#angora48

Aasif walked briskly back from the kitchens, his quarry tucked into his sleeve. No reason to advertise—the servants or guards would only wonder why he was carrying such a thing through the palace, and he really didn’t see why anyone else had to know.

He returned to his bedroom and set his prize on his desk. For a moment, he just eyed it, wondering about the best way to begin. Should he just go for it?

At that moment, his door opened, and Aasif let out a long-suffering sigh. “What do you want, Sita?” he called over his shoulder. It had to be his sister. Any of the palace staff would’ve knocked, and his parents didn’t come to him—they’d send one of the servants to fetch him.

Sita hung back in the doorway, holding up a vase of cut flowers. “I got these from the gardens, thought you might like some,” she explained.

Well, how was Aasif meant to be annoyed with her when she was all thoughtful? It was one of the most aggravating things about his sister. “Yes, thank you,” he said in a resigned tone. “Come on in.”

He stood in front of the desk to block her view, but Sita didn’t seem to be paying much mind anyway. “What are you up to?” she asked, fussing with the (admittedly very pretty) flowers as she walked into the room.

“Oh, you know—plots, schemes, the usual,” Aasif replied.

“Huh?” She looked up at him.

Aasif chuckled. “Nothing, Sita.”

“Mmm.” She nodded. “Right.” As she looked around the room, Sita murmured to herself, “Now where to put you?”

“Maybe over by the—” Aasif started to say, gesturing to his bedside table, but Sita approached the desk instead.

“What about here?” she asked in the same breath as Aasif. Slipping past him, Sita set the vase down and was pulled up short by what she found on the desk.

“That’s a hearth pepper,” she said.

Aasif gave the thing a glance. “Is it?” he mused, as if he’d only just noticed himself.

“Why do you have a hearth pepper in your room?” Sita wondered.

No, she was annoying. Definitely annoying. “It brightens up the atmosphere,” Aasif drawled back.

“Aasif,” Sita said.

Aasif’s sister could be meek and withdrawn in company, but if she felt comfortable enough with you, she could be downright stubborn. With another sigh, Aasif admitted, “I need…practice.”

Sita frowned. “Practice at what? Eating the hottest food that grows in Iqara?” Rolling her eyes, she asked, “Is this a bet? With who, Rashad from the stables?”

“It’s not a bet,” Aasif told her. “It’s…” Between the two of them, it was very rare that Aasif was the tongue-tied one. He wondered if Sita was enjoying the role reversal. “Look,” he finally said, “it’s to help me get ready for seeing Tariq again.”

“But why would Tariq want you to—?” Sita began, and Aasif saw the exact moment she realized what he was doing. Her eyes widened in surprise, and a small laugh escaped her.

Aasif gave a small huff and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Go on, say it.”

“You’re trying to get the hiccups?” Sita asked.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Aasif retorted. “I always get so embarrassed and cranky when I have them. Tariq’s curse is non-negotiable, so I have to figure out a way to get used to them. And I thought, practice—this is the first thing I could think of that might work.”

As she thought this over, Sita cocked her head. “Wait here,” she told him. “You’d better at least have some milk ready for yourself, or you’ll regret this fast.”

All right, so Aasif couldn’t be annoyed at Sita’s smarts either, not when they saved him from his own impulsivity. “Yeah,” he agreed, nodding. “Good idea.”

Heading for the door, Sita added, “I mean, you might regret the idea anyway. But at least you can prepare yourself for the fallout.”

“Thanks, Sita!” Aasif called after her.

While he waited, Aasif discovered that he was starting to feel apprehensive about the whole thing. Whenever the cooks served dishes made with hearth peppers, it never took more than a few mouthfuls for him to start sweating, and that was when they were blended into a sauce. They were supposed to be even hotter when they were raw, weren’t they?

That was the trouble with Sita’s pragmatism—when she pointed out all the logic, it gave you time to second-guess yourself. If not for her, Aasif would have done it already. Of course, that might’ve meant he’d be curled up on the floor with his mouth on fire, so there were pitfalls on either side.

A few minutes later, Sita returned with a pitcher of milk and a goblet. “You didn’t tell anyone what you needed it for, did you?” Aasif asked.

“Of course not,” Sita replied. “I didn’t think you’d want the servants to know the man you like is cursed, so you’re giving yourself the hiccups to help you cope with it.”

“Not man,” Aasif pointed out.

Sita’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“I don’t think Tariq’s a man,” Aasif explained. “Not exclusively, anyway.”

“What makes you say that?” Sita asked.

