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“Your face has gone redder than your hair,” Zahra, kindly, informs me.
I slap a hand to my cheek, and narrowly miss stabbing myself in the eye with my hook.
Zahra’s eyes spark. “Ooh. Didja meet someone last night?”
“No!”
“Totally met someone last night. Tell me who.”
“I did not. I was in my room by nightfall. I started cutting a pattern for oven mitts. I made the oven mitts. I brought the oven mitts.” I suck in a breath. “I nearly forgot about the oven mitts.”
“What’s the deal with oven mitts?”
I pull them out of the bottom drawer of my desk. They are small. With bees on them. Because the lining for one of my many bee dresses was the fabric I had available. “They’re for Meda. To use at home.”
“Those are criminally adorable.”
“Thank y—”
“Ah, ah.” Zahra waves a finger in my face. “Just so you know, I’ve decided that I identify as not only a problem, but also a faerie, and if you thank me, I will take your soul away to my little faerie house and put it in a cute little bed and care for it forever.”
My entire world has gone mad.
Zahra leans back against my desk and peers at her nails. “Also, I’ve been teaching the kids to say my gratitude and I have appreciation for your actions instead of ‘thank you.’ Complete with tiny bows. Because, duh.”
Yep. My whole entire world has gone mad. Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, I give my head a slight shake. “I don’t know if their parents will appreciate that?”
“Tough. I care about these kids, and in case you haven’t been paying attention, there’s a bad unseelie on the loose near here. He’s not getting my beans’ souls. Period. They’re still being polite, so their parents can suck it.”
I think I need something with more kick than stress crocheting.
Like stress knitting.
Stress needlepoint.
Stress macrame.
As far as evil faeries go, I met one last night.
And I wanted to kiss him.
So.
There’s that.
I don’t recognize when my head has hit my desk until Zahra’s murmuring, “Ow…are you all right?”
“Physically or mentally?” I mumble against my lesson plan book.
“Yes.”
“No.”
She sniffs. “Huh. That’s less than ideal, then.”
“Mrs. Role?” Andromeda calls, so I plant my prettiest I don’t have scandalous dreams about your father smile in place and look up.
“Yes, sweetie? Is everyone behaving over there unsupervised?”
