A Time for Reflection. Book Two: Downunderland Duet

By Jennifer Crowfoot

Always taking her holidays in the country, Aussie woman, Rose White, expected noisy crowds, a frisbee to the back of the head, third-degree sunburn, irritating sand in hidden places, and squawking mobs of hungry sea gulls thieving her hot chips on her first-ever beach holiday.

What she didn't expect was the swanky boutique hotel she was staying at to be apparently devoid of other guests, and having the stretch of beautiful beach fronting it, all to herself.

After coming perilously close to drowning when she unknowingly drifts too far from shore and continually gets swamped by angry waves, Rose is rescued just when she's given up, by the stunning Rad Hatter, a heavily tattooed surfie with a penchant for dressing in purple clothing, for wearing Akubra hats over his long icy curls, and has a crazy habit of talking and arguing with himself.

But gorgeous Rad isn't a lone deal, he comes with three equally odd and sexy friends who all happen to work in the same organisation. They're Rebels who're working to dethrone the wicked Bogan Queen and her hen-pecked consort, the King of Pubs, and take back their country for the people of the magical world, Reflection.

Due to an old prophesy proclaiming her as Reflection's champion, Rose has been gently carried - confused and hopelessly in lust - into their world and into the cause for liberty. Reflection is a twilight world that continually befuddles Rose no end with it's unbelievable inhabitants, and its weird magic.

In Reflection, she meets Murphy, a clock-loving, monocle and top hat wearing White Rabbit who's as mad as they come, and Rad's housemate, Tark, a sweet mouse who dresses in long-shorts and flanno shirts and carries a tiny sword strapped to his back.
He's also a wizard in the kitchen, a fact which food-loving Rose appreciates.

After the Rebel's tea party is interrupted by the queen's guard, and Rose is captured, she's forced onto the back of one of the cranky cassowaries making up the Bogan Queen's royal herd by her two bodyguards, Bazza and Jono, a couple of smelly idiots who dress in black suits and look suspiciously like frill-necked lizards and taken to the queen's palace, Downunderland, Rose sees drunken animals staggering out of the front door, a pot of singing flowers in tutus and tiaras, and a musician cat who happens to have a trumpet attached to his head.

Oh, and as if that's not enough for Rose to take in, there's a dragon named Rodger, who used to be an active Rebel member, but who now lives under the Queen's spell as a spy, in one of Downunderland's dungeons.

Now, in this installment of the story that started with 'Malice in Downunderland', the time has come for Rose to face her destiny and become the warrior it was foretold she'd be.
After Rad is captured, a formidably armed Rose and the remaining Rebels make a bee line for Downunderland, where she faces off against a cunning Bogan Queen determined to hold onto her power and position with every ounce of dark magic she possesses in her ruby-tipped whip.

A tale of intrigue, magic, lust and true love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Crowfoot
• Release date: Mar 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005334864

Jennifer Crowfoot

Married, Jennifer lives with her husband and her spoilt, feline fur-baby, Hades, in beautiful rural N.S.W, Australia.When not writing, Jennifer can be found with her nose buried in a book.She also has a collection of self-published books on Amazon.? ? ?

Book preview

A Time for Reflection

Book Two: Downunderland Duet

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Text copyright Jennifer Crowfoot 2021

Cover image© Angel Renee from Pexels

Cover design by Author using Canva

www.canva.com

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Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

This eBook is licenced for your personal enjoyment only.

This eBook may not be re-sold, or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction.

Characters, names places events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.

Any places or towns mentioned are used in a fictional manner.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademarked owners of various products which may be referenced in this work of fiction, all of which have been used without permission. The publication /use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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A Time for Reflection

This novel is rated 18+

It contains adult themes

It contains frequent and strong language

Contains sex scenes

Mild violence

Drug reference/ use

Some scenes contain light M/M and M/F/M interaction

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This novel is not a standalone, it is part two of a duet.

As it continues directly on from book one, I advise that to properly appreciate the story, please read first,

‘Malice in Downunderland’

Book One of the Downunderland Duet.

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Bloody curiouser and curiouser mate

‘A Time for Reflection’ is written using Australian english.

Contains copious amounts of Aussie slang and idioms common to Australia.

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Dedication

To all the dreamers out there.

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Cast of characters, places and kingdoms

Otherworld – Earth

Reflection – Same different-mirror-image world to Earth.

Rebels – Army of underground freedom fighters battling for Reflection’s liberty.

