Madeleine Grows a Pair

20 - Climbing On Steep Slopes

It had been a while since Espresso and Latte dropped off the priestess cookie in the hands of Black Raisin. Espresso had no clue what she was about to do to them (maybe hold them prisoner or interrogate them), but he assured himself that it was for the good of the Kingdom. Black Raisin had an air about her that made her trustworthy enough.

Actually, Black Raisin and the strange priestess cookie weren't at the forefront of his mind at all.

Espresso sat in a waiting chair, pen rhythmically tapping against the paper of his notebook. He'd held it open for quite some time but hadn't written anything down. There were serrations in the middle of the book where some blank pages were torn out, right next to his hastily written hypotheses about the properties of Madeleine's wings and their apparent magic storage.

He was thinking about Madeleine. Not about his wings or the like, despite his open notebook, but about how he got attacked. He was concerned from the moment he received Black Raisin's note. She wrote something about explaining it, but he'd yet to get any answers.

Instead, he kept impatiently tapping his pen while coming up with various theories in his head– none of which mattered, but he couldn't help himself. He rapidly paged through scenarios, each being dismissed when something seemed improbable.

He couldn't figure out if he was more focused on what happened to Madeleine or how the paladin was faring. Was he injured? If his reaction to growing a literal set of wings and then hiding them away said anything, he couldn't be trusted to take care of something like that (and that thought was coming from the sleep-deprived coffee mage himself, which he found a bit ironic).

Worried was the perfect word for the emotion Espresso was feeling. Anxious was a close second.

Though he couldn't fully understand why he felt so strongly about it. Madeleine was... somebody he knew, sure, but when did he become so important?

Tossing that thought aside, he resumed glazing over the last of the notes he'd written, trying to refocus himself on anything else but that cookie. He drummed his pen several times along the page, watching the dots of ink multiply in the corner where he'd been doing that for the past few minutes.

He groaned aloud. It was helpless.

Soft footsteps trailed along the corridor, almost entirely silent, but accented by the sharp click of a staff hitting the ground with every stride. They stopped in front of him and a voice spoke, "Worried?"

Espresso didn't need to look up to know that it was Pure Vanilla. The aged voice and overwhelming floral smell were enough of a giveaway.

He ducked his head further down, nearly burying it in his notes. He wasn't too fond of admitting things, especially when it was anything emotional– or illogical, as he liked to call it. He dreaded this conversation.

Swallowing his pride, he gave the response he felt obligated to, "Worried is a strong word."

The healer paused for a moment and replied, "Are you sure? Perhaps I need a stronger word in its place."

Espresso hid the sigh he wanted to let out. He respected the elder healer, he did, but he wasn't in the mood for an impromptu therapy talk while he sat in an uncomfortably stiff waiting chair.

Pure Vanilla continued, "You look anxious."

He was also deceivingly perceptive.

Espresso peeked up from the mess his hair had become. In all honesty, he couldn't remember the last time he washed it. He retorted, "If you can find me ever looking calm and collected, you deserve a medal."