Size Matters

It was the birthday of Mrs. Cartigan’s nephew.  He was only shy of twelve, and the morning was gleaming gold in the gardens of perhaps the grandest mansion in the neighborhood.

While she had much to do for her pride and joy’s special day, she had no motivation to do much of anything except weep for the loss of her precious wedding ring, so it was naturally a matter of concern to the widow that she should find it before nightfall. But what a fine morning it was turning out to be and what a shame for the elderly woman to waste it on so many tears. Exotic flowers stood erect upon their green stalks, like an assemblage of intricately dressed ballerinas, and greeted the labyrinth of roses with their vivid petals and abundant radiance. The sight of her garden alone could coax her out of any dreary spell she was under,  and for the first time in her life not a slight upward curve was to be found upon her lips. There wasn’t even a smile for the sweet perfume her beloved fruits often sent her way.

Oh, but understandably she thought herself too frail to bend her knobby knees or too old to seek out her ring with less than adequate vision, and when the present was waning from her constant brooding, she pondered and wandered away through the lush greenery and entered the house with a simple but effective plan in mind. The party wouldn’t have to wait at all if she had an extra set of helping hands to assist her in this much needed search. But she had to work quickly if she wanted to get an early head start with the preparations for the party, ignore the curses that came with being old such as, the aching in her bones, the brittleness of her frame, and more. Mrs. Cartigan would indeed have to go to the marketplace for a bit of speedy recruiting. In seconds she left the comfort of her estate. She really was thankful it was just a short walk away from her home, to some decent extent, because five minutes in and her joints felt as if they were being mercilessly seared by the fires of hell.

“I’ll be jitterbugged if I have to take another step,” she panted, having made it to the marketplace, where customers ran in and out of every store looking for goods, “but I may not have to. Hello, young people, I could use your help. Would you all kindly lend me your eyes and ears? I’ve lost something and I need someone to find it for me.”

It was long past five minutes when she stumbled upon the realization that no one had actually bothered to even look her way. Others kept avoiding direct eye contact to see if she would stop talking, and this caused her to experience nothing but disdain for the dwellers of Clover Town. Finally she stopped pouting, and a woman came out of the store with a big bag of groceries, a bag so fully stocked it appeared dangerously close to bursting, and the tiny hole that went unseen stretched until it was vomiting fruits and vegetables. The old lady witnessed just how frazzled the stranger was, and reasonably so, for all the edibles she bought only a few seconds ago were rolling away at an alarming speed from the entrance to the sidewalk.

There was very little time to waste.

“Quick, Vera! What is your disaster recovery plan?” came the powerful cry of agony, only for it to turn into something pitiful, “The one in my head suggests I run around screaming ‘What do I do? What do I do? But I doubt that’s going to do me any good. T-This better work. Sorry, hey, excuse me!’” the distraught stranger spewed, faster than a bolt of lightning, before coming to the real conclusion; which was to run past countless of people in hopes of  salvaging the food she so foolishly lost, she even went so far to shove everyone aside with her own bare hands, and many were naturally angered by her ruthlessness to say the least. The witnesses moved warily through the tension, and in doing so inspired the masses to partake in the unintentional kicking of her precious fruits.  An exaggerated gasp flew from her lips when her latest purchase, everything she ever had in that bag, were irreversibly disfigured by a passing car.

She stared at her ruined spoils with such great intensity, Vera nearly convulsed.

“Good grief. D-did that just seriously happen? Dude, this is making my ass twitch.” She half-whispered, burying her face in her hands.

“Everything has a reason. Even jelly beans.” Mrs. Cartigan moaned, edging near desperation herself. Perhaps she’d ask a more lucid individual for assistance, and leave the desperate woman for last. Much to her dismay, however, the streets were becoming rather barren, and what she needed the most right now were people.  Preferably, normal people.

She tried again, yelling with all her might,“I will pay you handsomely for your services, but I do need willing volunteers!”

Cillian was giggling. It wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the bustle of the crowd, more of a quiet, private giggle, but a giggle nonetheless.

He had been walking through the marketplace when the scene unfolded. First it began with some old woman yelling at the top of her rather aged lungs, requesting help for something. Honestly he hadn’t heard what she needed as he’d ignored her, same as everyone else in the vicinity. He’d been far too preoccupied claiming a five finger discount on an apple when the vendor wasn’t paying enough attention to his fruit stall.

