Page 44 of Healing His Mate

“I must go,” I call out, abruptly, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. “I need to, uh, review my design. See where I went wrong.”

“I’ll go with you,” Cloh-ee offers.

“Give me a moment. I shall come too,” Waldric says, trying to roll off the bed without moving his arm.

“No, no.” I wave their offers away. “This is something I must do alone.” There are more protests from both of them, but I do not stay to argue. I push through the door and run back to my shop as fast as my legs will take me.

Frantically, I pull all the extra parts to the center of the table, next to the design sketch on my screen pad, and begin examining each one closely. Eventually, I notice my throat feels dry and scratchy, and too lazy to walk across the room to the spigot, I reach below the table behind me and grab the closest mug of ale.

Just one, I tell myself. I just need something to ease my throat. The first sip goes down with the signature burn of ale but is quickly followed by a warmth in my belly that causes the tension in my jaw to fade.

I scribble notes on the design, rearrange pieces, remove different components, but none of these tweaks improve the design, nor do they explain what went wrong with the first.

Old Nalba would not have been so careless.

The voice in my head is my own. I want to tell her to go away, but is she wrong? I find no evidence to counter her point.

Old Nalba healed.

Ahlvo’s cane/sword is proof of that.

New Nalba only hurts.

And the bandages that now cover half of Waldric’s glorious body are proof of that.

Old Nalba liked to drink ale. Lots of ale.

Ah, this is also true. Why else would she keep so many full jugs of it in her shop? As I empty one jug, I reach for another. The skies fade from the bright purples and pinks of the morning to darker shades of each, indicating it is now past middle meal.

My mind grows fuzzy with the many possible tweaks I could make to the sticky bomb. I start to repeat the different combinations, indicating I am out of fresh ideas. Sighing, I drop my head into my hands.

Old Nalba would not let emotional entanglements distract her from her projects.

Is that the problem, then? Did I allow my focus to be split between Waldric and the bomb? And if I had not, would the outcome have been different? Would his skin be free of burns? Would he be at the food hall, happily providing delicious sustenance for his clan?

When the next thought pops into my head, I fear it will haunt my remaining days.

Would Waldric be better off without me?

I want so badly to dispute the question. What have I done to deserve his adoration, though? Nothing. I have not earned his respect. I have done nothing to show him that I am worthy of his thoughtfulness. From the little insight the clan has provided, it sounds like Old Nalba was gruff, emotionally closed off, and did nothing but work, work, work.

Old Nalba did not hurt anyone.

There is no denying that.

The next sip of ale I take drains the second jug. I look down at the container, surprised I drank that one so quickly. Though, I do not hesitate to reach for the third.

Old Nalba would not either.

And perhaps that is the key to all this chaos.

I have judged Old Nalba harshly, wondering if she was truly happy in her messy shop. Maybe she was, or rather, as happy as Old Nalba could be. In her own way.

Perhaps, happiness to her meant a job well done. Perhaps that was enough.

What now, though? What would Old Nalba do, two jars deep in ale, trying to forget her own colossal failures?

Old Nalba would seek a distraction. Release.