She gestures at the crushed brass carcass on the floor.
Grimshaw waves a long-fingered hand. All four eyes have settled into a neutral, transactional calm. "I have already forgotten it, dear. Please never return."
"Fair."
She marches past me toward the shop entrance. The top of her head reaches my sternum. She doesn't look up. Doesn't slow down. Her shoulders are a rigid line under the blue fabric and her steps are quick and sharp, the heels of her shoes cracking against the stone floor like tiny hammer strikes.
I follow. The underground market swallows us immediately. Stalls packed tight on both sides, draped in enchanted tarps that shift color with the ambient mood of the crowd. Right now everything pulses a dull, irritable orange. A kobold selling cursed jewelry shrieks at a centaur blocking his display. Two goblins argue over a crate of what appears to be pickled eyeballs. The smell is dense. Sulfur, roasted meat, tanned leather, and the sharp mineral tang of raw gemstones.
Magnolia weaves through the crowd with surprising efficiency. She ducks under a minotaur's arm, sidesteps a puddle of something luminous and green, and squeezes between two ogre merchants without breaking stride. She moves like someone who navigates tight spaces for a living. Kitchen spaces. A bakery.
I clear a wider path simply by existing.
The crowd parts. Merchants pull their wares closer. A halfling vendor yanks his entire display cart backward so fast it tips and sends a cascade of bottled potions rolling across the cobblestones. Nobody makes eye contact.
Good.
We climb the winding stone staircase to street level. Late afternoon sunlight hits my face, thin and golden, and after the underground market's torchlit amber it stings. Magnolia squints. Pulls round sunglasses from her bag and pushes them onto her face. They have tiny daisies on the frames.
She still hasn't spoken about the male. Mark. The groomsmen.
I don't ask. The contract parameters, written on a blood-stained napkin currently folded in my belt pouch, do not include emotional debriefing. They include: attend all wedding events as her romantic partner, maintain physical proximity at all times, present a united and convincing front, and under no circumstances eat any of the wedding guests.
The last point she had underlined three times.
"Van's this way." Magnolia hooks a left down a narrow side street lined with overflowing dumpsters and fire escapes. Halfway down the block, wedged between a dented sedan and a brick wall, sits the smallest vehicle I have ever seen in my life.
White. Rounded. Cheerful in a way that borders on aggressive. The side panel readsMagnolia'sin looping pink script, with a painted cupcake underneath that has a small frosted smile. Below that, in smaller letters:Artisan Bakes & Custom Cakes.
Magnolia pulls keys from her bag, unlocks the passenger door, and swings it open with a practiced yank that suggests the hinge sticks. "Hop in."
I look at the seat. I look at the van. I look at the seat again. The interior is clean but packed. A stack of pink bakery boxes sits on the back bench. The dashboard is cluttered with receipts, a bobblehead cat with one missing ear, and a half-eaten granola bar. The passenger seat itself is upholstered in gray fabric with a suspicious flour handprint on the headrest.
The ceiling clearance is roughly four feet.
"You're joking."
"I'm not joking. Get in the van, Dash."
I lay the folded suit across the bakery boxes in the back with care the enchanted silk deserves. Then I face the door. Angle my right shoulder in first. Duck my head until my chin nearly touches me. Wedge my torso through the frame. My left horn scrapes the ceiling with a sound like a knife on ceramic and leaves a shallow groove in the fabric liner.
"Oh, come on, that's—I just got that reupholstered."
I drop into the seat. My knees hit the dashboard. The glove compartment pops open from the impact and vomits a cascade of napkins, pen caps, and a single rubber spatula onto my shins.The seat groans beneath my weight and sinks a full three inches, metal springs crying out in protest.
I pull my left leg in. Then my right. My kneecaps bracket the dashboard like bookends. The bobblehead cat topples sideways and lodges itself between my thigh and the center console.
I reach for the seatbelt. It extends eight inches and stops.
"It doesn't—yeah, it won't reach." Magnolia climbs into the driver's seat and pulls her door shut. She glances over. Her lips press together. A muscle in her cheek twitches.
"Don't."
The laugh explodes out of her.
It is not an unpleasant sound. Full and round and startled out of her like a cork from a bottle. Her whole body shakes with it. She grips the steering wheel and presses her forehead against the backs of her hands and her shoulders heave and the sunglasses with the tiny daisies slide down her nose.
I wait.
