Page 8 of Every Eligible Man

"You look like you could bench-press a lady and then make her thank you for it," Nibbles adds.

"I'd fuck you," Twitch announces. "And I'm a rat."

"That's... thank you?" Ash says uncertainly.

Slade has found a piece of broken mirror and is examining his reflection with deep satisfaction. Because of course he has. His doublet is deep emerald green, open just enough at the chest to make promises. The silver mask makes his sharp jaw and wicked grin even more devastating.

"I look like every bad decision a woman's ever wanted to make," he says. "This is perfect. This is art."

"You look like a fancy brothel owner," Ash says.

"That's what I said. Art."

I'm spinning in circles, watching my coattails flare. "I look like I should be banned from polite society."

"You are banned from polite society," Slade points out. "Remember the incident with the merchant's wife and the beehive?"

"She started it."

"She asked you to pass the salt."

"Aggressively."

One-Eye collapses onto the bucket, looking like he's aged thirty years in thirty seconds. "The clothes are done. Carriage next. And then, for the love of all that is holy and several things that aren't, you’re leaving and I’m going to find a quiet corner of the barn to contemplate my failures."

"You're coming with us," Ash says.

"I am absolutely not."

"Someone has to drive," Slade points out. "The horses trust you."

"There are no horses. We have field mice."

"Magic field mice," I say brightly, already bouncing toward the door. "Who will become magic horses. Who will need a driver. Who is you."

One-Eye's good eye twitches. "I hope you all get caught with your trousers down and executed for public indecency."

"That's the spirit!"

We move outside, where the broken-down hay wagon we use for manure runs waits in the moonlight. It looks especially pathetic tonight. One wheel is visibly crooked. The wood is rotting in at least three separate places. I'm pretty sure something died under the seat last month and we never found it.

"This is what we're working with," One-Eye says grimly. "Everyone stand back. This is going to take everything I've got."

He spreads his wings, mutters something that sounds like a swear word in an ancient language, and unleashes the last of the witch's stolen magic.

The wagon shudders. Groans. And then, impossibly, begins to transform.

Wood straightens and polishes itself into glossy black lacquer. The wheels repair, spokes gleaming silver. A velvet interior blooms from the rotting planks like flowers made of luxury. And the two field mice that have been hiding in the corner suddenly begin to grow.

Stretching. Reshaping. Expanding until two midnight-black stallions stand where the tiny rodents were, looking far too smug for their species.

"That’s deeply unsettling," Slade observes.

"They're beautiful," I breathe, approaching one horse with genuine awe. Susan pokes her head out of my pocket and chatters approvingly. "We should name them."

"We're not naming the temporary magic horses," Ash says.

He doesn't understand. He never understands the important things.