Isekai For Hire Chapter 11: A Moment of Calm

Read chapter 11 of Isekai For Hire by wk_rust on NovelPedia.

A Moment of Calm You’d think for all your precision with a knife you’d be better at this. It’s a lot harder than it looks, okay? Don’t touch the bed! The polish isn’t dry yet. They had spent the last thirty minutes trying to paint Lorena’s left hand, and now were starting the right. Lorena blew out a breath, her hair falling in her face from the rush of air displacing it. We need to deal with that next. Not before the polish is done. Obviously. After working this hard I’m not wasting it. A glob of polish spread across her thumb nail, far too thick. Lorena tried to dab at it with her finger. How many times do I have to tell you— I know, I know. She reached for the towel nearby. Careful— I know, the polish isn’t dry yet. She dabbed at the polish on her thumb, then smoothed it out with the brush. It was a bit streaky, maybe she’d have to add a second coat. So why do you like Starbloom? Lorena asked. We grew it on the farm. It only grows during a few weeks a year which makes it expensive. Too expensive for us to ever afford. But somehow my mother got her hands on some seeds and planted it behind the house. We’d have just enough pigment for each of us to paint our nails twice a year each. Her tone was light and joyful. It made Lorena’s heart swell. We’d paint them on the day of the harvest, and then on our birthdays. That’s really sweet. Plus, it looks really cool. That it does. She moved onto the index finger but her hand trembled slightly and some got on her cuticle. Cuticle. Thanks, Lorena said and dabbed the polish off with the towel. What’s your favorite color? Wait—let me guess, Blood red. “Ha. Ha,” Lorena said out loud, but she was smirking. It’s green, like the trees in the northern forest of Silvershire. Iiiinteresting. Why’s it your favorite? Lorena hesitated. It was a little detail, nothing important or sensitive that it needed to be kept secret. But the vulnerability felt foreign. Oh come on. I told you mine. She let out a sigh. I spent a lot of time in the forest as a kid. It was one of the few places I felt… Safe. I guess the color reminds me of that. Ren was quiet for a moment. I had the barn. Then you came along. The words hung between them, but without the usual venom. Why did you do this? Ren asked, softer now. Lorena wasn’t sure what had given her the idea. She had just seen the polish and instinctively knew it would make Ren happy. Then a memory resurfaced, of her first few hours in this body after the spider attack. She had looked down at her hands and felt a visceral feeling of terror at the sight of black ichor and spider guts coating her soft blue nail polish. The paint was chipping and nearly gone, but it still struck her deeply. Ren reacted to the memory, a mixture of surprise and sadness. That was before I woke up, right? Yeah. That was terrifying. Her voice was soft, empathetic. Not at all what Lorena had expected. She finished the rest of her nails in silence before either of them spoke again. Okay. Now do Rocky. Ren said, her voice chipper. Lorena scooted Rocky closer to her on the bed. What exactly do you want me to do? Give him a face, obviously. Lorena chuckled, then painted a smiley face on the rock. Happy? There was a pause and Lorena started to worry. Had the question been a mistake? For once, yes. They sat in comfortable silence while the nails dried, admiring their hard work. Lorena’s nails were far from perfect. The polish was thicker in some spots, streaky in others, but they were painted. Now, about your hair. Our hair. Uh, no. My hair never looked like that. Have you even brushed it once? Lorena couldn’t remember. Sure, she’d run a hand through it once or twice, but actually brushing? That’s what I thought. Get the brush. Over the next hour, Ren walked her through it. How to detangle from the bottom up. How to work through the knots without ripping. The specific way Ren’s hair liked to be brushed. You’re pulling too hard. Gentle strokes. I’m trying. The knots are everywhere. And whose fault