Enchanted Waters – Rebel safe house disguised as a resort hotel, situated in Otherworld.

Skjaldmaer – (Old Norse for Shield maiden. I pronounce it as Scald-a-Mare) – Rose White, Heroine, Human and promised warrior for Reflection’s rebels.

Rad Hatter – Rebel.

Quoll – Rebel.

Chill – Rebel.

Stevo – Rebel.

Tark – Rad’s housemate/chef/tough-talking, sword-wielding rodent.

Murphy – Rebel. Loony rabbit.

Feelgood – Power source used on Reflection. Derived from Otherworld’s natural resources.

Heartland State – Capitol of Reflection. Located in Hart kingdom.

Downunderland – Once an elegant, stately mansion existing for the people’s pleasure, now a Casino and seedy brothel run by criminal elements.

The Bogan queen – Madam, gambler, and self-styled ruler of Heartland and the kingdom of Hart.

The King of pubs – Floyd. The bogan queen’s hen-pecked partner-in-crime. Joint owner of Downunderland.

The Frills – Bazza and Jono aka: The frilled arseholes in black – Lizard twins. Bodyguards, idiots and main muscle to the queen and king.

Kingdoms of Harts, Shovels, Pubs and Diamantes – The four kingdoms making up the world of Reflection.

♥ ♠ ♦ ♣

Chapter One

Chez Murphy

COMING TO STAND BEFORE ME, his head drops and one ear droops and folds in half. Yes, it’s a sad situation, Miss Rose. About the dragon, he clarifies. That limp ear twitches and jumps. Ah-ha, Misters Rad, Quoll, Stevo and Chill, as well as Master Tark will join us shortly, I feel their energies approaching. His ear springs up and those long, curling whiskers jiggle as he wobbles his head from side to side.

With his movement, something tinkles on the tray he’s balancing between his furry paws.

I don’t even bother questioning his statement, I’m learning that everything I ever thought impossible or improbable, is the norm here. Nodding, I catch the scent of warm cake.

Stomach squiggling, my curious eyes drop to his outstretched arms.

Craning my neck, I raise my brows to peer over the edge. Aww, how sweet. Leaning somewhat precariously to the side, are a tower of mismatched teacups nested one inside the other, a china teapot, sugar bowl, spoons and a milk jug, along with several small cupcakes on a saucer.

Taking the seat opposite me, he perches on the edge, those long legs comically splaying outward like a frog, tail curving up behind him. Leaning forward, he whispers under his breath, setting the tray down on a low table which appears out of thin air.

I blink, and then shrug and accept.

Gazing at me, he smiles broadly exposing tombstone teeth, one paw hovering in readiness over the tray. His top hat lazily slides down, the brim covering the monocle-free eye like a pirate’s patch.

Sighing, he flicks it back into place with a clawed digit.

Clapping his paws together with a muted whump-whump, he tilts his head and roughly tugs an ear down, running the length of it briskly through his palms a couple of times, his pink tongue poking out of the side of his mouth.

The ear arrows upwards like a rocket when he releases it.

The tongue disappears. He sniffs and that cute nose wriggles. Right, well, I thought a hot cup of my special tea, and a wee cake, would be in order. You have suffered a nasty ordeal my dear. That queen truly is a dreadful creature. And any time spent in her, or the king of pub’s company has to be traumatic and draining. Not to mention, terribly tedious. Removing the two top cups, he places them to the side of the tray. One paw curling around the handle, the resting beneath the spout, he raises the pot and tilts it downward, filling the cups nearly to the brim with a lemon-coloured liquid. Steam curls upwards from the surface.

Carefully replacing the pot, he offers me one, handle turned away.

Leaning forward I gingerly take it from him, expecting to be burnt, but the china cup is barely warm in the palm I’m cradling the base in. Thank you. Urgh, lukewarm tea. So gross. Instead of crinkling my nose in disgust, I smile brightly. I don’t want to hurt his feelings by showing how much his tea-making skills suck.

He waves the now empty paw over the tray. Please help yourself to the nutmilk and sweet sand. Huh?

Grasping the jug, he adds a dribble of the white liquid — Oh, that must be the weird milk — to his cup, places it down, picks up a spoon, dips it into the bowl and plops in three spoonfuls of the silvery granules. The spoon looks so awkward clasped in his fluffy paw and I stare, amazed at his dexterity.

