Page 14 of The Orc’s Comfort

“What remains hidden eventually fades away,” she used to say. “What is shared wisely lives forever.” She never meant the sacred preparations, the ones that take years to earn. She meant the rest of it: the celebration foods, the seasonal dishes, the food that exists to be eaten together.

Julia, with her notebook and her questions that go past the ingredients to the reasons for them, is exactly who that wisdom was for.

I pour the healing broth into a ceramic container, the steam carrying scents of earth and mountain herbs that shouldn’t exist on this world but somehow do. I seal the container.

I will participate in her exhibition. Not to please her, though her pleasure matters more than I’m comfortable admitting, and not only to honor my grandmother, though that’s part of it too.

I’ll do it because a tradition kept perfectly and shown to no one is just a thing dying slowly instead of quickly.

I gather the container and the small bundle of moon willow leaves I’ve prepared for her continued pain management. Through the wall, I can hear Julia’s morning routine: soft, uneven footsteps, the gentle clink of a mug being set down, that unconscious humming she slips into when she’s distracted.

I’ve learned the rhythm of her mornings as well as I know my own recipes. The thought of returning to meals alone in my condo, without her questions and observations and that laugh that makes her ribs hurt that she can’t seem to help, feels wrong in a way I’m not ready to examine too closely.

I take a breath and head for the door. Time to tell Julia Whitaker that WarmHearth will be honored to participate in her exhibition. Time to take another step on this path I didn’t plan to walk but can’t seem to turn away from.

The traditions will continue. And perhaps, in the process, something new will begin.

Chapter Seven

Julia

Three firm raps at eight o’clock. Perfectly Rhazgar. “Come in!” I call, setting aside the cultural anthropology text I’ve been pretending to read while actually watching the clock.

The door opens, and Rhazgar enters carrying a covered ceramic container, the familiar steam rising from beneath the lid already filling my condo with complex, earthy aromas. But something’s different this morning. There’s a new tension in his movements that speaks of decisions made.

“Good morning,” he says, his deep voice carrying that formal courtesy I’ve come to recognize as him gathering his thoughts. “I’ve brought the second-stage healing broth.”

“You look thoughtful this morning,” I observe, watching as he sets the container on my coffee table with his usual care. “Something on your mind?”

He settles onto my sturdiest chair, the one that has become his, his large frame somehow managing to look both powerful and oddly vulnerable. “I’ve been considering your invitation. To the exhibition.”

My heart does a little skip. “And?”

“I would be honored to participate,” he says, meeting my eyes with that intense gaze. “There are traditions that can be shared, should be shared, if they are to survive for future generations.”

The care in his words tells me this decision wasn’t made lightly. “You’re sure? I meant what I said, I would never want you to share anything that makes you uncomfortable or violates your traditions.”

“I know.” His voice drops. “That’s exactly why I’ve decided to trust you with this. You understand the difference between preservation and appropriation, between honoring and exploiting.”

Heat rises to my cheeks at the compliment. “I try. It’s what my work is supposed to be about: creating space for communities to represent themselves.”

“You do more than try,” he says quietly. “This past week, watching you document what I’ve shared, seeing how you note not just the techniques but the intentions behind them…” He pauses, seeming to search for words. “My grandmother would have approved of your approach.”

I wasn’t expecting that. The back of my eyes sting, which is absurd, and I blink it away. “That means more to me than you probably realize,” I admit. “From everything you’ve told me about her, she sounds remarkable.”

“She was.” He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. “She spent her final years terrified that everything she’d preserved would die with me. That I’d be the last keeper of traditions no one else valued enough to learn.”

Understanding blooms. “And now you’re seeing a way for them to continue.”

“Perhaps.” He looks at me again, something like hope in his eyes. “I’ve already decided what stays protected and what doesn’t. That part is settled.”

“I promise you, this exhibition will be done right,” I say earnestly. “You’ll have complete control over what you share and how it’s presented. No one will speak for you or interpret your culture through their lens.”

“Good,” he says, even more firmly this time. “That’s why I’m agreeing.” We share a moment of understanding, the air between us charged.

Then he says, “I have questions.”

He produces a small notebook from his jacket pocket. He has, apparently, been preparing for this conversation.