Sir Sweeps-A-Lot spins in an agitated circle before darting inside the tent. A yelp and rustling comes from the open flap before a rumpled Nash and Malachi roll out, alert and ready for battle. When they spot the newcomers, they rush over, their expressions thunderous.
I don’t sense any malicious intent in the bearded folk, but I have a terrible habit of seeing the best in people and sometimes miss the murder in their eyes, or in their case, facial hair.
I push myself upright and take stock.
The closest one polishes his spectacles before sliding them onto his face, magnifying his eyes to owl proportions. The man next to him scowls like the concept of morning offended him. I can relate. Maybe he hasn’t discovered the delights of how a good sausage can set you up for the diurnal. A great sausage puts a pep in your step and makes you feel like you can conquer your annus with gusto.
Malachi draws Excalibur, looking like a man intent on beheading. Again, if they took a tempo to appreciate the sausage, I’m sure he’d chill a little. Any food he delights in, really. I realize I don’t know what his favorite food is, but it’s not the time to discuss the finer merits of a good sausage.
I have issues. I need to find a support group or create one. The Society for Unapologetic and Slightly Obsessed Admirers of Glorious Edibles or S.U.S.O.A.G.E.
We will meet at dawn and pretend it’s about breakfast.
The one who hasn’t stopped smiling gives me the creeps. I keep one eye on him while my other blinks at the guy yawning so wide I can see his molars. Another taps a ledger against his palm, while his twin clutches a pickax like a comfort object. Ha, he’s a mini Theo.
The final one blinks at me as if I’m a complicated math problem. He leans forward as if he can see inside me. A blue bird pokes its head out of his beard and chatters in protest.
Malachi grabs Sir Sweeps-A-Lot as he makes a move to swat the bird.
Are they providing wildlife with protective homes? No one who does that is evil, right?
More concerning is the fact that we appear to have grown. “I think we’re giants,” I whisper. “Nobody panic. I didn’t do it, but I will figure it out.”
Malachi snorts. Nash shakes his head and swipes a hand down his face.
“Why are the seven dwarves here?” Hart grumbles. “It’s too early for this.”
Oh, that makes far more sense. Phew, because I don’t think the realm would survive giant me. My hands create enough chaos when they are this size.
The dwarves wait. Expectant. Accusatory.
“Before anyone speaks,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair, “you should know I am not accepting cursed fruit.”
The one with the ledger clears his throat. “We are not here about the fruit.”
“Excellent news, as you’ve given apples a terrible reputation.”
A curl of indigo smoke unfurls between us, smelling of cardamom and singed parchment.
“Oh, good,” I mutter. “We’re summoning things before breakfast.”
The smoke thickens, coils, and then resolves into a familiar, broad-shouldered silhouette adjusting jeweled cuffs as though he has woken unexpectedly. Do genies sleep? Do they lie down? Keep their eyes open? I doubt only horses have that skill.
“I felt a disturbance,” the genie says, scanning the dwarfs, the drawn sword, the bird, and the pinecone. “Either someone has made an ill-advised wish, or you’re about to do something monumental.”
“I’ve done neither,” I reply.
“Yet,” Hart adds.
His gaze flicks toward the dwarves. “Why are they… taller?”
“We’re not,” the grumpy one snaps.
The genie blinks. “Ah. A perception warp. Excellent.” He leans closer to me. “Daphne, why is the narrative flexing?”
“Yet to be determined. You spoiled the big reveal.”
He recoils as if I had reached over and slapped him. “You mean I’m here to witness the beginning of the next disaster?”
