Page 44 of Every Eligible Man

"Yes! But now I'm certain it will fit perfectly." He grabs the boot from her lady-in-waiting before anyone can stop him and jams his foot in with the desperate energy of a man whose entire future depends on this moment.

The boot does not fit.

It didn't fit at the castle. It doesn't fit now. It will never fit because Brant's foot is a size ten and the boot is a size fourteen and no amount of desperation can change basic mathematics.

"It's... it's the mud," Brant stammers, foot rattling around inside the leather like a sad little bean in a very large pod. "The mud has expanded the boot since the castle. It's roomier now. If I just…"

"Stop talking."

From the loft, the animals can barely contain themselves.

"It's like watching a sausage try to cosplay as a horse," Squeak whispers gleefully.

"He's sweating through his doublet," Nibbles observes. "That's a lot of sweat. That's fear sweat."

"I hope he cries," Twitch adds. "I want to see him cry."

Cinder plucks the boot off Brant's pathetically small foot. "The boot does not fit. It did not fit at the castle. It will not fit if you try seventeen more times. Accept this."

"But my lady."

"Glove?"

Brant grabs it. Shoves his hand in. His stubby fingers stop two inches short of the fingertips.

Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

"The glove does not fit either. What a surprise."

"Perhaps if I stretched my fingers."

"Your fingers cannot grow on command." Cinder holds up Gerald, who is still straining toward the barn. "Ferret?"

Gerald is deposited in Brant's arms.

I hold my breath.

For one horrible second, nothing happens.

Then Gerald chooses violence.

The ferret sinks his teeth into Brant's left ear with the precision of a tiny, furry assassin. Brant screams, a high, undignified shriek, and stumbles backward, flailing. Gerald holds on, tiny body swinging like a furious earring.

"Get it off get it off get it off."

From the loft, Susan lets out a chitter of fierce approval. "That's my man. That's my husband."

"Gerald's not your husband," I point out quietly.

"He's my emotional support war criminal and I will not be corrected."

Two guards finally manage to pry Gerald off Brant's bleeding ear. The ferret is deposited back on Cinder's shoulder, looking immensely satisfied with himself.

"You," Cinder says to Brant's crumpled, bleeding form, "may leave. Garrick. Your turn."

Garrick approaches with significantly less confidence than his brother.

"Boot," Cinder says.