Was Aasif stalling? Hard to say. “Didn’t you hear Laila the last time they were here?” Aasif said. “She used ‘he,’ ‘she,’ and ‘they’ when she was talking about Tariq.” With a playful grin, he just nudged his sister. “Or when Laila talks, are you too busy getting lost in her eyes to hear what she says?”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” Sita informed him, making a face.

“I happen to be an excellentjudge of my own humor,” Aasif countered.

“Fine—the person you like is cursed then,” Sita said. She sank down so she was eye level with the desk and looked at the hearth pepper. “Are you stalling?”

“I would never!” Aasif exclaimed. Sita raised her eyebrows at him and he realized that, if he talked much longer, he’d wind up backing out. If he wanted to go through with this, it would have to be now.

So, taking a breath, Aasif said, “I’m ready.” As he picked up the pepper by its stem, Sita filled the goblet with milk for him.

Just raising the hearth pepper near his face was enough to make his eyes water. Aasif told himself that that was good—it meant it had a good chance of working.

Okay, now or never.

Somehow reckless and cautious at the same time, Aasif took the smallest bite possible of the hearth pepper. It gave him about half a second of grace before it assaulted his tongue. By the time Aasif managed to swallow, he was already sweating.

“Oh-oh-oh!” he panted, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.

“Aasif,” Sita prompted. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she held up the goblet.

Aasif seized it with both hands and gulped down a few swallows. “Oh my g-*ulk!*-god!” He downed the rest of the milk and handed the goblet back to Sita. “More, pl-please,” he begged. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he fanned at his tongue.

“Yes, I have it,” Sita assured him.

Another hiccup hit him while she was refilling the goblet, a hard “*huck!*” God, his throat and chest were burning now too. “Hurry!” Aasif insisted, his eyes streaming.

Sita gave him the goblet and watched as he tried to quench the fire he’d just swallowed. “Aren’t you glad I came along?” she asked.

“Shut up,” Aasif replied between gulps of milk. It was helping a little—the heat wasn’t unbearable—but he still felt like, if he breathed too hard, his desk would go up like kindling. “*hup!*”

“At least it worked,” Sita offered, giving Aasif a sympathetic smile as she took the empty goblet from him and refilled it again.

Aasif wasn’t so sure. After four goblets of milk, he was feeling slightly more human again, but in that time, he only counted six hiccups.

“I don’t think I have them,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Sita argued. “You started hiccupping as soon as you swallowed it.”

“It made me hiccup,” Aasif conceded. “But I don’t think it’s given me the hiccups. It’s like th-*hmmk!*-they haven’t fully taken.”

Looking with grim resignation at the hearth pepper, Aasif realized, “I need to try again.”

Sita gave him an incredulous look. “Do you seriously want to put yourself through that a second time?”

“I’m nearly there,” Aasif told her. “At least, I think I am. I bet one mor-*herk!* bite would put me over the edge.”

Sighing, Sita refilled the goblet in readiness. “Have it your way.”

It took a firm resolve to back go for a second round when Aasif’s tongue still felt tender from his first attempt. But he reminded himself of Tariq’s sunshiny face and gorgeous black curls. If Aasif was going to get over his damn embarrassment over getting the hiccups, he’d have to face it head on.

The second bite was, if possible, even smaller than the first, but it packed just as much a wallop. Aasif’s poor beleaguered tongue, mouth, throat, and stomach staggered like wounded troops being told to get ready for the next bout.

Sita was on hand with the goblet, and Aasif doused his mouth with a few swallows before the first “*HUP!*” hit him. Another swallow, a “*HUCK!*--*ulk!*”, then a rat-a-tat of “*hmmp!**ULK!**HUCK!*” kept him from drinking any more.

With a wince, Sita offered, “Well done?”

Aasif nodded weakly through a “*HERK!*--*HUP!**HUP!*”, hiccupping too fast and too hard for much else. He’d never had hiccups this badly before, and he was all but at the mercy of them. Pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, he grimaced at the unforgiving drumbeat of hiccups slamming against his throat and chest, which were still searing from the heat of the pepper. “*HMMK!**HMMP!**hmmp!*--*ULK!**HMMK!*”

“Sit tight,” Sita told Aasif, squeezing his shoulder. She emptied the goblet back into the pitcher and ran to fetch a different one, the water pitcher by his wash basin. Hurriedly, she returned to the desk and refilled the goblet with water.

