300

I wrote 300 words of fiction last night - not quite the 750, but 300 more than I'd done in a long, long time.  They're pretty stiff and out of practice, but I've put them below the cut, if anyone wants to see.

"You're going to do great on the exam," Lars said, rubbing Jess's nose with his own.

"Yeah, well..." She shrugged. "It is comparative sciences. All those equations."

"Last time, last test," he reminded her. Other students pressed past. All looked grim.

She nodded and squeezed his hand. He could see the worry in her eyes. "If I don't--"

"You will," he said, smiling. "And then we'll spend the afternoon sampling pastries."

"And mints," she added, managing a smile.

He kissed her and let her go, nodding encouragement as she glanced back at him, then she was gone, lost to the examination room and the nervous clot of students.

Lars shifted his knapsack and hurried to the west hall to run Dubric's errands. He delivered the phase's payroll records and a supply request, then picked up the day's post. Rifling through, he saw nothing unusual, just the Waterford news ledger, Dubric's regular account statements from his investments in Jhalin, and correspondence from other Faldorrahn officials.

Lars nodded his thanks to the post manager and turned to go, but stopped when the man said, "Got a package here, sir. Addressed to you."

"Me?" Lars said, turning. "No one ever sends packages to me."

The post manager shrugged. "Maybe it's a wedding gift."

But we requested no gifts. We're leaving for Waterford in a few days. Confused, he said, "Must be it. Thanks."

The stiff-paper box was indeed addressed to him, and his stomach tightened as he recognized the handwriting.

His adopted mother. Jhandra Hargrove. From Haenpar.

"Oh, Goddess, not again," he mumbled as he frowned at the box. He stuffed Dubric's mail into his knapsack and trudged to the great hall. Sighing, he poured himself a cup of tea and sat, staring the worrisome thing his mother had sent.