Blacklake-Book4-1 Three Cousins

Chapter 43
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“Ya know we shouldn’t be gettin’ locked into one design without doin’ an on-site of the three options,” Kriz’ message read.

I mighta been stairin’ at my screen for ten minutes without takin’ a breath—and enjoyin’ the soft yet smooth texture of my new desk. Could not get the whole Ezra-Thomas thing out of my head. Gave him raspberries? Really?

Uh, on-site. That would require me movin’ around a bit more than Mama would want. Which meant me drivin’ or flyin’ to the Plain was likely out of consideration. She’d put her foot down.

“She doesn’t have to know until ya’re halfway there,” displayed in my message popup. The fool has been able to read my mind since we were knee high to an elf.

“Ya tryin’ to get my brain truly flattened?” I asked.

Kriz shrugged. It wouldn’t be his blood, his brain splatter that someone had to clean up.

“Someone at the airport would definitely let Papa know, and Mama would greet us at the gate. No secrets in the Valley. Everyone knows I’m supposed to be grounded.”

“Ya could drive me,” popped up, “if ya promise not to have a seizure on the road.”

“Maybe Ezra would like to go with,” I said. “She’d prolly appreciate an excuse to get out of the Range right about now, considerin’. And she could drive. Avoid the drop down the side of a cliff if I do seizure.”

Kriz hit his keyboard hard. “Ezra is quiet and sweet, but she’s tough. She’s gonna do okay with the firestorm. And.” I waited a second. “Ya wanta hen drivin’ ya in the Range?”

“Firestorm?” I mumbled. “Mama hear ya criticizin’ hen drivin’, ya’ll loose yar head for sure.”

“Well,” displayed in my computer window. “She doesn’t like attention. And gettin’ caught passin’ spit with that human will get her a lot of attention. And.” Back to the firestorm thing. I waited. “Ya’ve commented about hen drivin’ too.”

I think I sighed. “One. Passin’ spit? Where’d ya ever hear that disgustin’ expression? Two. I have never criticized the driving of any hen.”

Clack clack. “One. I’m autistic. Not whatever ya think I am. And two. I’m pretty sure ya have.”

We should check where the company plane is. Never seems available when I wanta use it.

~ Ezra ~

“This tea has booze in it,” I growled.

Aunt tilted her head sideways, with an expression that might have been humorous in a different settin’. “Might be a little settlin’,” she said.

“Any water in it?” I asked. “Better not strike a spark, ya might blow up yar dayroom. Us with it.”

“Didn’t know ya could be so—”

“Evidently,” I said, “I can be a lot of things. Should expect folk clutchin’ tar torches to surround me with a gaudy scarlet S to pin to my smock.”

“That would be an entertainin’ scenario,” she said. Hen has a vicious side to her. Maybe partially explains Ike’s dark side.

I tilted my head at her. Figgered it’s the gesture of the hour. “Glad I’m entertainin’ ya.”

“Look at ya,” Aunt said. “All calmed down and crackin’ wise. Take another sip of yar tea. In no time ya’ll be wearin’ tight jeans and a plungin’ crop-top at the plaza.”

“I own a pair of jeans, if that’s a crack about my—”

“Yar mama raised ya kind of conservative. Don’t know how that coulda been, knowin’ her background, and seein’ ya were constantly in the company of those two ignernt cousins of yars. Conservative ain’t a bad thing, but it means folk have a set of expectations. The local wild youngling wouldn’t raise a flip of excitement, like the fuss ya’re gonna bring to the valley.”

“I’m gonna pack that bag,” I muttered. Pretty much decided to leave Mama’s background remark be.

“What bag?” Dorig asked. Then shook her head a bit, as though it didn’t matter. “That idjit bull youngling of mine is gonna be sneakin’ out of the Valley, prolly by tomorrow. Maybe ya might go with him. Give the Range a breath.”

“Why’s he gonna be—”

“He and Kriz will have to go to the Plain to do a walk through.”

That coulda been Goblinish. I speak a bit of Orcish because of Vlas, but never studied Goblinish. Though I’ve heard it said they’re two dialects of the same language. I wasn’t gonna ask Aunt for a translation. “And ya’d let him travel? I thought—”

“The fool’s an adult. If he doesn’t wanta listen to his surgeon, that just makes him a bull. But that doesn’t mean I won’t play the anger and guilt game. A mama is expected to, ya know, give her youngest a bit of grief. Wouldn’t be doin’ my job if I wasn’t hugely overbearin’.”

“Who, ya? Overbearin’? No one would ever accuse ya of such a thing. And now ya’re suggestin’ I run off and hide.”

“Not hide,” she growled. “Givin’ yarself a bit of space, and givin’ the gossipers a bit of time to tire emselves out.”

Gossipers never waver. But I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery. Wonder if Thomas would like to go with. What was I thinkin’? That wouldn’t ratchet up the tongue waggin’ at all.

~