Ruby raised one sculpted eyebrow at . “You’re, uh, sure about these asurents, Fischer?”
I smiled back. “I am! Don’t worry—it’s not for . It’s for a project I’m working on.”
“So sort of pirate scarecrow?” Steven asked with a smile.
“Er—yeah, sothing like that. How long do you think it’ll take you guys?”
Ruby tilted her head side to side. “For you, we can have it done by this evening.”
“That’d be perfect!” I gave them both a genuine smile. “How much will it be?”
“Nothing,” Steven said, looking down at sothing he was stitching. “We can make it out of scraps, and it’ll give sothing to do with my hands this afternoon.”
“Actually . . .” I said. “I was hoping I could help you with the crafting of it.”
“Oh?” Steven raised an eyebrow. “You’re interested in working with leather?”
“Well, this project has sentintal value to , and I’d feel better about not paying if I helped you out . . .”
Steven shrugged. “It’s free regardless, but you’re more than welco to help with it.”
“I appreciate it, Steven, but you’re gonna have to charge at so point . . .”
“Nope!” Ruby bead a smile, her eyes crinkling. “We’re still well in your debt from the pastries. If you request sothing expensive, we’ll gladly charge, but for now, you have an open tab.”
“All right.” I returned a grin with the sa ferocity. “All I can do is thank you, then. I’ll find a way to return the kindness.”
“You know, I heard sothing wise the other day . . .” Steven’s eyes danced above his coy smile. “Friends don’t count favors.”
“Morning, George!”
George went rigid in his spot in line, slowly turning to look at .
“Oh. Hello, Fischer.”
“How are ya, mate?”
“I-I’m well, Fischer—how are you?”
“I’m swell, mate! Always a good morning in your lovely village!”
The lord nodded, his face going a little tight as a silence stretched between us.
“You know, George, I’ve been aning to thank you.”
“Er—you have?”
“Yeah, mate. You’ve been nothing but helpful since I got here, even when I co bother you in your ho.”
“Oh.” George smiled, but his eyes remained tight. “Any ti, Fischer. It’s no worries at all—”
“No, seriously.” I shook my head with a wincing smile. “The information you’ve given has really helped so far. Sincerely, thank you.”
My attempt at reassurance only seed to kick his social anxiety in more, and beads of sweat started forming on his forehead.
Thankfully, Lena saved him. “Good morning to you, George! The usual?”
“Uh—two coffees, please, but only fifteen pastries.”
“Only fifteen?” A look of genuine concern crossed Lena’s face. “Are you and Geraldine well?”
“Just a mild case of indigestion.” George dabbed his forehead. “I’m sure it’ll pass.”
Good lord—I’m affecting his digestion. I really need to give the poor man so space . . .
When George collected his coffees and pastries, I simply smiled and nodded at him, not wanting to stress him out any further. He nodded back, shuffling away.
I spun back to the counter, displaying my half-tucked shirt in all its glory.
“G’day, Lena. How ya doing?”
She sniffed, refusing to speak as she looked up and down.
My smile broadened. “Just my coffee, thanks.”
Maria, Roger’s much more amiable daughter, was just collecting a couple of pastries when I arrived at Sue’s bakery.
“Good morning, Fischer!” Sue waved her free hand with vigor.
“G’day, Sue! Morning, Maria!”
“Oh, hi Fischer!” Maria bead a smile at , sweeping a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her nose twitched, and she peered down at my coffee cup.
“What is that?”
“Coffee! This one’s from Lena’s—a necessary sacrifice before Sue here gets the equipnt to make the best beverage in town!”
Sue rolled her eyes at my flattery, and with no words needed, walked out back to fetch a fresh croissant.
“Does it taste good?” Maria cocked her head at the wafting scent, the strand of hair freeing itself from behind her ear once more. “It slls kind of bitter . . .”
“Not everyone likes it, to be honest. It might be an acquired taste . . .” I held the cup out. “Wanna try?”
