Lindsay B.

@elbrunn.bsky.social

28 Followers 83 Following

Writer, reader, California dreamer. Also, wife, mom, nerd. Professionally I'm a content strategist for tech companies who want to reach technical audiences.

Theo had developed a personal vendetta against orbital mechanics. He didn't object to comets in principle. Vera was certain of that. He objected to the way her attention narrowed when they were involved, how it funneled into the glowing rectangle on her desk and forgot the living world for hours at a time. The moment she opened a third browser tab with updated ephemeris data, he launched himself onto the keyboard and settled squarely across the screen, bisecting the latest orbital solution with his spine. “You’re not helping,” she told him. Theo blinked, slow and unimpressed, and kneaded the edge of the trackpad as if to make sure she understood that he was, in fact, helping. Outside the townhouse window, the Cascades were already slipping into evening. North Bend had that particular quality in late summer where the mountains seemed to pause before letting go of the day, each ridge fading into the next until the horizon was suggestion rather than edge. It wasn’t the flat, uninterrupted sky of Kennewick — nothing west of the Cascades ever would be — but it was dark enough, honest enough. Her phone buzzed against the desk.
Sera hid a smile and turned back to the heat stones, where a brass coil kept a crock of honey loose and pourable. At home her mother set honey in hot water when winter made it stubborn. Here the table itself did the work. Such a small convenience, and still it startled her. Crownhold was full of that sort of thing. Marta wiped her knife clean on a cloth. “And when you take her breakfast, find out what she actually likes to eat.” Sera looked over. “You’ve been sending up good food.” “Good is for strangers passing through.” Marta set the loaf aside. “If she’s to sleep under this roof awhile, maybe be our Queen, we should know whether she wants eggs or oat cakes, sweet tea or bitter, fruit or savory.” That was more Bray than kitchen: not softness, but duty.