Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
“Call me Aric.” His smile almost reassures me. “And this is Ainsley,” he adds, shifting the baby upright so she can peer at me with clear blue eyes and a little drool on her chin. She is possibly the only thing in this whole valley that looks more out of place than me.
“Hi, Ainsley,” I say, with a smile just for her. The baby blinks, then sneezes so explosively I nearly duck for cover. Aric just pulls a crisp white handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes her face, calm as ever.
“We appreciate your punctuality,” he says, motioning me through the gates. “It’s rare for a candidate to actually arrive on time.”
“I’m allergic to lateness,” I reply as he leads me down the curved path toward a huge town center.
He gives a sound that might be a laugh, then leads me between rows of arches, some wide enough for a marching band, others just decorative. The streets are paved with cobbles that glint faintly green in the afternoon sun, and every ten meters there’s a lantern on a spiked post, the glass glowing with a mineral light I can’t identify. Moss grows in all the cracks, but it’s not the weak, limp stuff you find in old garden fountains; this moss is vibrant, almost electric, casting a soft glow in deep emerald and neon chartreuse. I have to physically stop myself from reaching out to touch it.
Aric walks like he’s counting steps, his spine perfectly straight, every muscle moving as if it’s been calibrated. The baby seems immune to all of this, burbling happily as she tugs at the edge of his shirt collar. I try to keep up, not just with his pace but with everything happening around me. There’s a constant metallic clang from somewhere up the hill, the unmistakable sounds of creatures rushing around.
We pass a group of Orc children playing some sort of hybrid soccer game with a ball made of stitched hide. They pause to look at me, curiosity written clearly on their faces. One of them sticks out her tongue, then immediately hides behind her friend, mortified. I grin and wave, and the bravest of the bunch waves back with both arms.
“Settlement population is six thousand and growing,” Aric says, as if reading my thoughts. “Mostly Orc, but we have a few permanent human residents now. It’s still an adjustment.” He doesn’t elaborate, but the weight in his tone says “adjustment” involves more than a few cultural clashes.
He stops in front of a low, wide building fronted by a triple arch and a sign engraved in both Orcish script and English: “Arch Residence.” The stone façade is softened by climbing vines, and a square of grass out front boasts a little play structure shaped like a siege tower. The windows are modern, double-glazed, with the same faintly tinted glass as the lanterns. It’s a bizarre blend of medieval fortress and suburban split-level, and it somehow works.
“We’ll do the interview inside,” Aric says, opening the heavy door with one hand and holding it so I can step through first. I half-expect it to creak ominously, but it swings open on a whisper-smooth hinge. The interior is surprisingly light, thanks to the glass panels and more of those glowing minerals set into the walls. There’s a distinct lack of taxidermied heads or battle banners. Instead, the entry is tidy, with a row of shoes by the door and a set of hooks for bags and coats.
Ainsley begins to fuss the moment we’re inside, her face scrunching with pre-cry tension. Aric bounces her gently in the sling while talking over his shoulder to me. “Would you like tea or coffee? Or something stronger?” It’s the most hospitable thing I’ve heard since arriving, and I accept the tea, if only so I have something to do with my hands.
He gestures for me to follow down the hall and into a kitchen. It’s big enough for a professional catering team, with gleaming appliances and a double oven, but the dominant feature is a long, sturdy table scarred by decades of use. He sets the baby, sling and all, in a padded chair and begins the tea ritual—water boiled in a battered steel kettle, mugs set out, honey spooned from a pot labeled in thick black marker. Ainsley stares at me throughout, her attention unblinking.
“Have you worked with Orc families before?” Aric asks, measuring loose tea leaves into a mesh strainer.
“Not officially, no,” I admit. “My last job was with a family on the East Coast. But I’ve read every book available on interspecies etiquette, and I’m a fast learner.” The words tumble out faster than intended, so I dial back the eagerness and try for professional. “I know how to cook for special diets and maintain a strict cleaning schedule. I can do first aid. I don’t scare easily.”