Abbernathy and Magick's End

(1) - Infestation -

The City of Ean. Western Slopes.

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FOR EVERY SOUL - human, animal, or otherwise - seeking to rid themselves of unwanted pests, a large boot and a good, swift stomp ought to do the trick.

Unfortunate then, as Abby had not one, but two pests invading her home, that her beloved ivory boots were at the shoesmiths for repairs.

She would have to resort to other means to solve her problem. Magick, her first option, had Margo been there. Temporarily transformed toads were much easier to squash under foot than questionable men. But Margo had been away, studying the realm's magick, and had yet to return.

Brewing a potion or two was then a close second, if only Abby had been further along in her potioneering career. But as a practitioner with merely a permit, the law forbade her from feeding anyone her concoctions.

Fear of explosions, or some such nonsense.

As it was, her options were nonexistent, her patience waning, her need for a good, strong drink overwhelming. Luckily, the teapot was screeching, the water for her tea properly boiled.

With the corner of her apron, she removed the pot from the burner, its copper bottom settling from a dangerous red to a more benign black. Removing a glass jar from the top shelf — her thick, black boots ridding her of the need for a stepping stool — she undid the seal and plopped two rounded spoonfuls of leaves into one of her better teacups, one that had been saved from the destructive hands of Lucy's many exes.

She poured the water over the leaves, filling the cup full. Steam curled up, a faint floral aroma reaching her nose.

"Love!" Abby's neck twitched, her grip around the cup tightening. An ache between her shoulder blades, that had started since dawn, returned. "How unforgivable! Why, there's a hole in my sleeve. Does it not know it clothes a most exquisite king? How dare it. If it were my subject, I'd have it hung from the gallows."

She sighed, swirling the liquid in her cup, watching as it turned an eggy yellow. "Odd way to dry a shirt." 

"Love!" he said again, urgency in his words. He shot up from the sofa, slamming his feet on the ground, his golden eyes piercing as they looked at her. "Please say you'll fix it."

The base of Abby's skull pinched, where what she warranted was her rational mind was pleading with her not to get involved. To ignore Lucy, retire to her room, lock the door, and wait for him to leave. Perhaps read her newest Wizard Kellog book  listing the best binders for beginning potioneers in descending order of potency.

Much against her best interest, though, she gave in. Had her survival been left to instinct alone, she presumed she'd have been dead a long, long time ago.

"Doesn't a king have access to a royal tailor or two?" she asked.

Lucy's brow furrowed. "I have several, in fact."

"Good," she said, returning to her cup. Her tea, having steeped fully, shone a lovely gold, the scent reminding her of a flock of Mirthea. "Have one of them fix it." Sliding a lid off a black cat shaped ceramic — a late birthday gift Alfren had custom-made for her at one of his shops — she dipped a spoon into it and shoveled two heaps of sugar into her cup.

A third scoop came seconds later, after she glimpsed Lucy holding the offending shirtsleeve out in front of him like it was some blighted disease.

"But Love—"

Hefting the cup to her lips, she stared at him over the rim, her words reinforced with finality. "Have someone else do it."

"But—" Lucy got to his feet and with practiced, almost gliding steps, slid beside her, worming his arms over hers in a hug. She breathed out, causing a puff of steam to obscure Lucy's face as he settled his chin on her shoulder. "Reven forbade me from doling out orders he considers trivial."