Page 69 of Every Eligible Man

"Do they, though?" Mira had asked.

"They do now."

One-Eye perches on the back of the couch, centered behind us all like a feathered patriarch surveying his deeply chaotic legacy.

"This is fine," the painter says to himself. "This is all fine. I've painted royal families before. I can do this."

He cannot do this.

Attempt one fails when Gerald launches himself at the painter's palette, attracted by the shiny gold paint.

Attempt two fails when Havoc escapes Wreck's arms completely and crawls halfway across the room before anyone notices.

Attempt three fails when Bastard decides the painter is a threat and must be honked at aggressively until he cowers behind his easel.

Attempt four fails when Sterling spits up on Slade's formal doublet, and Slade insists on a complete outfit change because "I refuse to be immortalized in regurgitation."

Attempt five fails when Ember begins screaming with the fury of a tiny dictator whose nap schedule has been disrupted, and refuses to stop until Ash walks her around the room for ten minutes while humming something that sounds suspiciously like a bawdy tavern song.

Attempt six almost succeeds, everyone is in position, everyone is still, the painter is actually painting, when One-Eye falls asleep and nearly topples off the couch.

Attempt seven.

"Nobody move," I hiss. "Not a single one of you. I will make your lives a living hell if anyone moves."

"My nose itches," Wreck whispers.

"Suffer."

"Gerald's about to steal that paintbrush."

"Gerald, no."

Gerald freezes mid-steal, tiny paw outstretched, looking betrayed.

"Everyone hold."

The painter works frantically, brush flying across canvas, clearly aware that this moment of stillness cannot last.

Ember maintains her intense stare. Sterling coos photogenically. Havoc, for one miraculous moment, stays in place.

The rats pose with professional dignity. Bastard arranges his feathers artfully. Susan and Gerald remain frozen on Wreck's shoulders.

One-Eye opens his good eye just enough to glare at posterity.

And my three husbands, Ash steady and strong, Slade elegant and sharp, Wreck chaos barely contained, look at me with expressions that make my heart do ridiculous things even after a year of marriage.

The painter captures it all.

Somehow.

Miraculously.

When he finally sets down his brush, he's sweating through his formal jacket and his hands are shaking.

"It's done," he whispers. "Please. Please let me leave."

"Thank you for your service," I say graciously. "Your payment will be delivered tomorrow. Along with a cask of wine. You've earned it."