King blinked worriedly. “Uh, what did she say now?”
“Oh, not much.” Seymour smirked. “She likes your crown.”
“I’m Myrna! Hello there!” Myrna said with a cheerful smile. “That sweet little lady is Day, this nice fellow here is Seymour,that’s Sariel beside him, and the man with the grumpy face is Louis Morénas-Mostro.”
“I’m not grumpy.” Lou kneeled in front of the closet, rummaging through a few pieces of paper on the floor. One of them was missing its lower half, and he scowled as he gave it a closer examination.
“You definitely look grumpy,” King noted.
Seymour smirked. “I think he just kinda looks like that.” He glanced between Sariel and Myrna. “So, uh, can anybody else here tell me why my dad had a talkin’ skull?”
“They were renowned throughout Celtic legend for being great prophets and possessing fantastic magical powers,” Myrna replied eagerly. “The seat of the soul was believed to be inside the skull, so sometimes they’d lob off a person’s head after they died and keep it. The talking variety like our new friend here is rare indeed, and any witch or wizard would consider themselves very lucky to have one!”
“True that.” King seemed to grin. “I am pretty brilliant, as they go.”
“Were you truly royalty?” Myrna asked. “Like Conaire Mór, the famous Irish king whose head recited poetry and the like?”
“Afraid not, missus. The crown upon my head was stuck there by that fuckin’ thick magician, Pink Charlie. It kept fallin’ off during the act, so this was his solution.”
“Oh! So, you did work with a magician?”
“I was the star! The pride of Dublin!” King declared. “He should’ve been workin’ forme! Sold out every night, glowin’ reviews, fresh polish for me bones weekly! That is, until Charlie decided to expand our act. Fuckin’ eejit.”
“Expand the act?” Seymour frowned. “What happened?”
“He wanted a dancing bear to wheel me on stage in a cart.”
“That sounds kinda nice?—”
“Sure, the bear ate him.”
“Never mind.”
Day perked up immediately. “I like the bear.”
“Myrna.” Lou waved her over. “Take a look at these.”
Myrna peered curiously over the papers. “Music sheets? Hmm, how strange. They’re definitely magical, but I’m not sure?—”
“Those have been written in the Wine of Silvertongue, made from Kvasir himself!” King declared.
“Are you sure?” Lou demanded.
“Of what?”
“If these were written in the Wine of Silvertongue."
“What’s that?”
Lou glared, and for a split second Seymour thought he was going to wolf out. “Acrobat, spring forth.”
Seymour blinked. “What does that?—”
Sariel grabbed Seymour, his wings out and wrapped around him protectively as a big, zoomingblobappeared out of nowhere.
It pinged around the room like a rubber bouncy ball on speed, taking out a set of curtains and smacking into the closet door with enough force to slam it back against the wall. It finally came to a screeching stop on top of the same door, revealing itself to be a woman in a masked black-and-white jester’s costume. She was small and thin, her face painted stark white and lips black, and her entire frame vibrated, no doubt ready to go zooming off again at any second.
“You know what. Fuck it. Sure. Yes.” Seymour exhaled the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Fuckin’ bouncing clowns.”