“Th-*HUP!**HUCK!*-the-*HMMK!*-point i-*HERK!*-is-*HMMP!**ulk!**HUCK!*-to h-*HUCK**HUCK!**HERK!*-hav-*ULK!**HMMK!**HUP!*”

Aasif gave up—he was barely eking out his words anyway, and from Sita’s expression, she was having trouble following him. Fumbling on his desk for paper and ink, he scrawled a hasty note in a hand that jerked from his hiccups.

The whole point is to have them, not cure them

Sita read his note, then looked back up at him. “I know,” she said. “But frankly, I doubt water would cure them right now. I was just thinking that it might slow them down a little, let you catch your breath.”

There she went again—logical. With a “*HMMP!**HERK!*--*HUCK!**HUP!**HUP!*--*hmmk!*”, Aasif nodded, and Sita gave him the goblet.

“Slowly,” she counseled. “See if you can manage a small sip.”

She had a point. Aasif would probably start sputtering and coughing if he tried to drink normally. He wasn’t sure what effect that might have on the hiccups, but he could guess that it wouldn’t be good.

“*ULK!**herk!**HUCK!**HERK!*” A tiny sip, barely enough to wet his tongue. “*HUP!**HMMK!*--*ULK!*” Another sip. “*HUP!**HUP!**HUCK!*” Another.

It took all of that goblet, but Aasif got himself down to the slightest reprieve between hiccups. “*HUCK!*--*ULK!*--*HERK!*--*hmmp!*” Although they were still much harder than his normal cases ever were—faster too—they felt like less of an assault on his body. “*HUP!*-Can-*HMMK!*-I-*HUCK!*-have-*HERK!*-anoth-*HMMP!*-nother?” he asked his sister.

“Yes, of course,” Sita replied reassuringly. She filled the goblet again.

By the time he got through a second goblet of water, Aasif still had a bad case of hiccups, but they weren’t unbearable. A fair amount of the spice had dissipated too, so he wasn’t feeling fresh heat with each hiccup anymore.

“All right-*HMMK!*-I think th-*HUCK!*-that will-*HUP!*--*hmmk!*-do,” Aasif announced. He threw himself into his desk chair in an exhausted-yet-dramatic pose, tipping his head onto the chair back and resting a weary hand on his stomach as it jerked with his hiccups.

“Are you all right now?” Sita asked.

“Some-*HMMP!*-thing like-*HERK!*-that,” Aasif told her. A hard “*HUCK!*” interrupted his groan.

“Look on the bright side,” Sita pointed out. “I know this turned out worse than you bargained for, but the next time you get them from Tariq’s curse, they won’t be nearly as bad as this.”

Aasif sighed. “*HUP!*--*HERK!* I suppo-*ulk!*-pose,” he agreed. “That’s s-*HUCK!*-something.” He glanced at Sita. “I’d pl-*HMMK!*-planned on-*HMMP!*--*huck!*-walking aroun-*HUP!*-the palace-*HERK!*-so I c-*HMMP!*-could prac-*HUCK!*-tice letting-*HUCK!*--*HUP!*-other p-*HMMK!*-people see-*hup!*-me with them, *HMMP!* but there’s-*HERK!*-no way in-*hmmk!*-in hell-*HUCK!*-I’m doin-*ULK!*-that with th-*HMMP!*-these.”

Sita nodded her understanding. “I think you’ve done more than enough ‘practicing’ for today,” she said. Patting his shoulder, she added, “Try to relax if you can. Is there anything else I can bring you?”

With a shake of his head, Aasif replied, “Thanks, Sita-*HUP!*” He rubbed his chest with his knuckles. “I’m ok-*HUCK!*--HERK!*-okay.”

“All right then.” Sita headed for the day. “I’ll leave you be. I hope you don’t have them long!”

“Me-*hup!*-too!” Aasif called after her.

Once he was alone, Aasif got up, walked across the room, and sprawled his hiccupping self onto his bed. This maybe wasn’t one of his more brilliant ideas, although not even Sita could deny that it was clearly effective.

Whether they've read/watched them or not, a lot of people are probably familiar with Agätha Chrístie's Hércule Poírot mysteries. This is still an unhinged fanfic choice, though, because Poírot himself isn't the main character of this fic. Instead, I'm writing about Inspector Crome, a one-off character that my actor played in an audio drama adaptation of a Poírot mystery called The ABC Mürders. In that story, Crome has the classic "Officer Who's Annoyed about Having to Work with the Famous Detective" role, but while he has a definite chip on his shoulder and argues a lot with Poírot about how to conduct the case, he comes around to a grudging respect for Poírot by the end and says he wants to work together again. So my fic imagines that they've been investigating cases together for several months now. Crome has mellowed further toward Poírot but can still be cranky/defensive about things.

