Page 34 of Every Eligible Man

Oh, you sweet summer fool.

"The boot first," I say.

He jams his foot in. It rattles around like a grape in a barrel.

Something inside me dies a little.

"Too small. Next."

"But, my lady, perhaps if I could just show you my..."

"Your foot is a size nine. The boot is a size fourteen." I let my gaze drift meaningfully toward his crotch. "Unless your cock grew five sizes to compensate, we're done here. Next."

Behind me, Mira makes a sound like she's choking on her own dignity.

This is going to be a very long day.

HOUR ONE: THE OPTIMISTS

They come in waves. Confident. Eager. Completely delusional about their own measurements.

Candidate #7: Duke of Westmire

The glove does not fit. His fingers are too stubby, bulging at the seams like overstuffed sausages.

"But my lady, surely the glove is less important than..."

"The glove belonged to a man with elegant hands. Yours look like you've been punching hams for exercise." I wave him away. "Next."

Candidate #12: Sir Reginald of the Southern Reaches

Boot: too small. Glove: too big. Gerald: bites him before he even gets close.

The ferret's judgment is swift and absolute. I respect it.

"The ferret has spoken. Next."

Candidate #19: Baron Ashworth's third son

Boot: fits. Glove: fits.

Oh.

OH.

My heart hammers. The crowd holds its breath. Even Gerald stops trying to eat my jewelry.

"Drop your trousers."

He does, with trembling hands.

I stare.

And stare.

That curve is going the wrong direction. Aggressively, definitively, absolutely the wrong direction. It's pointing at the east wing like a flesh compass.

"That," I say slowly, "is the most aggressive curve to the right I have ever seen. I'm looking for left. Did you not hear the proclamation? Herald Bartholomew shouted it very clearly. Left-leaning curvature."