Page 6 of Tossing the Caber

The stormy expression doesn’t quite leave Rodney’s face, but he gives a stiff nod and joins Laurel outside the awning. His cloak isn’t water-proofed, so he becomes soaked in short order, and steps in a puddle to boot.

Laurel would have snickered at the disgruntled picture his father is making, but his current mindset isn’t lending itself to amusement.

In fact, he stews the entire trek. Rodney decides not to walk through the rain and instead hires a pulled rickshaw, leaving his son behind. Laurel doesn’t mind. In fact, the silence—inasmuch as a rainy day can besilent—is preferable to whatever his father might have gone on about if they returned together.

Most likely all the expectations he has for Laurel’s first meeting with Beacon.

Rather than risk humiliating himself in the public eye, Laurel requested a private meeting with his intended—a suggestion that was quickly accepted. Maybe too quickly. Is Beacon hideous? Ill-tempered? Laurel knows nothing about the man, other than he’ll be appearing in the Market’s opening ceremony, and they are scheduled to meet in a secluded pavilion immediately after.

Will Laurel be spending the rest of his life with an ugly,cross man who will force him to give up everything he’s fought to claim for himself? Admittedly, that wouldn’t be much different from his current life.

Once, Laurel could have walked away. He did it before, but it won’t work a second time, so Laurel has to make the most of whatever is in store.

Mere minutes after he arrives home and shucks his rain-spattered outerwear, the palm-sized glass he keeps in his pocket for long-distance messages begins to vibrate in his pocket. Laurel claps a hand over it, trying to smother the faint rumble so his father doesn’t hear.

“Laurel, is that you, finally?” Rodney calls from the sitting room.

“Yes, Papa. I’m going straight to my room to freshen up.” Rodney doesn’t respond.

As promised, Laurel rushes to his room, withdrawing the glass as quickly as possible without risking dropping it with his damaged left hand. Modified Gearwick technology keeps what remains functional, replacing half the palm and two lost fingers, but even magical grafting hasn’t been able to return the agility Laurel possessed before the accident that maimed him.

The connection across the glass was already severed, but there’s an after-image, almost like an etching hovering on the surface. Laurel passes his fingers over the glass, releasing the message preserved inside.It reveals a ghostly image, the face of one of Laurel’s clients. The glass doesn’t preserve messages very well, so their voice comes out a touch garbled, but he gathers the majority. The custom order they were scheduled to pick up in two days’ time is missing a critical element due to the client’s own error—without it, the treatment will be all but useless. After giving a brief description of the potion’s necessary revisions, the caller dissolves into barely-coherent apologies while begging for accommodation.

Laurel snaps the metal lid enclosing the glass closed before he has to hear any more wheedling.

It’s simply not possible to brew a replacement potion within the time allotted. Laurel begins composing a reply in his head:No, I’m sorry. I can provide a partial refund or, if you like, full credit for a future purchase.

In an ideal world, no client of Laurel’s would have to face disappointment in his services. He would genuinely love to help… He just doesn’t havetime.The custom orders aren’t even all wrapped yet! With his father forbidding him to return to his workshop, Laurel doesn’t know how to keep his little business in good repute.

If he’s allowed to keep it at all.

That’s what scares Laurel the most. He doesn’t know what his intended plans to do with him once they’re wed. Beacon lives in Dun Steorra, and Laurel will be moving there to live with him. Will he allow Laurel to continue operating his business out there? Having to climb a mountain to reach him would be a great obstacle for Laurel’s clients, but…

The worst outcome, even more chilling than losing his pristine reputation, is that Beacon simply refuses to entertain Laurel’s desire to continue his work.

Losing himself in a daydream about his new husband simply wanting nothing to do with him and leaving him to his own devices forever, Laurel doesn’t notice he’s drafted a reply to his client saying he’ll do his best to finish a corrected potion until he’s already burned the paper with the message.

Stunned, absolutely shocked by his own audacity, Laurel covers his mouth against a litany of curses, biting his palm so he won’t shout in frustration.

There’s no other option. He has to get back to his workshop without his father noticing.

Illusion magic isn’t Laurel’s strong suit, but needs must. After double-checking the bug at his locked bedroom door—designed to repeat one of five recorded phrases should Rodney knock—Laurel drapes a blanket over the dummy he’s using to take his place in bed. Ideally, his father won’t hunt him down after Laurel made an appearance at dinner, acting on his best behavior to avoid raising any suspicions.

Confident in the efficacy of his misdirection, Laurel slips out his bedroom window wrapped in a dark blue cape and hurries off in the direction of his workshop.

It takes longer than he’d like to get there. He has to fight through late-night carousers filling the side streets and alleys Laurel is used to slipping through without many obstacles.

When he finally arrives, Laurel tosses his cape aside, flicks on the light globes, and descends upon his workbench with single-minded fervor. First, he has to set up the ingredients for the replacement potion because if he doesn’t have everything, he’ll have to find a way to have it delivered from his usual apothecary tomorrow instead of braving the crowd himself. It’ll cost a pretty penny, but Laurel has enough coin stashed away that itshouldcover the cost.

Fortunately, he has all the ingredients on hand, even though his permafrost flakes are running low. Laurel throws everything into the brew chamber, then drops into the chair on his workbench with a heavy sigh. The tip of his tail flicks, betraying his nerves and irritation that his father prevented him from finishing these tasks earlier. Nothing to be done about that, though. With the cricket hiding in the workshop cellar as his only witness and the hum of sleepless elves mulling outside his window, Laurel wraps the last of his packages, inking and folding until his eyes burn and his tail has gone still.

The door slams against the wall with a startling shock of noise.

Laurel shakes awake in time to see his father stalk inside, grunting as he takes in the scene. “Son,” Rodney says, visibly grappling with his patience, “I thought I—” His fingers clench until they’re white, body trembling. “You know better than this.”

All grogginess leaving him, Laurel whips his head toward the window, expecting to see the pitch he arrived in, but instead, there are streams of light passing through the linen curtain. He gapes, mouth going dry as horror subsumes his extremities.

“Deepest apologies, Papa,” Laurel says, desperate to appease the man who, despite the title, hardly feels like a parent anymore. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought?—”