Page 15 of Tossing the Caber

“He was otherwise engaged.”

Rodney makes a sound—an immature, hissy thing. “You’ll have to accept my apologies on his behalf. Laurel frequently becomes tied up in his little projects. Give him time, and he will learn how to prioritize better.”

Beacon shakes his head. “It’s not an imposition.”

“He must be at his workshop,” Rodney continues.

Glancing at his mother, Beacon affirms, “That’s what his note said. But it’s not?—”

Whipping a small book out from his bag, Rodney hastily opens to a blank page and scribbles something upon it. “He ought not to have kept you waiting! Here, these are directions to his workshop. You’ll have no trouble; just exit the marketplace through the Northern path. There’s a town.” Rodney subjects the paper to a jagged tear, then shoves thedirections into Beacon’s chest, holding it there until Beacon catches it. He jostles Beacon’s shoulder—less a comradely thump, more a reedy smack.

Silence falls, but for the patter of dance shoes in rhythm with a joyful tune.

“Many thanks, Lushroot,” Donlan says finally. And so it is decided.

Beacon crumples the note into some approximation of a fold, then shoves it into his sporran. “Yes, thank you,” he echoes. “I’ll take my leave immediately.” He only waits for a gesture from his mother; his feet start moving before he’s completed a polite bow.

While not the tallest of men, Beacon is built stocky and equipped with both the attitude and the musculature to match. He stomps through the crowd, hardly noticing when he interrupts the conversation of a gaggle of nobles. He wouldn’t have catalogued the interaction at all if not for an unfortunate collision with one of them.

The fellow already looks distressed, even more so with the rumpling of his fine, pink robe. He shoves a tangle of white braids from his face, seeming very much like he’s going to dissolve into a cloud of wisps.

“Pardon,” Beacon mutters, but only because he doesn’t want to ruin someone’s mood as thoroughly as his own.

Then he continues Northward, as instructed.

The outside of Laurel’s workshop is quaint, windcatchers and chimes dancing gently in the breeze. It suits him. Beacon shouldn’t be surprised—Laurel stains everything he touches with a bit of whimsy, just like the ink on the tips of his fingers.

Unsure of what else to do, Beacon knocks.

Almost immediately, Laurel calls from within, “One moment, Papa!”

He must not get many other guests, something that irritates Beacon, considering how unpleasant he finds the elder Lushroot and his treatment of his only son. Does Laurel not have companions?

The door flies open to reveal a flushed Laurel, loose-haired and barefoot, wearing nothing but a smock and linen knee pants. When he processes Beacon rather than his father, Laurel’s cheeks turn bright, vivid red.

“Beacon!” he squeaks. “I didn’t expect you.”

“Your father gave me directions.” Beacon feels bad about embarrassing him, but Laurel’s bare arms and long legs are providing an unexpected distraction. “May I come in?”

Laurel breathes a soft “Oh.” When Beacon raises an eyebrow, he hurries to explain: “Most people aren’t compelled to observe my working process!”

“Am I most people?” Beacon prods, unable to withstand the desire to see him flush even deeper.

Clutching a handful of his silky black hair, Laurel holds it to his chest like a shield and murmurs, “I suppose not. Come in, then.”

Beacon can’t help but smile. “Thank you.”

Laurel slips out of the threshold, amber eyes wide and worried as Beacon enters and gently closes the door behind him.

The inside of the shop is as quaint as the outside. It smells of ink and fresh flowers, not musty at all. There are suncatchers in the window, labeled chests of apothecary drawers in various sizes, hanging herbs, a workdesk with a wedge of sculpting clay… and Laurel, the most interesting feature, who has dropped the fistful of his hair in exchange for clutching the narrow tip of his tail.

“It’s…” Beacon grapples with his own mind, trying tofind a compliment. Something more than ‘nice’ because he can already tell that Laurel would interpret that poorly. He finally settles on: “Cozy.”

His struggle does not escape Laurel’s notice. Fortunately, instead of going red or pale or green—any color indicating an emotion other than pleasure—Laurel looks amused.

“You fought for that, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”