Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
“Is that why you came here? Because Grimlock accepts what you are?”
Blue considers the question while we watch the painter add another layer of storm clouds to his canvas. “I stayed because Grimlock accepts what I am without expecting me to become something else.”
“And what are you?”
His laugh is dark. “That’s still under investigation.”
We continue through the artisan quarter, past a glassblower’s shop where rainbow light refracts through the windows and a pottery studio where clay figures seem to watch us from their shelves. Blue points out details I would have missed—the way each building’s architectural style reflects its owner’s personality, how the studios are arranged to catch different qualities of light throughout the day, the reason certain shops cluster together while others stand alone.
“The silversmith and the jeweler share customers but compete on craftsmanship,” he explains as we pass two shops whose windows display intricate metalwork and fancy necklaces. “The fiber artist and the dressmaker collaborate on custom pieces. The woodcarver makes frames for the painters and sculptures for the gardeners.”
“It’s like a whole ecosystem.”
“Exactly.” Blue seems pleased that I understand. “Everyone here has something they need, and something they can offer. It creates . . . balance.”
The way he says balance makes me think he’s talking about more than just commercial relationships. As if Grimlock itself is some kind of carefully maintained equation where every element serves a purpose.
We emerge from the artisan quarter onto a broader street that leads uphill toward Grimlock’s residential area. The houses here are larger, more ostentatious, set back from the street behind iron gates and gardens that look like they require full-time maintenance. Gothic Revival mansions stand next to Victorian painted ladies, with the occasional Tudor cottage tucked between them like punctuation marks.
“The old families live up here,” Blue says, following my gaze toward a particularly imposing mansion whose turrets and gargoyles make it look like it belongs in a horror movie. “People whose great-grandparents founded Grimlock, or whose money built half the town.”
“Do you qualify as old family or new money?”
“Neither. I’m useful family.” Blue’s tone is matter-of-fact. “I solve problems that the old families prefer not to acknowledge and the new money isn’t equipped to handle.”
Before I can ask what kind of problems require Blue’s particular skill set, he guides us onto another side street.
We make our way back toward the town center, but Blue chooses yet another route, this one leading us past Grimlock’s cemetery. The wrought-iron gates stand open, revealing rows of headstones and monuments that speak to the town’s long history. Some of the graves are recent, marked with fresh flowers and polished stone. Others are aged, their inscriptions worn smooth by weather and time.
In the distance, a figure moves between the headstones. A man with weathered features and dirt-stained clothes, methodically digging a fresh grave with an actual shovel. The steady thunk of metal hitting earth carries across the quiet cemetery, punctuated by the scrape of dirt being tossed aside. Even from here, I can make out the intricate tattoos covering his arms, symbols I can’t quite make out but that definitely aren’t your typical tribal bands or barbed wire. Do people even use shovels anymore? I think everything is done with machines these days. But this guy works like he’s done this a thousand times before, no rush, just muscle memory.
“Grimlock takes its history seriously,” Blue observes as we pass the entrance. “Death is just another part of the community here.”
“Cheerful.”
“Reality.” Blue glances at the cemetery with something that might be fondness. “People here understand that everything ends eventually. It makes them appreciate what they have while they have it.”
The comment feels loaded with meaning, but before I can pursue it, we stop in front of a bakery. The building itself is narrow and tall, wedged into a space that barely looks wide enough to hold it. The facade is painted in alternating stripes of deep purple and gold, with windows outlined in white gingerbread trim that’s definitely not regulation. Above the door, a hand-painted sign reads The Upper Crust in flowing script, surrounded by painted roses that seem to melt when you’re not looking directly at them.
“This is where Wren sources her favorite desserts,” Blue explains as his hand presses against the small of my back. The touch is light, automatic, but it sends heat racing up my spine. “The Cupp brothers took special requests for tonight’s party, and I want to make sure Wren has her favorites.”
The gesture is unconsciously protective, casually courteous, and I find myself wondering if Blue realizes he’s doing it. There’s something old-fashioned about the way he moves through the world. Like he was raised by people who believed in opening doors and treating women like they were made of something precious.
“Smart man. Never anger the person who controls your food supply.”