’d done it. And now that I’ve turned away, it doesn’t know what to do but suffer.
And Garruk… gods, Garruk.