As Cillian had begun to walk away, taking a deep bite out of the green colored fruit that left a bit of juice dribbling down his chin, that was when the real commotion started. He probably wouldn’t even have noticed the woman at all, even after her bag of groceries split, if it weren’t for the fact that she started shoving people to go after the items as they rolled away. A body got knocked into him, which drew his attention toward the purple haired woman as she talked to herself and frantically tried to reclaim her lost food.

“Now that’s just unfortunate,” Cillian had murmured quietly to himself with amusement as everything got run over by a lacrimobile, giggling softly. He took another bite from his stolen apple and moved over toward the woman just in time to hear her half whispered comment about her ass twitching. Well curiosity got the better of him so his crimson eyes took a quick glance at her backside to see if it was, in fact, twitching.

Bending over, he picked up a lone orange that had managed to get through everything unscathed and offered it to the woman. Cillian was tall. Much taller than the young woman, in fact. He stood nearly a full foot taller than her, his lanky form practically looming above her. His entire outfit was maroon red in color, consisting of a pair of pants and a long trench coat that was open in the front. Since he wore no shirt beneath the jacket, there was a V shaped gape exposing his chest nearly all the way down to his pant line. Though he was a bit thin, he had rather prominent muscles on his abs that betrayed an athletic side to him. His hair was a dark silver color, and a bit shaggy. There was also a sizable scar that ran from the left side of his chin down to his collar.

“I’d say you should go ask for your money back, but that grocery store owner is known for being a penny pincher. Shame, though. I always hate seeing good food go to waste.” With a slight smirk, he pointed toward the elderly Mrs. Cartigan. “Since I haven’t done my good deed for the month yet, I’ll point out that lady there who looks like she needs some help and is willing to pay. Maybe you can get your money back.”

That was where he fully intended on leaving the interaction. Putting his free hand back in his pocket, Cillian turned to walk away and found himself face to face with the elderly woman in question, who had spotted him pointing at her and rushed over. “Excellent, so happy for a volunteer!” she said.

The Necrothurg blinked down at her in confusion. “Uhh…” The surprise of the woman appearing before him when he wasn’t expecting her had caught him off guard, stripping him of any eloquence he may have otherwise had. Apparently, the old lady had seen him pointing at her and was all too happy to accept that someone was finally acknowledging her, wandering over to capitalize on the opportunity for assistance.

Well, really it was that she was trying to get his help rather than the crazy, frazzled looking woman he was talking to, but of course Cillian was unaware of that. The old biddy stood aggressively before him. “I’m so glad to see that there are still nice young men out there willing to help a feeble old lady such as myself,” Mrs. Cartigan told him, reaching up with her wrinkled hands and taking hold of either side of the open face of his coat with a notably not so feeble grip. “And such a handsome man, too! What a dear you are!”

With a nervous chuckle Cillian carefully pried the lady off of him. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I think you’re mistaken.” He quickly took the purple haired woman by the shoulders and pulled her over, planting her in front of him where she stood conveniently between him and the old woman like a barrier. Indeed, he almost seemed to be trying to huddle behind the much smaller lady. “See, I was actually suggesting that this lovely young woman here consider giving you a hand, as she just tragically lost all her precious groceries. I would absolutely looove to help you myself, but I think she probably needs your jewel much more than I do, and it’s just so hard for me to put my own needs before others, you see…”

 

Vera sighed inwardly, with a rear that did not twitch and a smile that was warmer than her remark. “Well, that didn’t freakin’ go as planned.”

She suddenly stood with the fragrant orange in the palm of her hand and blinked, oblivious to the admiring, invasive looks of passing onlookers. She wasn’t the focus of all their attention; rather, and, not surprisingly, it was the fellow advising her that drew their intangible appetite to the exposed muscles on his abs. She was a toad among swans, with a navy sweater that was one size too big drooped over her khaki shorts. She looked like a mop with feelings.

And it spoke once more. “Yikes. Good deeds are real? I thought it might have been one of those made-up things, that parents tell their kids to do, like say please and thank you.”

The fruit he had only salvaged for her seconds ago might have been small, but it made all the difference. She preferred having something over nothing, and she supposed that was more than enough. In fact, she was thankful he did anything at all, a mildly refreshing contrast to people worrying about their own menial tasks. On that note, she wouldn’t keep him from whatever business he had before coming across such a petty catastrophe and nodded her head very briefly to show her gratitude.