Shaking my head, I copy him, adding a little of the milk and sugar before stirring. Placing the spoon down next to his, I enfold the now whitened and sweetened beverage in both of my palms, raise it to my nose, and tentatively sniff at the rising wisps.

It smells delicious, nothing like what I was expecting. A sweet cloud of vanilla, honeysuckle and roses drifts up my nose as I take a cautious sip.

Surprisingly, it’s hot and despite its natural colour, it tastes like hot chocolate. Delicious. Hmm, yummy.

Yes, it is, isn’t it? Placing his cup to the side of his chair where it hovers in mid-air, he leans over, grasps the plate and offers me a cake. Moonlight cake, Miss Rose?

Sounds delicious. I lick my lips and take one. With a cake in one hand, cup in the other, I sit back and carefully nestling the cup in my lap, take a tentative bite of the cake. Like all of Tark’s goodies I’ve previously tasted, it doesn’t disappoint.

Oh. My. God, I mumble around my mouthful. This is scrumptious.

Murphy grins at me, his eyes twinkling and his whiskers wiggling. They are rather, aren’t they? They’re my particular favourite.

Lemons, limes and oranges flood my taste-buds. Tart, but refreshing and sweet. They taste like a warm moonlit night in an orchard. If that had a taste.

Mouth crammed full; he giggles. Confetti crumbs fly everywhere, rain down on his waistcoat. Vay voo, von’t vey?

I think that’s what he said.

From the area beyond the arched doorway comes a commotion as a door slams and four male voices shout, You home Murph?

Shoving in the rest of his cake, he chews rapidly and swallows with a loud gulp. In here boyos. Me and Miss Rose are taking tea. Is Tark with you? Did you bring some more cakes?

Stomping feet and husky male voices has me scooping up my cup and spinning in my chair. Pulse ticking wildly, I watch them enter the room, Rad first. All of them are wearing guns.

His bright eyes immediately dart to me and a beaming smile lights up his face. He rocks forward as the others barge past him. Large bodies tumble into the rest of the chairs. Tails flop to the floor, the tips swishing lazily from side to side.

Intelligent eyes in a variety of colours settle on me.

Hello again beautiful. I see the crazy rabbit got you out of that horrible place safe and head intact, Quoll purrs, sweet little fangs peeking from the corners of his mouth, cake and steaming cup already clasped in his hands.

A pair of indigo pants stop in front of me, pearl-handled pistol grips protruding from the holsters hanging low on the outside of his upper thighs. Muscular legs spread as Rad covetously plants himself in-between me and the others, his hands casually resting atop the pistols’ butts.

Hey, you greedy mad bugger, you’re blocking my view, says a sensual soft voice. I look around Rad and I’m rewarded with a slow wink and gentle smile from Chill. In the firelight his hair is a mass of tumbling flames, his dark eyes glittering.

If you want to keep your eyes, you’ll look elsewhere, Rad says in a low rumble. One I feel right to my core.

Oh dear.

Now, now, settle down hat boy. No need for threats, we get it. No sharing.

Good. He turns, and my eyes slide up those spread legs, up along the silky shirt in a purple paisley pattern, ascending the length of his strong neck and over a lightly whiskered jaw.

His lips cock in a knowing grin as I watch.

I feel the cup in my hand tilt and a splash of heat lands in my lap as my gaze travels up over a freckled nose, coming to rest in the warmth of those deep oceanic eyes.

Hello lovely, he croons, his lashes tumbling and rising as he blinks. He gestures with an upward raise of one hand. Up you go. Huh?

His command doesn’t register, I’m too busy perving at him.

Holy shit, he’s beautiful. My gaze rises. On top of those tumbling white curls perches a battered Akubra, the brim worn and slightly upturned. While I’m lost in the view, he takes the cup and cake from my numb hands, pivots and places them down, before turning back to me and taking both my hands.

With no effort at all, he tugs me to an upright position before spinning us and taking my now vacated seat. With a sharp pull, he nestles me down onto his lap, wrapping his arm snuggly around my waist.

He smirks at the others who all wear varying degrees of sourness on their faces. What are you all staring at?

Real subtle hat boy. Why don’t you just piss on her? Snaps Stevo, his eyes glowing coals behind the lenses of his glasses.

I rest my head against the firm cradle of his arm and shoulder, my hands settling in my lap, my eyes on the others facing me. His arm tightens and I feel his fingers stroking me over the dress. Pass me Miss Rose’s cup and cake, would you, he asks.

Here you are Mister Rad. Where’s Master Tark? I thought he’d be with you. I was so sure of it.

