Jack bolted down the stairs to the kitchen, unsheathing his dagger. In the kitchen, he found his mom in full combat mode. One arm cradling little Richard with the poise of a guardian knight, the other wielding a broom like a spear on a domestic battlefield. The orphan girl cowered beneath the table, still clutching her now-empty bowl and wooden spoon, while Jack’s mom jabbed the broom at her with righteous fury.

  “How did you get in here, you little thief?” she bellowed, the broom quivering in her hand.

  Little Richard gurgled amidst the chaos, as though providing commentary on the absurdity of it all.

  The girl took her chance to escape by darting out from beneath the table and scrambling behind Jack. The spoon was still in her mouth, and her wide, puppy-dog eyes were full of terror and confusion.

  Jack couldn’t help but laugh at the situation. “Mom, it’s alright. She’s with me. She’s not a thief.” He glanced down at the girl huddled behind him. Well… actually, she is. Just not a very good one.

  His mom spun around, ready to wallop him with the broom as if he were the second intruder in her sacred kitchen. But when she saw the dagger in his hand and recognised her own son, she froze with a frown that bordered on a scowl; the broom was still held aloft, ready to strike. Her eyes shifted from the blade to Jack, to the hiding girl, then back again to the weapon. “Why do you have a knife? You shouldn’t have a dangerous knife!”

  Jack winced, realising too late that he’d forgotten to hide it. Shit! I’m so bad at this. He scrambled for a plausible lie. “I’ve taken up archery as a hobby. To keep fit,” he added. “The merchant gave me a really good deal if I bought them as a pair.” He gestured with the dagger towards the blood-splattered white oak bow leaning beside the chair, something his mom had yet to notice. “She said I’d need some protection while I practise.” His eyes widened when he looked at the bloodstain. Oh, damn.

  It wasn’t the worst excuse. Plenty of non-combat classes carried weapons, especially with goblins and bandits causing trouble on the outskirts of the city.

  His mom’s eyes widened in horror as she took in both weapons. Forgetting all about the orphan girl in the room, she exclaimed, “You’re not bringing dangerous weapons into this house!” She slammed the broom against the wall and wrapped little Richard in a protective hug. “Your poor Aunt Betty’s little boy lost a finger when your good-for-nothing uncle left his knife unattended. He could’ve bled out if it wasn’t for the dog barking. Fenton saved the little boy’s life!”

  Oh, crap, she has a story about the danger of weapons. Jack didn’t know what to say. He sheathed the dagger. “Erm… can we talk about the weapons later?” he asked, nodding towards the little girl, who was now seated on the floor, trying to lick the bowl clean. She couldn’t quite reach the bottom with her tongue, so she’d resorted to scraping the last of the stew gravy with the wooden spoon.

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  His mom drew a long, steadying breath. “Who is she, and why is she in my kitchen eating meat pie filling?”

  Jack hadn’t prepared for this conversation. He hadn’t even thought up a suitable lie yet. I’m terrible at this. He couldn’t tell her the truth, that they’d met when the orphan tried to snatch his coin purse, or that he’d pulled a dagger on the girl before deciding to buy her a few of Arman’s wraps. Why has life got so complicated?

  He decided to stick as close to the truth as he could. “She’s an orphan. I gave her one of Arman’s wraps and thought Polly might have some old clothes she could wear.” He breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The half-truth sounded reasonable and made him look decent in the process. “Where does Polly keep her old clothes?”

  His mom’s expression softened with pity as she took in the orphan girl’s shabby appearance. “Oh, you poor dear,” she murmured, then turned to Jack with a look of disappointed bewilderment. “Why haven’t you at least cleaned the poor child’s face?”

  Jack shrugged. In his defence, he was far better with a scribe’s pen than a bar of soap. He had a tendency to overlook mundane necessities when he was caught up in work.

  His mom inspected the girl’s grubby hands next. “You didn’t even help her wash her hands before eating! Jack! That’s how you get the runs, you know. So many people die that way… where to even start…” She placed the baby in the cradle. “What’s the girl’s name?”

  Jack frowned. “I don’t know.” He hadn’t thought to ask. He wasn’t planning on making her his new best friend.

  Standing with her hands on her hips, his mom let out a sigh. “You didn’t even ask her name. Men are so useless.” Then she crouched down, her voice softening as she addressed the little girl. “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Zia,” she replied, still licking the wooden spoon.

  “Your name’s Zia?” his mom confirmed with a gentle smile. The girl nodded. “Well, Zia, how about we get you cleaned up, and I’ll find some of Polly’s old clothes for you? Polly is Jack’s younger sister.” She cast her son a glance of mild exasperation. “I’m guessing the thoughtless idiot didn’t tell you that?”

  Zia nodded again, and Jack couldn’t help but think, How am I the bad guy here? I was doing something nice! Why do I feel guilty? He recalled an old popular saying among commoners: ‘Leave no good deed unpunished, no bad one unrewarded.’

  His mom took the girl by the hand and led her towards the bathroom. Before leaving, she called over her shoulder, “Take those deadly weapons to your room. We’ll deal with those later.” She glanced at the baby, now sleeping in the cradle. “Keep an eye on your little brother while I get Zia clean and dressed.”

  Jack nodded and watched as his mother guided the orphan down the hallway. That could’ve gone worse, I suppose. He dropped off his pack and weapons in his room upstairs, then returned to the kitchen to wait.

  After a few minutes of idling, he fetched some scribe supplies from his desk and sat at the kitchen table. Unfurling a blank scroll, he began working on a new [Fireball] spell scroll. “Might as well earn some coin while I wait,” he murmured.

  Little Richard gurgled in agreement.