I become aware that I’m staring. Also that the entire room is staring. Mrs. Delacroix has her phone out, potentially calling 911 or potentially recording video evidence of a grown man scolding what appears to be a real-life goblin.
“Mal.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “What is that?”
He looks up, seeming to notice me for the first time, and guilt flickers across his face, followed by a kind of resigned amusement.
“Ah.” He clears his throat. “I can explain.”
“You can explain the small monster that’s been creating chaos in my studio.”
“He’s not a monster. He’s an imp.”
“Oh, well, that clarifies everything.”
“He’s my imp. Sort of. It’s complicated.”
“Yourimp.” I’m aware that my voice is rising, that the parents are shuffling their children toward the exit, and that this is exactly the kind of scene that destroys studio reputations. “You have a pet imp. A pet imp that’s been invading my studio, terrifying my students, and stealing dance shoes.”
“To be fair, he only stole the one shoe. The other times were just... reconnaissance.”
“Reconnaissance?!”
Nix takes advantage of our standoff to inch toward the door. Mal snags him by the scruff without looking, years of practice evident in the gesture.
“Perhaps,” he says carefully, “we should discuss this somewhere more private?”
I look around the studio. Three children are crying. Two are trying to catch Nix’s attention with increasingly elaborate waves. Mrs. Delacroix is definitely recording video. And Bianca has appeared in the doorway, holding her phone and wearing an expression that suggests she’s already drafted several social media posts about the incident.
“Class is dismissed,” I announce. “Early. Due to... circumstances.”
Parents surge toward the door, clutching children and casting horrified glances at Nix. Jilly breaks free from her mother’s grip long enough to wave goodbye.
“Bye, monster! Come back soon!”
Nix waves back with one tiny clawed hand, and I could swear he’s smiling.
“It’s not as strange as it seems.”
“You have an imp.”
“Yes.”
“An imp that talks.”
“Most of them do, actually. Nix is just chattier than average.”
“An imp that’s been living in my studio, stealing my belongings, and apparently conducting reconnaissance for what, exactly?”
We’re in my office, door firmly closed. Nix is perched on the filing cabinet, methodically sorting through his stolen treasures with an expression of pure contentment. He’s surrendered someof the items that clearly belong to students, but he’s clutching the juice box like it’s a precious artifact.
“He wasn’t exactly conducting reconnaissance,” Mal says. “More like... investigating.”
“What was he investigating?”
Mal hesitates. The pause stretches long enough that I start to feel the first real tendrils of alarm. In all the weeks I’ve known him, he’s never hesitated like this. He’s never seemed anything less than completely, irritatingly confident.
“You,” he finally admits.
“Me.”