Thanks, Murph. He is. Tattooed hands offer me a refreshed cup and the last of my cake.

Straightening, I take both off him. Thank you, but before I drink any more, I really need to use a …bathroom, I whisper that last bit.

Ah, good. Very good. I’m hoping he can whip up some more of those moonlight cakes for me, this is the last of mine. Shall I pour you a cup, Mister Rad? I’ll show you to the privy Miss, can you hold on a moment longer?

I smile gratefully at Murphy, wriggle in Rad’s lap. He hisses out a sharp breath. Thank you. I can, but not for much longer, I’m sorry.

Murphy flashes those long incisors at me, his waxed whiskers curling up around his wide nostrils. No problem, I’ll be quick as a flimp in flight.

Rad’s throat bobs as he swallows. Thank you, that’d be nice, but maybe after Miss Rose uses the privy first?

Oh, of course. Of course. Where are my manners? Murphy comes to stand tall by our chair. His paw comes out. If you would please come with me, Miss Rose? Passing my handfuls to Rad I wriggle off his lap and stand. Murphy’s arm comes around me, his paw resting lightly on the small of my back.

Rad growls.

The paw swiftly vanishes, replaced by an outstretched, crooked arm.

I hook my arm though his elbow, and he winds us around the table end, clutch of chairs and minefield of long outstretched legs, finally heading us towards the arched doorway.

As we walk, Murphy clucks and leans down to whisper in my ear, the curled ends of his whiskers brushing against my face, He’s a bit of a crazy hot head, isn’t he?

I hum and scratch at my cheek. Those whiskers are rather coarse. Seems that way, yes.

So, Murphy, Rad calls out to our departing backs, Did you have any trouble with the rescue? I can see it went well, but how was the mood at Downunderland? How was the queen’s mood seeing as she didn’t get her claws into us? I know that was her dragon spy hovering overhead and I’m sure the poor bastard reported everything.

We stop and turn. My bladder begins to cry.

Oh meow, he would’ve most certainly, remarks Quoll.

Chill turns in his chair. One hand dives beneath his vest, before withdrawing a slender black rectangle clutched between his pale fingers. Opening it, he removes a long cigarette and places it between his lips. Replacing the box, he stands and walks towards the hearth, all lean supple elegance as he drops into a crouch, his lovely profile showing to the room.

As if in agreement with my assessment, the flickering flames leap towards him, casting shifting shadows across his face. Reaching in, he grabs the end of a twig and raises it to the tip, his cheeks hollowing as he puffs away.

The smell of weed and cloves perfume the room.

Tossing the stick back to the flames, he rises and takes his seat. One chequered leg rises to cross over the knee of the opposite leg, as he draws back on his smoke, the end glowing like Stevo’s eyes. A cloud of aromatic dove-grey smoke drifts over his lips as he says, He can’t help it you know that. If he could break whatever she’s done to him, he would.

Most definitely. He was as fiercely committed to the cause as any of us, before she got her claws into him.

Yes, well, plenty of time for discussions upon our return. Help yourselves in the meantime, Murphy says, spinning us around. Walking off, we pass beneath the arched doorway, entering a room bathed in shadows, an open doorway at the far end.

As we head towards that part of the room, I glance around what is obviously the kitchen, albeit a primitive one. There’s no window, but looking upward I notice several candles sticking out of the ceiling at random points. Unlit, they point in every direction like a worn toothbrush’s bristles. What the hell? I look to the rabbit at my side, my brow rising in question. He’s mumbling to himself, his free paw smoothing down his waistcoat, ignoring me and my weighty questioning look.

Okay then. It’s not like I really needed an explanation anyway. Not in the crazy place where anything goes. I look away from the preening rabbit, and continue my inspection.

By the flickering firelight filtering in from the other room, I see a low counter spanning half of the wall opposite us. Constructed of what appears to be a length of wood balancing on stumps, it hosts several cups, plates and a couple of tiny material bags, one tumbled onto its side, silver crystals spilling out from the opening.

Above the bench, a higgledy-piggledy row of tiny closed cupboards, hang crookedly.

At the end of the counter squats a menacing black stove, a chimney rising up from behind it like a broken tail, before bending at a right angle and vanishing into the dirt wall.

Red flickers are visible beneath the hob plates.

A kettle sits on one of the round metal plates, steam curling from the end of the spout.

From beneath the counter, roots sprout from the wall like arthritic fingers. Trailing down, they burrow beneath the dirt floor, giving it a rippled, corrugated appearance.

