“Hi there, ho there, whoa there!” The woman gazed curiously at Seymour with big, dark eyes. “We have new members of the audience, oh, yes, yes, we do!”
Myrna smiled and cupped her hand beside her mouth, whispering to Seymour, “This is the Acrobat!”
Seymour gave an awkward wave from behind Sariel’s wings. “Uh… Yo.”
“Yo, yo, yo, hello there!” The Acrobat grinned and waved back frantically.
“I’m wavin’ with me heart.” King’s eyes flickered. “Cos I haven’t got any hands.”
Seymour nodded. “We know, King.”
“Or arms.”
“Got it.”
“Actually, I don’t have a heart, either?—”
“Acrobat,” Lou said firmly. “I need you to please identify this ink.” He offered the stack of music sheets up to her.
The Acrobat squealed and her arms stretched out like Mr. Fantastic’s as she snatched the sheets away. Her mouth popped open with the same bizarre rubbery quality, and Seymour could not help but be reminded of Day’s very large mouth.
God in Heaven, he hoped this wasn’t going to involve any crunching.
The Acrobat promptly shoved the stack of music sheets into her mouth and swallowed, smacking her lips. Her neck bulged out, and each individual edge of the papers was visible as they traveled down into her stomach. She hummed thoughtfully and then grinned. “Drumroll, please!”
Seymour frowned. “What?”
The Acrobat must have done the drumroll in her head because she suddenly liquified, gushing across the floor in a sudden wave. It was like watching a water balloon get popped with a needle. The music sheets were left behind, stuck to the door in a layer of thick slime.
Day hissed and bolted back to Seymour, climbing him like a tree to take refuge up on his shoulder.
“Ow, ow, okay! Easy!” Seymour cradled her close. “I got you.”
The Acrobat reformed in seconds, bouncing from one foot to the other as she rubbed her stomach. “Mmm, yummy, yummy! Wine of Silvertongue in my tummy!”
“So, the skull was right,” Lou mused.
“Of course I was,” King huffed haughtily. “I’m always right. Never wrong, says I!” He paused. “Wait, what was I right about again?”
“It’s the wine stuff you said it was.” Seymour raised his hand. “Okay, quick question for the rest of the class. Who is this Kava-seer guy again?”
“He was a being born from the spittle of the Aesir and Vanir whose very blood mixed with honey created the Mead of Poetry,” Lou drawled in reply. “It was a magical brew that would grant whoever drank it great wisdom and poetry skills.”
“A guy… made outta spit? Like, literally out of drool?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Myrna gushed, clearly excited to join the conversation again. “While the Mead of Poetry may have been the cat’s pajamas back in the day, there was asecondpotion. The Wine of Silvertongue was crafted from a slice of Kvasir’s tongue fermented in an especially rare and potent alcohol. See, the dwarves who murdered him drained his blood, but his body was buried?—”
Seymour scoffed. “He was fuckingmurdered?”
Myrna wagged her finger. “It is very rude to interrupt!”
“Okay, okay.” Seymour held up his hands. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“Ahem. Anyway! So, after he was buried?—”
“Myrna,” Lou urged. “How about you just tell him what it does?”
“Oh! Quite right.” Myrna grinned sheepishly. “The Wine of Silvertongue would imbue whoever drank it with the power of persuasion. They could tell you to do something, and you would have no choice but to obey!” She pointed to the music sheets.“Someone has taken it, boiled it down somehow, and turned it into ink to write these!”
