“Nope. I work.”
“So will I. Right beside you. Learning the ways of Ordinary.”
“Nope again.” I cut the omelette cleanly in half then slid each half onto a plate. “You are not a part of the police force. Let’s keep it that way.”
“But how can I learn about Ordinary if I’m cooped up here in your house?”
“You aren’t even supposed to be in my house.”
I put the plate down on the kitchen table and pushed a chair out for her, then sat in front of my own plate. “The house is full of books you can read, a television you can watch, a computer to browse. There are some horse videos online you might want to check out so you can learn how to act like a horse. Or you can spend time in the yard watching the neighbors. You’ll need to…” I waved one finger at her, “get back into horse form. You should probably do that now before you forget.”
“As if I would.”
She hopped out of the armchair and scrabbled up to sit across from me, her back legs stuck straight out under the table, her front legs bent on either side of the plate. “Is this an omelette? Just…eggs?”
“You don’t know what an omelette is?”
“I’m a mythical creature. I don’t do brunch.”
“But you wanted me to cook…okay, right. Unicorns eat hay and oats and grass.”
“I’m not a horse.”
“Fine. What do unicorns eat?”
“We’re about to find out, aren’t we?”
She picked up the fork next to the plate and poked at the eggs. I stared at her, still thrown by her un-horselike movements. It must be her magic that allowed a hooved creature to manipulate an eating utensil. She neatly cut a bite of the pillowy eggs and forked them into her mouth.
“Nice trick with the fork,” I said. “Subtle magic. Impressive.”
She raised an eye ridge as she chewed once. “Unlike your breakfast skills.” She opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue, dribbling the eggs back to the plate. “These are terrible. They taste like eggs and cheese and vegetables.”
“Imagine that.” I finished the last of mine and took both our plates to the sink.
“Here. Try this.” I offered her a homemade oat and honey bar I’d made in the middle of the night about a week ago.
She sniffed it then took a tiny nibble. “That’s…different.” She shoved the entire thing in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “What is that called?”
“It’s a breakfast bar. So now you can apologize about the omelette.”
I handed her a second bar, then rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher.
“Why would I apologize?” she asked with her mouth full. “I wasn’t the one who made it.”
“You are a terrible unicorn. Go be a horse.”
Her mouth fell open and I waited, my arms crossed.
Then she laughed. It was a weird cross between a clown horn and a squeaky toy.
“Is that my laugh?” she asked wide-eyed. She giggled, all horn and squeak and ridiculousness. “That’s my laugh! Listen, Myra, listen to me!”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed too, because she was absurd. “You don’t know what your own laugh sounds like?”
“Well, I donow!” She chortled, and it sounded like a rubber chicken shaken by the neck. She opened her eyes wider and pointed at her mouth.
I placed an extra bar on the table. “There’s more in the cookie jar. You might want to try the carrots in the refrigerator, or the box of granola, which I’ll leave out.” I set the granola near the cookies. “I’ll be back before dinner, we’ll find something for you to eat then.”