I stop and glance back over my shoulder at the men we’ve left. Murphy taps his foot softly against the floor.

Leaning forward in their chairs, the foursome’s foreheads touch as they talk amongst themselves, their voices too soft and low for me to catch. Rad’s hat rests on the floor and my lips arc up. Not because I’m nuts and smile at the drop of a hat, but because crouched on his head, nestled amongst the thick curls is Tark, his tiny sword strapped to his back, the hilt glinting in the firelight.

Come on my dear, Murphy says, gently tugging me forward. I’m still smiling as he leads us over the slightly uneven floor and through the doorway.

We enter a curved hallway. More candles protrude from the ceiling, but this time they’re aflame, their wicks casting a gentle lambent light. Nervously walking beneath their flames, I expect at any moment to feel the burn of scalding wax on my head, but to my surprise….

Why surprised Rose? Unimpressed and clear-thinking Rose points out. This house does belong to a talking, tea-quaffing, monocle and clothes-wearing huge rabbit, so that fact kinda trumps the detail of upside-down dripless candles, don’t you think?

My head dips side-on, and the corners of my mouth quirk upwards. Well yes. Yes, it does.

As we walk for hours in what appears to be a spiral formation, passing crookedly hung pictures of stern-faced rabbits in multi-coloured vests, decorated with pocket watches, and multiple closed doors, Murphy finally stops before a twisted vine-covered section of wall which shutters off the hallway and is obviously a dead-end.

With a flourish of his free paw, he pipes up, So, Miss Rose, here we are. Thank Christ. I’m fit to burst. This is the privy. Please excuse the mess, I wasn’t expecting guests. His tail thumps against my hip as he waggles it like an excited puppy.

My gaze slides from the cul-de-sac, to my host, as he continues, Well, I was, just not so soon. Your arrival caught me on the hop. He giggles behind a raised paw, the sound high and crazy. Turning his head towards me, he uncovers his mouth and flicks back his drooping hat with the back of the paw. His eyes sparkle like gems in the candlelight, as he chirps, ‘On the hop,’ get it? On. The. Hop. Bending forward, he slaps the side of his thigh, more giggles bubbling out.

I groan and shaking my head, I turn my gaze to front-on again, staring dumbfounded at the indicated ‘here.’ Is this some kind of joke? Does he expect me to just squat and pee on the floor?

His manic giggles cut off. Oh no, Miss Rose. No, no, no. Not at all. That simply wouldn’t be appropriate now, would it? Misters Rad, Chill, Quoll and Stevo would not be pleased if I did that. You go through the doorway of course, same as we all do. I slide my gaze to him again, waiting for the punchline. I’m sure this is some sort of joke.

Long ears droop down to hug the sides of his face, a visage which loses the cheery glow, becoming solemn. Not a joke. One does not joke about these sorts of things. The privy is truly located behind the door. He blinks the eye magnified behind the monocle several times and I don’t fail to notice that the other one remains steadfastly on me, the gleaming dark orb as bright as a polished button.

Huffing out a breath, I unhook my arm from his and walk towards the ‘doorway.’ My eyes drop. There’s no handle. Spinning my head back, I ask, So how am I supposed to get in? I jiggle on the spot, this’s getting serious. If I don’t go soon, I’m going to explode. Reaching out, my hand touches the curtain of vines making them quiver. They’re cool to the touch and slightly moist.

I withdraw my arm, my brows raising.

Murphy cocks his head. Grinning insanely and with that long tail swishing from side to side, his arm shoots out. Rotating his paw, he mimes turning a handle. Like this Miss Rose. Just imagine the handle before you, and turn it.

Exasperated with the nonsense, and bursting for the bathroom, I turn back to the wall of vines and again extend my arm.

Imagine it, my dear, he says brightly.

Grumbling under my breath and with my tummy griping, I do as he suggests.

But in my own style and with a certain amount of impish mischief, by conjuring up the most boring door knob I can think of.

A plain and butt-ugly metallic ball.

My wrist parts the vines with a rippling crackle. My fingers touch cool metal. Opening them, I wrap them around the handle, turning and pushing forward simultaneously.

A rectangular section of the vines smoothly swings inward, the exposed space welcoming me with dark, silky silence to, step over the threshold, my dear.

The room’s voice sounds suspiciously like Murphy, and I glance back at him from over my shoulder. His whiskers flick up sharply as he smiles and casually waves his paw in a, go on, motion.