“Oh, I couldn’t . . .”
“Of course you can!” I pointed at the edge closest to . “I’ve only drunk from this side—give it a taste!”
She leaned in, sniffing it again, hesitating. She placed her pastries atop the counter. Then, with delicate hands, she caressed the mug, slowly bringing it to her lips and taking a sip.
She tasted the liquid for so ti, her eyebrows going up and down, and her face scrunching in adorable contemplation.
“It’s . . . bitter, but not bad?”
“That’s a good result for a first taste!” I accepted the cup as she held it back to . “You’ll grow to love it if your initial reaction isn’t that it tastes like muddy water.”
She let out a light laugh, covering her mouth with a hand.
“People think it tastes like mud water? I an, it’s different, but definitely not mud.”
“Tell about it.” I shook my head in obvious exaggeration. “And they call a heretic.”
“Well, you’re definitely a heretic.” She gave a kind smile, the freckles on her cheeks bunching. “But I’m still glad you ca to Tropica. You’ve already made so much change since appearing here . . .”
“Oh, everything so far has been nothing.”
Sue returned, bustling toward the counter. I accepted the croissant she held out to , then shot Maria a wink. “I’m only just getting started.”
“Fergus! How are ya, mate?”
The giant of a blacksmith held a finger up to stall , still staring intently at his forge. He had oversized black goggles on, making him look half body builder, half mad scientist. With oversized tongs, he picked up the crucible in the forge. I recognized the small mold sitting on the cool lip of the forge, and with no small amount of excitent, realized what he was doing.
He’s pouring the silver into the cast! Where did he get so so fast?
I edged toward him, not close enough to be in the way, but just enough to get a better view of the process. He swirled the crucible, withdrawing it from the heat. After a mont of looking at the molten tal within, he carefully placed it back into the heat of the forge. His attention never left his work, and I watched keenly, appreciating the years of practice and training that had created the mastery I bore witness to. The red-hot colors from the forge reflected off his goggles, and he resembled a statue as he waited, only his chest moving up and down, almost imperceptibly.
He picked up the tongs again, removed the crucible with deft hands, and swirled the contents once more—his eyes transfixed on the liquid tal the entire ti. With a small nod to himself, he shuffled over to the mold, slowly pouring the silver into a minuscule opening atop it. The amount of control he had over his large body was imnse; he made no wasted movents, each muscle contracting with exact precision.
The thin stream of silver slowed, eventually coming to an end. He picked the casting mold up by the attached tal vice, tapping it softly against the lip with a steady rhythm. He plunged it down into a quenching bucket. The water within bubbled and roiled, the heat rapidly dissipating from the mold and into the surrounding water. When the torrent of bubbles receded and the bucket finally stilled, Fergus reached in with a gloved hand. He cracked the vice open, let the two halves of the mold fall apart, and removed the ring.
Fergus grinned like a maniac, holding it up to as he slid his goggles off with another hand. “It ain’t pretty yet, but the forging is done!”
“How did you get the silver so swiftly?” I returned his grin, looking over the rough casting. “I thought it would take days, at least!”
Fergus winked at . “You have to leave a man his mysteries—”
Duncan, his apprentice, snorted from the back of the smithy. “He traded a favor to the hoity-toity blacksmith on the north side of town.”
Fergus leveled a glare at his subordinate. “If you weren’t so big, Duncan, I’d throw you out on your ass.”
Said subordinate made a dismissive noise. “Bold words coming from a man the size of a brick shithouse. A kraken couldn’t throw you if it wanted to.”
“How long will it take to sand and smooth it down?” I asked, interrupting before the blacksmith banter got too out of control.
Fergus returned his attention to then to the ring. “It’ll be done in a few hours—you bring that iridescent stone around then, and we’ll see about slotting it in.”
“Perfect!” I grinned at how things were coming along. “I’ll see ya a bit later, then—I have so other tasks to get to.”
