Kingsley


    Blurry colors,rge people, and a single stone path up to a sizable home. Fly. There was a fly. He wanted to eat the fly.


    Something else. He wanted something else, too, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Or who he was beyond what his animal instincts were driving him to do. Chase fly. Eat fly. His tongue shot out, and he missed it, leaping after it through a small window into a kitchen, where he found himself eye to eye with another being.


    A human. As he’d been.


    It was like waking up from a bad dream where he’d forgotten everything that made Alexander a man, but he remembered now. Just in time for the young woman blinking at him withrge green eyes to stumble backward, mouth open.


    The end of a broom came down, swatting where he sat, and he quickly leaped to one of the higher cabs, just missing it. “No, no! Shoo, you pest!” The young woman’s voice was soft, the sort that all staff took on in a grand home, so as not to be seen, so as not to be heard. Even now, this young woman adhered to those instructions. “Get down from there! Right now!”


    Alexander was never one to ignore the request of ady. It was apulsion to obey. Compulsion and annoying built-in manners. He jumped down to the table, blinking at her, the wooden table creaking under the force with which hended.


    She blinked back at him, tilting her head to the side. She was unsure how to react, if the wrinkle between her eyebrows was anything to go by. “Oh. I didn’t expect you to…listen.”


    He had no signs with him tomunicate what he wanted to say, so he shrugged. She gasped, pping a hand over her mouth, drawing his attention back to her green eyes. Like moss, or like a lily pad. He was not as adept at descriptions as he’d once been, but even he noticed that they were deep, and fathomless, and impossibly big, rounding further when he held up a webbed foot, waving.


    “Don’t do that!” She pped a hand down at her side, and twinkling light spilled from her fingertips. The rays hit a nearby flowerpot, turning the once-red roses a bright gold. “Oh, no, no, no,” she said, panicked.


    Magic. The girl with the big eyes had just turned the flowers a different color.


    “Winnifred? What on earth is all that noise?”


    The girl named Winnifred paled. “Nothing, mistress! I slipped on some spilled water.” Alexander didn’t know how this timid thing expected anyone to hear her at such a low volume.


    Loud footsteps pounded down the hall. The familiarity of the voice. The kitchen with yellow sshes of paint on the walls. Kingsley had been here before.


    Without ceremony, he was scooped up by Winnifred, feeling air rush his ears as she threw him in a cookie jar. “Be silent.” She put the lid on top with a tter, and then it was dark. Rude.


    If he had his signs, he’d tell her so, but for now he’d send the thought her way and hope it stuck.


    “Mistress Maverine,” Winnifred said, and Kingsley went still as stone. He’d hopped himself right into the same ce he’d turned into a bloody frog in the first ce. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”


    “You never mean to, Winnifred,” Amara Maverine said sharply. “I don’t appreciate your insubordination when I’ve extended every courtesy to you. I expect you to do your job without fuss or excess noise. I consider crashing sounds fuss.”


    “Of course, Mistress Maverine. Again, I am so sorry.” There was a smallness to her response, a smallness that Kingsley recalled Amara Maverine often seemed to evoke.


    “My husband’s pulling up the drive. Do you have lunch prepared?”


    “Yes, mistress. It is on the sitting room table.”


    There was a pause, and even Alexander, stuck in his tight quarters, could feel tension permeating the room.


    “What happened to the roses?”


    Alexander leaned his head up, peeking just out of the cookie jar. The top sat on his crowned head like a hat. Amara Maverine was ten years older and just as beautiful as always, with jet-ck hair and even darker eyes. Silver strands shone in the light, even pulled back in the neat bun at the base of her neck. Her lips were tight, her gaze eviscerating.


    Winnifred stared at the roses, appearing calm as she swept a brown lock off her forehead, but Alexander could see the telltale sign of a bead of sweat at her brow. “They came from the gardener this color, mistress.”


    Amara’s stern mouth twisted as she looked Winnifred up and down with distaste. “I’m sure. See that they remain red from now on, would you?”


    Winnifred dipped into a quick curtsy, her cheeks flushing as she averted her gaze to her shoes. “Of course, mistress.” The servant girl was quiet by nature, Alexander guessed by the softness of her voice, which was melodic and unused. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, please let me know.”


    Amara sniffed, slowly looking in his direction, and Kingsley ducked back into the jar so fast, the lid made a clicking sound. “What was that?” A step toward him. Another. Alexander would be sweating if he had the nds for it.


    “Nothing, mistress! Don’t you want to—”


    “Amara! I’m home!” Arthur Maverine’s voice boomed through the house, causing relief to settle over Kingsley. The others were here. He was saved. “Where are you?”


    “Coming!” Amara called. Alexander heard more footsteps slowly fading and then lighter ones. The lid opened, and it was—


    Oh. Still the girl who’d swatted him with the broom. Wonderful.


