Page 159 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

“You’re Wren’s friend,” Wendall said brightly. “She’s a good sort. You can tell a lot about a person by what pastries they choose.” He nodded toward Orzen like he was sharing a trade secret. “Honeyed scones. Simple but sweet. They fit her perfectly.”

Orzen bit his tongue, annoyed at the bitterness curling in his chest. “Oh, yeah, she’s uh special to all of us.”

Smooth as a blunt nail.

“She’s delightful! I’ve never met a Spirit Weaver. Rarer than a fresh brierberry biscuit!” Wendall beamed, dimples and all.

Of course, he had dimples. It gnawed at Orzen more than he wanted to admit. “You two were quite…” He gestured vaguely in an awkward way that even he didn’t understand the meaning of. He ground his teeth and blew a long breath. “It seemed like you were comfortable with her and she, uh, looked happy.”

Gods, why were words this stupid?

“Oh, I get along with most people,” Wendall said, dusting a lump of dough with sugar. “Though, it seemed like something was bothering her.”

Bothering her? Orzen’s stomach twisted sharply. He’d been so wrapped up in his own thoughts he hadn’t noticed. He hated that Wendall had seen it when he hadn’t. Orzen huffed and knuckled his forehead. He was going about this all wrong.

“So…did you come from the Steppes alone, or…is there a special lady waiting for you back home?”

The moment it left his mouth, he regretted speaking. It sounded like he was fishing for something. He wasn’t. Not really. Maybe a little bit. He didn’t like how much he cared about the answer. Orzen clenched his fist by his side to keep from rubbing his temple again as Wendall tilted his head at him.

“Oh, uh, no. No special ladies.” Wendall’s brows knit together like he was trying to fit a particularly difficult puzzle together.

“Good.” Orzen winced, hearing how that sounded. “I mean, not good that you don’t have someone. I uh, I’m not sure why I said that.” Orzen scrubbed his hand over his jaw, resigned to salvaging what he could of this fiasco.

This was why he never spoke.

Wendall seemed genuinely confused now, and that made it worse. “If you’re asking if I’m courting anyone—”

“No. Well...not for me.” He grimaced. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you. I’m sure you’d make a lovely partner, but—” Orzen opened his mouth and closed it again when he caught Tommick staring at him as if he’d sprouted antlers.

“You’re talking about girls still?” Tommick asked, grabbing another scone and scooping Grub from the tart basket.

“This is boring. Come on, Grub. Let’s go find Mira.” He vanished into the trees, the mossum clinging to his shirt with a muzzle covered in mushroom bits like a bewildered satchel.

Wendall paused mid-stir, expression shifting—first surprise, then understanding, then a bashful flush heated his cheeks. “You’re worried I’m interested in Wren?” he finally asked, no mocking in his voice.

Orzen choked on the remainder of the pastry. “No—nope. I’ve just met you. That’d be weird, right?” The genuine concern on Wendall’s face only increased Orzen’s discomfort. “Small talk is the worst. Anyway, maybe I’ll uh…”

He backed away. No way to save this now.

“Women make great friends, Orzen,” Wendall said, laying a heavy hand on his shoulder. “But my heart’s always led in another direction.”

“Another direc—oh.” Orzen swallowed hard, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. Listen, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. I should just—”

“No worries there, friend.” Wendall shrugged once, easy and unbothered, and went right back to flattening dough—like nothing catastrophic had happened to Orzen’s dignity.

What a first impression—unloading his insecurities on the man. Orzen was worse than an idiot. He hated that Wendall was so gracious about it.

“Good to know,” Orzen muttered, rubbing his chin. “I should probably go…hit something. Or do anything that helps me forget we ever had this conversation.”

Wendall paused only long enough to reach for a bowl of sugar, then held it out like a peace offering. “If your hands are busy, your head gets quieter. Works for me.”

Orzen sighed deeply and set aside Ivon’s clothing with care, taking the bowl. He moved to stand across from Wendall.

“Is everyone here this emotionally perceptive,” he muttered, “or am I seriously that obvious now?”

Wendall sprinkled a mixture of seeds over the dough, his expression thoughtful but not piercing. “People look tired when their hearts are tired,” he said kindly. “And everyone who comes here’s got some kind of ache. Even I did.” He rolled the dough into a log and set it aside. “Leora says that’s what the Glade’s for. I think she’s right.”

He uncorked a jar, cinnamon blooming in the air, and dumped a generous amount into the sugar. “Here,” he said, handing Orzen a wooden spoon. “Stir it slow. Sugar clumps if you rush.”