“Cool! I’ll totally keep that possibility in mind. Nice talking to you. It was like having friends. I’m in your corner . . .” came her strangely pleasant goodbye, as she tucked the fruit in the pockets of her sweater. She was considering approaching the poor lady, offering her help and pity when no one else would, except a distracting thought had occurred to her mind and beckoned her like a fuzzy bee to a sweet flower.  

She was only a few steps in before realizing that a personal limit had finally been reached. Vera was uncharacteristically lazy all of a sudden, and thought it better to leave well enough alone. It was only at this point, when doing nothing, that she would listen in on the praise of another. The poor handsome fellow was being mercilessly assaulted by the lady's flattery and admiration. The amused louse bit back a laugh, confident that they would part ways and never meet again.

She wished him well.

Vera was suddenly on the move. But his hands were much faster, too swift for her to dodge, for they found her slender shoulders and pulled her smoothly off the path. She swayed dumbly in the middle of all this, bright eyes nearly rolling out from their sockets. She was nearly motionless like a puppet on a string, aware that she was being moved elsewhere, stupidly stunned but not particularly surprised with the outcome.

Misery absolutely loved company.

When she came to a gentle stop, the mark of confusion couldn’t have been any clearer in her comical gaze. Vera blinked at the woman before her in slow bewilderment. The author looked down at herself and noticed her shoulders were being latched onto, keeping her there in place, almost as if she served as a sort of shield. His excuse was very gallant in the eyes and ears of the elderly member of the gentle sex, but that perception went over the head of the much younger woman as she gingerly pried his fingers off one by one.

“You offer me as tribute,” she whispered shrilly, “and you don't exactly know what she's looking for? I’m telling you right now that this thing she’s missing could be anything.”

The old biddy raised an eyebrow at Vera. Mrs. Cartigan was continuously present for this and perfectly capable of hearing her complete and utter nonsense.

The purple-haired ditz wouldn’t stop there, not quite in touch with reality yet. “Hey, you, this is kind of embarrassing but I might’ve, you know, totally lost my instrument of death. Would you lend me a hand, or better yet, uh,” she tilted her head back, eyes boring into his crimson ones, dangerously, and completed her rant with the utmost seriousness, “your soul? Does that sound super fun to you? ‘Cause I kind of want to keep mine.”

Then an insignificant chuckle seemed to bloom into one of great laughter, something Mrs. Cartigan hadn’t done in a while. “Now,” she breathed, “that’s just silly. I only ask that my ring be brought back to me safe and sound. I,” she thought out her next words carefully, “may have lost it recently, in the garden. It is excessive, not unlike finding a needle in a haystack. This is why I need you two to roll up your sleeves and get started. It'll certainly be most tedious. But I will pay you both equally, and there will be plenty of delicious cookies to be had. I must insist that you try them! They are to die for.”

In a flash, she appeared behind the strapping young lad and guided him (more like tried) in the opposite direction, moving him just as he had done to the sacrificial airhead. The bookworm couldn’t believe she was being pulled into this mess, and how dearly she wanted to go home and curl up with a good blunt. The homebody wouldn't come home to uncle because when she considered, even remotely, bailing on such kindly strangers - Mrs. Cartigan dragged her by the neck of her sweater and dragged her along for the trip.

Cillian laughed outright at her somewhat sarcastic comment about good deeds, his mouth splitting in a wide, charismatic grin. This woman was quite funny! “Don’t worry,” he told her with teasing reassurance, “Most people are generally assholes, myself included. I just like to keep one step ahead of karma, you know?” He winked at her playfully.

The two were more than ready to part and go their separate ways, the young lady with the purple hair thankful for his attempt to assist her, when literally everything went wrong. Soon he found himself hiding behind the much smaller lady in an attempt to keep himself away from the old hag that insisted he take time out of his very busy schedule doing nothing to help her, too. The sweater adorned woman pried his hands off her shoulders while rightfully chastising him for getting her involved. “Tribute? Why I would never...” he stopped for a moment to glance back up at Mrs. Cartigan who was watching them both with a terrifyingly keen eye. “Okay, yes I did,” he whispered back, “But do you really blame me?”

Given the way the old woman was behaving, he was pretty certain this stranger in front of him probably would have done the same in his shoes. She tilted her head back without turning around to glare up at him, and Cillian couldn’t up but stare down at her in a mixture of amusement and sheepishness. He raised a brow at her. “Instrument of death, you say? That sounds like wild Thursday night. You can have my soul if you really want it I suppose, but it’s a bit hard to keep a hold of.”

