“Reporting for doom-day,” Twobble said, saluting with his least sticky hand.
They stepped inside.
“We’re not calling it doom-day,” I said.
“Right,” he said. “Circle Day. Path-Pummeling Day. Priestess-Annoyance Day. I have alternatives.”
Skonk adjusted his spectacles. “We come with news,” he said.
“Good or bad?” Keegan asked.
“Mostly good,” Skonk said. “With undertones of concern, obviously. It’s us.”
Twobble bounced on his heels.
“Frank slept,” he announced. “Likesleptslept. All night. In his own room. Not that anyone asked.”
“Really?”
Skonk nodded. “No pacing. No partial shifting. No muttering. His breathing was steady, his pulse strong, and he did not once try to chew a pillow in his sleep.”
“That happened one time,” Keegan muttered.
“Three,” Skonk corrected.
“Shh,” Twobble said, waving him off. “The point is, your dad is ready. He ate breakfast. He made a joke about the Academy porridge. He only scowled at Gideon’s empty chair twice.”
I blinked. “He scowled at an empty chair?”
“It was labeled,” Skonk said.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Of course it was.”
“Stella’s at the Academy already,” Twobble continued, clearly in full briefing mode. “She’s made enough post-circle tea to drown a middling deity. Nova’s triple-checking the Hollows threads for communication. Ardetia says the Fae are grumpy but still on our side, and Bella sent word that the perimeter around the Wilds is clear. For now.”
“For now,” Keegan repeated under his breath.
Skonk flipped open his notebook. “Oh. And your mother reinforced the transit circle at the end of town. Layered charms.Very elegant. She made the chalk line do a little spiral at the end. It was impressive.”
My throat tightened, unexpectedly. “She always was good with details,” I said.
Twobble peered up at me. “You okay?”
“Ask me again in six hours,” I said.
“We will,” he said promptly. “We’re very annoying.”
He rocked back on his heels, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Also, if you were wondering whether your father is emotionally ready for this, he hugged your mom this morning and didn’t pretend it was an accident.”
I blinked. “That’s your metric?”
“It’s a good metric,” Twobble said. “Frank doesn’t do casual affection with exes. That’s how you know he’s serious.”
Keegan’s mouth twitched. “And what’s your metric for me?”
Twobble glanced between us. “You haven’t made a single sarcastic comment about your own impending doom this morning,” he said. “Which is either progress or very worrying. I’m making notes.”
Skonk dutifully scribbled. “Goblin Psychological Indicator #12: Keegan’s doom humor level.”