Turning back, I peer into the darkness waiting for my eyes to adjust. They don’t. I blink several times, pushing the process along. It doesn’t work, because all I can see before me, is complete and utter darkness.

A shiver wriggles down my spine. Shit. Okay, it’s only darkness, like a moonless night back home. And there’s nothing bad or scary about that. Breathing in those hideous lizard twin’s odours was worse that this. Taking in a deep breath, I release it, push my shoulders back and walk forward.

Straight into a space that smells like damp soil and highly perfumed roses.

From directly behind me, Murphy murmurs softly and the room instantly fills with flickering light. Glancing up, I’m not at all surprised to see at least fifty candles randomly inserted into the dirt ceiling, their fat bodies arrowing downwards, their wicks flaming cheerily. Hmm, his lighting is unique, I’ll give him that.

I’ll be right outside my dear, he says pulling the door closed.

Okay, I murmur to the empty room. This is…um…different. Turning in a slow circle, I gaze around. Roses border the bases of three of the walls, the snowy blooms as large as dinner plates. That explains the perfume. But where’s the toilet?

After scouting about for a gleaming porcelain throne, I finally find it nestled in a space in-between two roses, and almost faint.

There’s not a hint of porcelain in sight. Or anything that resembles a throne, seat or chair. It’s a hole in the floor.

The toilet is a hole. As in a longdrop dunny. Minus the base, seat, lid and, I look to the sides, toilet paper.

So, in actuality, it’s a hole I’m going to have to squat over like a fox over the entrance to a rabbit warren.

Okay Rose, I start, psyching myself up as I stare daggers down at the offensive hole. It’s not going to be the first time you’ve had to squat and pee. Remember all those times out riding or bushwalking, when a clump of bushes was the only toilet for kilometres? Now’s no different. I stare down at the hole and then gaze at the perfumed rose bushes on either side, my brows rising. Well, it’s a little different, but nothing I can’t handle.

After awkwardly doing my business without tumbling onto my face in the dirt, or peppering my hands and arms with rose thorns, I stand. With my knickers locked around my knees like handcuffs, I shuffle away from the reach of the prickly limbs. Tugging them back up into place, I smooth my dress down and look around for soap and water.

Nothing.

Grumbling to myself again about stupid, primitive bathrooms without proper facilities, I stomp over to the door-shaped groove in the bare wall. Repeating my door-handle visualising, I turn the ornate golden handle which appears and step back, swinging the door inward.

A light breeze waltzes past me and into the room, ruffling the hem of my dress and dancing through the roses making them shiver. Above me, the candles extinguish with a sigh, plunging the room into darkness once again.

Walking out, I’m confronted with a floppy-eared Murphy, bowl of water in one upraised hand, soap in the other, towel draped over his furry forearm, contrite look on his upraised face.

My irritation instantly vanishes. Nice trick with the candles.

He blinks. No trick, Miss Rose, that’s simply the way of things. Oh me, oh my, yes, it is. His tail lazily sweeps the air behind him. So sorry my dear. I forgot to give you these.

I pull the door shut behind me, this time with a door handle in the shape of a hand. Thank you. Taking the soap from him, I quickly wash my hands and dry them on the towel. Folding it in half, I drape it back over his arm.

Stepping back from me, he spreads his arms and then theatrically throws his hands into the air, whispering mysteriously under his breath.

Too late I clue onto what he’s doing. Murphy, I exclaim when the penny drops. Shit. Rearing a couple of steps backwards, I bump into the hidden door, the thick fall of vines swishing and swaying like a beaded curtain with the disturbance.

Following the items’ trajectory, I don’t feel like I’ve moved far enough out of the way to avoid a messy outcome. I’m fully expecting to be drenched.

Or end up wearing a bowl on my head.

Really shouldn’t have bothered. Nothing touches me, because everything simply vanishes into the ether on its upward arc.

Humming in my throat, I lower my eyes and step forward.

Dusting his paws off with enthusiastic and over-exaggerated slaps, he winks at me. Stepping to my side, he crooks his arm, offering me his elbow. My dear, are you quite alright now?

Grasping my ponytail at its base, I run the thick hank of dark hair through my hands a couple of times. Flick it back over my shoulder. Yes, thank you. I feel much better. I slip my arm through his.

"Good, very good. You know my dear, I’m surprised to the top of my ears and the tip of my tail, that Mister Rad hasn’t stormed out here looking for