From behind.
I twisted as much as I could with Gideon half hanging off me.
There, nosing its way through the narrow doorway like a guilty dog, was the broom.
It had somehow squeezed itself down the cramped passage, bristles first, handle coming along behind. Dust clungto its straw. It hovered uncertainly just inside the threshold, as if aware it was intruding.
“You,” I said.
The broom bobbed.
“I thought you weren’t going back,” I said. “We had a whole boundary-setting argument about this.”
It edged closer.
Gideon squinted at it.
“Is that—” he started.
“My deeply unhelpful transportation,” I said. “Yes.”
“How did you get here?” I demanded of the broom. “You wouldn’t even take me back to Stonewick, and now you just—what—decided to pop into the dungeon for a social call?”
It zipped forward, stopping right in front of us, handle tilted as if it were evaluating angles.
Oh no, I thought.
“Oh no,” I said aloud. “Absolutely not. No. I am not—this is not a two-seater. You do not have the weight distribution for this kind of nonsense.”
The broom ignored me.
With startling speed for a glorified stick, it darted down, swept between Gideon’s legs, and wedged itself under him.
His knees, uncooperative traitors, gave in to gravity.
He dropped onto the broom in a graceless, painful slump, ending up straddling it sideways, half sprawled, half hanging.
He let out a raw sound, knuckles white on the handle.
“Okay,” he ground out. “Ow.”
“See?” I told the broom, outraged. “Ow. This is not ergonomically appropriate.”
It shivered once, as if shrugging.
Gideon turned his head enough to squint back at me. “Are you… shouting at a broom?”
“Frequently,” I said. “It deserves it.”
The broom shifted its balance, straightening underneath Gideon until he was more or less seated properly. It hovered a few inches off the floor now, taking most of his weight. His toes dragged against the marble, but he no longer had to hold himself up.
“Fine,” I muttered. “Fine. Whatever. We’ll discuss your boundaries later.”
I swung a leg over and climbed on behind him.
There was no dignified way to do it.
I ended up pressed close, my knees bracketing his, my chest against his back. I could feel every line of tension in him, every flinch when the broom jostled.