I turned to leave, then had a thought. “By the way, Fergus—is there a lumber mill in town?”
He winced. “Not anymore, lad. Not for a long ti.”
I nodded. “Thought so. Oh well. Guess it’s on then! Catch you guys later!”
Duncan walked up beside Fergus, watching Fischer go.
“That was just one of his odd speech mannerisms, right? You don’t think he’s going to actually co catch us later, do you?”
Fergus blew air out of his nose in amusent. “I hope not—I fear you wouldn’t escape him, lad.”
“What do you an I wouldn’t escape him?” Duncan narrowed his eyes at Fergus. “Don’t you an we wouldn’t escape him?”
“I don’t need to outrun him, lad.” Fergus waggled his eyebrows. “I just need to outrun you.”
“I’ve had a day of surprises,” I said to myself, pouting, “but this might take the cake.”
I peered down at the log I’d hit with my axe. I expected to split part of the felled tree—most of it, perhaps, given my increased strength. What I didn’t expect was for my axe to cut it clean in half, send either side of the log flying two ters away in opposite directions, and for my fist—and the axe held within it—to create a crater as big as Sergeant Snips in the sand.
I lifted the axe from its sandy tomb with ease, moving my arm up and down in confusion. I wasn’t even a little tired from the exertion. It was as if I’d just swatted at a fly, not swung down an axe with all my might.
I’ll need to be careful—I could seriously hurt a villager, or worse, Sergeant Snips, with this amount of power.
I sat and thought for a second, testing if there was anything else I needed to consider or contemplate. “Nope!” I said with a laugh, getting right back to my feet. “I’m strong as hell, and that’s that!” I walked over to one of the split sides, lined it up in the sand, and swung down again with a wicked grin.
I was almost finished splitting all the logs into usable palings when a hysterical crustacean ca sprinting across the sand. Snips spewed incomprehensible bubbles at , hissing as she ran to my feet. She gestured toward the headland with both claws, seething with anger.
With sneaking suspicion, I thought I knew what had got her so worked up.
“Otter?” I asked.
She nodded sharply, blew affirmative bubbles, and ran away, urging on.
I heard a familiar tapping as we ran to the headland. The rhythmic sounds only occasionally paused when the furred friend-to-be slurped down a mollusk. We rounded the rocks, and I finally caught sight of the otter.
Damn. I don’t have any fish—wait! The crab! I have a crab!
I made to run back to the house but noticed Sergeant Snips shaking with anger. I looked between her and the cause of her ire, uncomprehending.
“What’s got you so worked up, Snips? I thought you were past this level of animosity.”
She pointed an accusing claw at the otter, pointed her other clacky appendage at a rock on the ground, then to herself.
“It . . . threw a rock at you?”
She hissed in confirmation, her body shuddering with indignation.
“Oh!”
I looked at the otter, who was studiously ignoring us. I bent down, staring into Snips’s eye and running a comforting hand over her carapace.
“I know it can be frustrating when others insult you, but it isn’t as smart as you—our otter friend doesn’t know any better.”
She visibly cald as I continued stroking her shell, and she seed to take a deep breath, letting it out in a soft hiss. She nodded at and blew bubbles that I took as an apology.
“It’s okay, Snips.” I smiled at her with genuine affection. “You don’t have to be sorry for getting upset. Should we go cook our crab up? Maybe so lunch will make you feel better—we can even offer so to the otter, then it won’t eat all the oysters!”
The suggestion lightened her mood further, and she nodded, blowing small bubbles of joy.
“All right. Let’s go.”
We walked away together, and as we were just about to leave the otter behind, I caught a brown blur of movent from the corner of my eye. I turned just in ti to see the rock sailing, and with a soft tink, it hit Sergeant Snips in the side. She paused, slowly spinning on the spot to look at the otter. They stared at each other for a tense mont, both unmoving. With nary a warning hiss, she charged.
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