    Winnifred looked at him mournfully. “All right, Your Highness. Time to go.”


    Your Highness? Did she know him? Had she recognized him?


    She picked him up, holding him as far from her face as humanly possible. “Whoever put a crown on you is a fan of cruel and unusual punishments.”


    Oh…well, she was right on that score, anyhow.


    She reached to remove it—and then he bit her.


    “Ouch!” she yelped, dropping him. “What was that for?”


    He saluted her sarcastically.


    “I don’t care for frogs,” she said, crossing her arms. “You have a terribly hard bite for such a tiny thing, don’t you?”


    Kingsley searched himself for a sign out of habit, only to recall he was missing them all. Drat.


    The back door mmed open, and then there was nothing but shouts, screams, and absolute mayhem. Trystan pushed into the kitchen, disheveled and breathing heavily.


    Winnifred lurched back, grabbing a fork as she went, and started swinging…with her eyes closed.


    Which, forbat purposes, was certainly a choice.


    “I told you to knock first,” Evie yelled. “You scared the poor girl,” she finished, walking toward the fork wielder with an improperck of fear.


    “Sage, she’s got a weapon. Don’t,” Trystan said, holding a hand out to stop her, just as the silver prongs stuck into the middle of his palm. The whole room froze, and Evie winced, lips pulled back from her teeth as they all stared at the silver end of the utensil jutting from the boss’s skin. “There’s a fork,” he said, more curiously than angrily. “In my hand.”


    Evie said carefully, “Well, of course it’s a fork. I sincerely doubt a spoon could do that.”


    Trystan sighed.


    “Oh no,” Winnifred whispered.


    “Should I pull it out?” Evie asked as Tatianna entered the room.


    Tatianna lifted Trystan’s hand, looking it up and down. “Yeah, it’s shallow. It’lle right out if you tug.”


    Trystan pulled his hand away. “No one is pulling anything out!”


    Alexander chose that moment to leap for Trystan’s shoulder, using the neck of the fork as a boost. It ttered to the floor, and Trystan cursed as he shook out the appendage. “Damn it, Kingsley.”


    “Excuse me.” Winnifred was even quieter, like she had a setting for volume and someone had cranked it as low as possible.


    Alexander disliked it.


    Neither Trystan nor Evie heard her, though—not over their bickering, anyway.


    “It is your own fault. I told you it would be better if you give a warning before you enter like your hair is on fire,” Evie argued.


    The veins in Trystan’s forehead were looking to make their great escape. “It is called breaking and entering, Sage. I broke. I entered. And was stabbed with a fork. All in all, a sessful entrance.”


    Evie smiled fondly, warmly. “You’re right.”


    Trystan eyed her warily. “This is a trap.”


    She shoved him, rolling her eyes, and once more, Winnifred repeated herself. “Excuse me?” A little louder, still far too quiet.


    Alexander didn’t care to watch her do it again. He noticed a chalkboard hanging in the corner of the kitchen for ingredients and wrote one word.


    Listen.


    “What are you doing?” Winnifred whispered to him in astonished confusion. “Don’t do that.” She waved her hands as if willing his sentience away.


    The woman had magic of some sort. Was amunicative frog all that much more to grapple with? He double-checked his spelling. Nope. Not that.


    “Apologies.” Trystan cleared his throat, bowing stiffly. “We’re here to see my mother. Arthur, I believe, went through the front.”


    Winnifred gasped, eyes glued to Evie. “But you’re The— I mean, from the flyer, you look like, um— Are you certain Mistress Maverine would invite you here?”


    Evie assured her, “Oh, we weren’t invited.”


    Winnifred squeaked. Like a mouse.


    “Trystan!” Amara’s voice pierced the calm that had settled over the kitchen. “Get in here. Now!”


    Winnifred sighed. “I’m getting fired.”


    Alexander made an odd sound, his snort whileughinging out as sort of a croak. It wasn’t so different from the others, but making that sound was somehow more tolerable when it was his choice.


    “Oh, fear not.” Evie waved her hands around. “We’ll lie and say we threatened you!”


    “Lie?” Winnifred muttered under her breath, turning her head and exposing a small beauty mark just below her cheekbone.


    Evie gave Winnifred’s arm a familiar squeeze—so familiar Alexander almost believed they hadn’t just met two minutes ago. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it.” She waved an arm. “Come along, Trystan.” The order was thrown over her shoulder, as she was already halfway through the door.


    “I’m not a dog,” he replied darkly.


    Evie shrugged, still walking, face forward. “Fine. Stay, boy. I’m going to meet your mom; I am sure we’ll have a lot to talk about.”


    Uh-oh.


    The ominous warning was not necessary, however.


    Considering Trystan had already heeded her order to follow as soon as her back had turned.