Here are the characters (only Poírot has an image since, again, this was for an audio drama):

Inspector Crome - The youngest inspector at Scotland Yard. Intelligent and hardworking, but he can be set in his ways and has to be coaxed to think outside the box. He has a more working-class background than most men at the Yard, and he regularly deals with classist insinuations that maybe he didn't deserve his promotion. So while his pride can be in the way of his work, it's largely because he always feels like he has to prove himself.

Hércule Poírot - Famous Belgian detective. He's ostensibly retired now, but he can't give up investigating entirely, and he sometimes consults with the Yard on their cases. In my fic, Crome is now his preferred inspector to work with--even though there can still be friction between them, Crome knows Poírot better than most inspectors at the Yard, so Poírot feels comfortable with him.

Superintendent Stone - The head of Scotland Yard. Contributes a lot to Crome's need to prove himself, especially when he unfavorably compares Crome to Poírot.

And with that, here's the fic!

Eight days into the investigation, they had yet to catch Mary Ryland’s killer. Inspector Crome had favored the boyfriend at first, but that hadn’t panned out. Now, he and Poírot both suspected Arthur Bridges, the poor girl’s piano instructor. However, they’d not yet found the proof they needed to bring him in for good. Either the music teacher was more cunning than Crome had anticipated, or this was leading to another dead end and they’d have to start again.

Given what an important family the Rylands were, Superintendent Stone was getting impatient. He’d called Crome and Poírot into Scotland Yard to bring him up to speed on the facts of the case. “In other words,” Poírot had remarked drolly, “to poke at our progress and ask why we’ve not solved it yet.”

“Yeah, just about,” Crome had replied, forcing a smile as his stomach had clenched with a brief fit of nerves. Stone was a good man and a fine superintendent, but he had a way of making Crome constantly feel like he was back in school doing exams—like he was always on the verge of washing out and one misstep would send him tumbling down.

And if that happened? Crome could just imagine the chatter, all the snatches of conversations that would fade out as he walked by.

Good of the superintendent to give him a go—not his fault some people just aren’t cut out for it.

I always knew the Mabel Homer case was a fluke.

Glad to see him back in his proper place. Oh, he’s capable, maybe, but he’s just not “our sort.”

Of course, these days, it was comments about how Crome was riding Poírot’s coattails, scraping by on the famous detective’s talent and not his own. Let them talk—Crome didn’t care. (Well, he tried not to care.) Anyone at the Yard would be wise to listen to Poírot’s insights, and working with him was making Crome a better inspector: sharpening his reasoning, honing the sort of questions that yielded results, cooling his urge to hold tight to his first suspect when the evidence wasn’t bearing out.

He reminded himself that all those things mattered more than the comments, and some days, he even got to the point where they didn’t bother him.

But this morning, it was all about Mary Ryland. “What about that Palmer chap?” Superintendent Stone was asking. “I thought they’d been seen quarreling the day before the murder.”

“They had,” Crome explained, “but—”

“And he has no alibi,” the super added.

“Right—” Crome conceded.

“Nathaniel Palmer could not have killed Mary Ryland,” Poírot broke in smoothly, “not in this way. The medical examiner’s report shows that Miss Ryland was struck by someone much taller than Mr. Palmer.”

“He’s got asthma as well,” Crome put in. “It’s not likely he could’ve worked up the exertion you’d need for an attack like that.”

“Hmmm,” Stone murmured. “I don’t have to tell you about the tongue-lashing we’re getting in the press over all this.”

“No, sir,” Crome said, holding back a slight grimace.

“Mary Ryland was 19,” the superintendent went on. “Well-connected family, bright girl. She had her whole future ahead of her.”

“We know,” Crome admitted. As he shifted in his chair, he hiccupped, a quiet “*hllp!*” in the back of his throat. He cleared his throat self-consciously, but neither the super nor Poírot seemed to take any notice.

“I know Walter Ryland,” Stone said. “We’ve gone to the same club for years.”

With a quiet nod, Crome hiccupped again. He felt his head and shoulders give a small jerk, but it was completely silent this time.

“I didn’t know Mary well, of course, but it’s a terrible blow to the family…”

“*hmmph!*” Oh, hell—not now. This was the last thing Crome needed. Trying to be discreet, he crossed his arms and rubbed his mouth like he was in thought. Hopefully, it would keep Superintendent Stone from noticing that he was holding his breath.

The super was still speaking. “What I’m saying is that this is personal,” Stone told Crome and Poírot. “As both of you well know, the full resources of Scotland Yard are behind this case. I expect results on this.”