The banter was interrupted by Mrs. Cartigan’s laughter, as she was obviously quite bemused at the pair’s antics. Without really giving them much more time to quip back and forth further, she explained that it was her wedding ring that she was looking for, which she apparently lost in her garden at some point. Well his ears did perk a bit at that. He did like gardens, or at least the ones that yielded food. Flowers were boring. She claimed she would reward them both with equal pay as well as a platter of cookies that were supposedly to die for. As a life long chef Cillian rather doubted that the old lady would wow him too much with her baking, but he was always willing to be pleasantly surprised.

Quicker than he could fathom, Mrs. Cartigan got behind him and started dragging him and the other young lady away. “Eep!” he exclaimed in protest, struggling for only a moment before accepting his fate.

“Well, guess we’re doing this,” the lanky man finally said after they’d walked for a bit. He continued to follow the old biddy but did slow down a little so that he could exchange a few words privately with the other woman. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get you dragged into something. I uh… Well honestly, I panicked. Assertive old women frighten me.” He glanced at Mrs. Cartigan’s back with the comical expression of a spooked puppy before turning a bright smile back down at his new companion. “I’m Cillian, by the way. If her cookies are terrible I can make you something better later by way of proper apology.”

 

 Vera looked at her companion as a fat cat might look at a mouse caught between its fuzzy paws. "You’d never?”

Vera attempted to slip away unnoticed, but was being pulled by the neck of her sweater and couldn’t carry that out successfully.  She merely looked as though she had been caught red-handed by her grandmother and was moping about it. The boy was already sounding his protest, although comically short-lived, and it didn’t take long for her to notice. She turned her head slowly on the spot and exchanged an incredulous look with the taller individual, who really did manage a tiny cry.

Did that just come out of you, her expression seemed to say. And with that, the smoothness of her face puckered along with her lips. She randomly started to exhibit an unusual fear of becoming the receiving end of a good scolding for her rudeness and instantly slapped her hands over her mouth, to prevent the giggles that threatened to pour out of her. The attempt was almost fatal to her dignity because her cheeks swelled up into fine puffs and all that trapped air produced an unprecedented snort. It was so unladylike, so disgustingly loud, she was pretty sure she was the reason the birds decided to migrate early.  

Yes, she definitely was.

They fled from their perch as if her snort were a carnivorous beast on the prowl for flesh and blood. She hadn’t ever altered the natural course of things so single-handedly, and was still debating on whether to take this personally or be nothing but proud of the fact. She genuinely liked animals so she might have experienced pity instead. Whatever dreams she had of being a dainty, woodland princess were instantly dashed. She would forever remain a crunchy tumbleweed, drifting from place to place, like some classless vagrant.


She turned her fairly large eyes to him in the dawning of a truth. There was no getting out of it. Walden innocently agreed, "I suppose we are.” And she took in the pleasant lull of the silence, patiently following Cartigan down the steep path. Vera also heard the humble emergence of an honest apology; the old woman wasn’t conscious of what was being said, probably because she was more concerned with the gate she was approaching. Poor thing forgot the code.

"It’s not that big a deal," said Vera who, like the fellow beside her, appeared faintly uncomfortable. “I really can’t blame you. She was a little more than,” she dragged the last letter awkwardly, “assertive. I’m Ve-”


Her introduction clashed with his for a split second. However, it didn’t take her long to quiet down, listening to the social butterfly go on about the cookies that awaited them if the job went well. She took the charming offer lightly and considered it a polite gesture done in passing. "I’m Vera Jayne. It’s a real mouthful," she said, trying to sound a little less dry for once. “But my imaginary friends call me Vera for short. Nice to meet you, Cillian.  I’d take you up on that, but I have a buttload of things to do."

Vera stopped, Cartigan had pressed a few buttons, walked through the opening gate, and waited for the youngsters to come after her. The former circus performer had stood there, overly stunned by the palatial home, and came to the realization that she nearly missed out on working for an impossibly loaded socialite. Walden was quite humbled. She rather fancied being permitted to roam the inside of the house with her eyes; the chandelier and most of the furniture kept in her a perpetual state of admiration, but she always remembered to keep her hands to herself. She didn’t want to break anything.

