Wizard Undercover

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Puffing and panting, dripping unladylike sweat down her cheeks and off the end of her freckled nose and with her stylish, brand new spectacles fogged, Melissande slipped and staggered her way along yet another narrow, barely lit, cobblestoned Grande Splotze alley.

I’m an idiot. What am I? A raving nutter. I should’ve known I’d be sorry if I wore high heels.

Well. High ish. A good two and a half inches, at any rate, which at this particularly fraught moment was two and a half inches too many.

I swear on Sultan Zazoor’s best war camel, I don’t care what the occasion is, the next time I get mixed up with one of Gerald’s little missions I’m bloody well wearing ballet slippers!

Or better yet, football boots. The studded kind. With reinforced steel toes.

Assuming, of course, there is a next time. Assuming that this time doesn’t end with us well and truly corpsified.

She risked a downwards glance at her pale green silk-swathed chest, where Gerald’s lolling head was awkwardly pillowed. Oh, lord. He did look bad. Don’t die, Gerald. Please don’t die. Feeling him start to slip yet again, the fierce drag on her shoulders and back burning hotter with every unsteady step, she gave a little grunt, blinked fresh sweat out of her eyes, and tried to firm up her grip around his barely moving chest. If she dropped him he’d likely crack his skull on the cobbles, just like an egg.

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