Later than she expected the garden Cartigan had spoken of earlier came into view. The overgrown labyrinth, speckled with exotic plantlife, implied the complex nature of this operation. She involuntarily shuddered, and moved, rather unconsciously, behind Cillian. There was no sound apart from the tiniest ‘eep’ ever mustered, and that one pathetically belonged to her. She was confident that this experience would teach her to hate flowers.

Yes, she knew this to be true.

Five minutes in and she wanted to throw herself off a tulip. She would have laughed if the option wasn’t so real. “She shrunk us! I told her it would be better if we retained our size. But, no, she wanted complimentary gnomes to decorate her garden on steroids.” cried the woman  exaggeratedly from within the yellow flower. She sounded extremely muffled. She wasn’t ever going to be a woodland princess. But now she could say she had some affiliation with the borrowers.  

Much to what would likely be Vera’s sincere delight, Cillian did not seem to be offended by the amusement she’d taken at his expense. In fact, her rather loud snort was met with little more than a sheepish grin and a small shrug.

They got a small moment to share as the old hag fiddled with the code that would allow them entrance to her property. It seemed the two of them were equally as concerned about the women. Likely, they would both be interested in finding this stupid ring of hers as quickly as possible so they could be on their merry way. There was a brief second of awkwardness as they both attempted to introduce themselves, and Cillian paused only for a moment before deciding the less embarrassing option would probably be for one of them to simply continue like nothing happened. So, once he was done he made sure to listen carefully to her response.

Vera Jayne was the name she gave, and Cillian couldn’t help the small giggle that came out of his mouth when she advised him that her imaginary friends simply called her by the first of the two monikers. This woman had a rather delightful sense of cynical humor. She thanked him for his offer, stating that unfortunately she had far too many other things to do than take him up on it. Cillian had been alive long enough to know when he was being fed bullshit, but truthfully that only made her all the more interesting to him. Now all he wanted to do was catch her in the lie, and he set himself to spend this job with her doing just that.

Mrs. Cartigan finally managed to make it past the gate and waved them in. She certainly lived in quite a lavish home, but unlike Vera the tall man wasn’t all too captivated. He put his hands in his pockets and took a glance around as they walked, but the way his eyes failed to linger on any one thing in particular betrayed that the clearly upper class home held little wonder to him, as though he had walked similar halls before. Though he did chuckle a little at Vera’s obvious rapture with the place.

Soon, they were in the garden. Literally. It seemed Mrs. Cartigan figured their best chances at finding her ring was to shrink them down to the size of flower buds and deposit them into the flora. Cillian was greatly entertained by this turn of events, and though Vera had brought up several valid points as to why staying their normal size would be more beneficial to the hunt, he couldn’t say he was disappointed that the old hag had stuck to her instincts. Whereas his companion was quite vexed with the situation, he was having a pretty grand time.

A giggling sound emerged from the flower next to her as Cillian dragged himself up to the edge of the petals. “Ah, c’mon, Jayne,” he said, calling her by her middle name. Or the second half of her first name. Whatever it was. “You don’t think this is even a little fun? Just a tiny bit exciting? I mean, look at the size of this lady bug!” The bug in question walked across some of the petals before him. It was half as big as he was. Wrapping his arms around it, he lifted it up and displayed it to her like it was an oversized dog deserving of being praised for its adorableness. But instead of wagging its tail, the thing was frantically shuffling its legs to get out of the uncomfortable situation. “Isn’t it cute? Uh-oh…”

He lost his footing on the flower and toppled over the edge, dropping down to the dirt ground with another unmanly yelp. The ladybug flew lazily away, managing to get out of Cillian’s hold before he reached the ground. The mage himself landed with his face in the soil, which was much less soft when interacting with it at a microscopic level. “Ow…” he moaned into the dirt pitifully. The lanky man dramatically rolled himself onto his back and laid there for a moment. “Watch that first step,” he called up to her, like she hadn’t already learned that herself by watching him tumble.

The sunlight on his face was suddenly blocked by something. Peering up, he realized it was an ant hovering over his head, practically the size of a horse. Cillian smiled at it. “Well, hey there Mr. Ant. Don’t suppose you’ve seen a big, shiny, round ri-- YIPE!” He quickly threw himself to the side as the ant tried to violently jam its pincers down on his head. Rolling up onto his feet, Cillian made sure there was plenty of space between him and the insect as he shook a finger at it in chastisement.

“That was not very nice, Mr. Ant!”

 

Vera did not want to come out indeed, though the ornate setting beyond the bounds of her comely cell would have softened her frivolous brooding. But she was fuming at diddly-squat, lying pointlessly on her back, and looking to the sky like an old drunkard dawning on a life lesson she’d learned too late. She emptied her mind, and went completely quiet for a bit.  

Then she nicked a rolled up cannabis cig from her hefty pockets and pressed it to her lips. This was her version of a middle finger,  furtively crude body language no one here genuinely deserved. She brought this on herself.  Vera heard giggling nearby and made no further attempt to blaze after that. She was putting the sordid joint away, and spoke not a word until she was carefully parting the petals and making eye contact with Cillian.

She was not quite so enthralled.

When he called out to her, Vera strongly reconsidered liberating her green goddess and closed her satin-like fronds with a petulance most suited for a problem child. For all the fuss she was making, she never really stopped listening to him and made that very clear as she poked her head out afresh from behind the primrose-colored petals. Her dour little face brightened straight away. I’m feeling, she reflected, happy which is a pretty big deal for me.

That disagreeable bearing of hers from before away as if by magic. She was mesmerized by what she saw. It was the first time that she had been able to cherish the magnificent panorama of the natural world at this particular angle. On the whole, her admiration had been greater than that of her resentment to the point to where she practically giggled at the spectacle. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Vera might have seen the fun in what he did, but did not elaborate.

The silvery haired goofball was lifting up the wriggly ladybug, so that it was viewable to the only other human audience it had.  But then her heart stopped posthaste; he had fallen away from the flower. Everything was at a stand still for her. She was having what normal people often called a delayed reaction.  “It’s all fun and games until someone messes with a ladybug. That did not make any sense, and I concur with that. Cillian!” she blared, ripping out one of the petals in her grasp. She curved it over her head, sped onward, and jumped faster than a rabbit crossing the highway.

Gravity off, gravity back on. Now, now she was falling.

She didn’t fear heights as much as she did her poorly sought ideas. Her days in the circus taught her that miscalculation was an enemy you needed to avoid at all costs. Sage advice coming from Uncle Percival, who was also responsible for the elimination of the safety net,  contrary to the wishes of her father. That was a time!

She glided down, looking like a trashy version of this universe’s Mary Poppins, minus the enviously cool demeanor and indisputably alluring accent. Walden kicked at the air a bit when the wind started to blow, and like a roach she batted them relentlessly. She was trying to steer closer to the ideal fertilizer - erm - child stuck in a grown man’s (aesthetically pleasing) body.  “Are you dead?” she asked stupidly, when she could have been a little nicer and asked if he was all right. But she was too on edge to think right now.

Vera was astonishingly dumbfounded and solaced over her makeshift parachute, for when her feet touched the soil she knew the landing had been nothing short of swell and more so when she propelled herself forward to join him on the ground.  She dropped to her knees in time to hear him moan when several things occurred very abruptly in quick succession.  

Vera felt like they were being punished. Eyes bulging, she held her breath, trying to understand why this was all happening, but she had barely touched Cillian when two large pincers reached for his head and missed. “I’ll take that as a big fat no. Any other questions you want to ask our territorial friend?” wheezed Vera. “Talk about having a good head on your shoulders.”

Dropping the petal, she scrambled away very nearly on her back, did a quick crunch and bounced back on her feet. She straightened up and stared at the bulbous insect intensely. Walden thrust two hands in front of her, her fingers fanning out dangerously, as though they could scream in unison -- what the flying hell?! She continued to spazz until she looked away from her hands, followed their precise direction with just her eyes, and spotted a glimmer of gold beneath the dirt. She smiled excitedly.

“Hold up. Let’s rephrase what I said, you big lug.” She added too kindly, cautiously stepping around Cillian, “What Mr. Ant’s really trying to tell you is: excuse me, good sir, here’s your nose. I found it in my business. I’m hiding a shiny, but you weren’t supposed to know that.”

Vera was in front of him now.

Her heart was beating erratically in her chest.

“Think you can check it out for me while I distract it? I need you to make sure it’s the real thing. For both our sakes, let it not be a tab from a soda can. I’d be so royally bummed.” She said, not setting aside the possibility of abandonment and betrayal. She reached for the closest twig; at least, a fragment of one and anticipated treachery. The puny girl would stab not just the ant, but the sly fox himself if he dared.