“Of course, superintendent,” Poírot replied. “I promise, we will not fail you.”

“Is that right?” Stone asked, giving Crome a stern look.

Nothing for it—Crome let his breath out. “Yes, sir-*rrk!*”

Dammit! He muffled the hiccup as well as he could behind his hand.

Crome’s only small spot of luck was that Stone seemed too preoccupied to notice. “Right then, this music teacher,” the superintendent urged. “Tell me everything you’ve got so far.”

Oh, god. Crome swallowed another silent hiccup. “Er, right,” he mumbled.

On the one hand, he knew it was an accomplishment to be the youngest inspector at Scotland Yard, and Crome was rightly proud of that. But in situations like this when he was summoned by the superintendent, the other inspectors ribbed him like he’d been called to the head teacher’s office. If word got out that he’d laid out the case while hiccupping like a bloody schoolboy, he’d never live it down.

And the super? What would he make of it? Probably read it as proof that Crome wasn’t taking the case seriously—maybe even that he was making light of it—even though the hiccups were something Crome very clearly couldn’t control.

But as Crome prepared to embarrass himself, letting out a slow exhale through his nose and muffling a “*hmmph!*” behind his tightly-closed mouth, Poírot said, “Yes, superintendent. Let us begin with what we know so far of Arthur Bridges’s movements on the day of the murder.”

With a flood of relief, Crome sank back into his chair. Finally, Poírot’s love for the sound of his own voice was working in his favor. While the detective described the timeline they’d been piecing together, Crome crossed his arms, as if he could keep the hiccups inside by holding on tight to them. He pressed his knuckles against his mouth.

All told, he made a decent job of it. Crome managed to keep most of the hiccups silent, and any audible ones that escaped were limited to a muffled “*hllk!*” or “*mmph!*”, as well as the occasional hitch that sounded more than anything like an odd inhalation through his nose. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t hide the way they were making his body jerk, but fortunately, Stone was listening closely enough to Poírot that he didn’t seem to be paying any mind to Crome’s predicament. It helped that the detective had gotten out of his chair and was pacing round the room as he talked, occasionally stopping to pick up an object on the superintendent’s desk or examine one of the photographs on the wall.

All the while, he kept talking. As much as Crome had come to respect the aging sleuth, he did think Poírot could be quite the old showboat, but today, it was music to his ears. “*llp!*” he hiccupped, the quiet noise easily hidden beneath Poírot’s detailed observations.

The detective paused, turning to Stone’s secretary sitting in the corner of the room. As Poírot murmured something to her, Edith nodded briskly. She rose to her feet and slipped out of the room.

Edith was equal parts efficient and inconspicuous—she always was—and in the quiet of this brief interlude, a “*hmmph!*” worked its way out of Crome. He bit back a cringe as the superintendent looked his way. “Something to add, inspector?”

“No, sir,” Crome replied quickly, then clamped his mouth shut again. Once he’d quieted the next hiccup that made his head snap back, he hastily added, “I know not to interrupt Poiro-- when he’s on a roll.”

Crome could feel a flush spreading up his neck, and he forced himself not to grimace. Although that last hiccup was entirely silent, it had put a slight hitch in his speech.

“I’m afraid the inspector is quite correct,” Poírot remarked with easy good humor. “I do love a good…eh, what is the word for it in English? When an actor is onstage, making a speech to the audience?”

“Soliloquy?” the super offered.

“Ah, precisely,” Poírot said. “Inspector Crome is kind enough to let me go on. So with that, I shall resume my soliloquy. Now that we have examined Mr. Bridges’s whereabouts on the fourth of September, let us turn to motive. What could have driven him to kill a promising pupil like Mary Ryland…?”

As Poírot continued, Crome let himself relax the tiniest bit. He still felt self-conscious and tense, but at least he could take solace in the detective drawing all the attention in the room. Crome muffled an “*rrk!*” behind his knuckles, wishing he could just get the damn hiccups to stop already. Not even Poírot could talk forever, and anyway, it wouldn’t look good if he sat there twiddling his thumbs while Poírot explained everything—it really would look like Crome was just riding his coattails then.

Edith ducked quietly back into the room, and Crome felt a pang of envy as she handed Poírot a tall glass of water.” “Merci, mademoiselle,” Poírot said with a polite nod of his head. “I understand this theory may seem implausible to you, Superintendent Stone. After all, Mr. Bridges is quite respected for his skill as a teacher! How could he have been showing an inappropriate level of attention to one of his students? However, what we have found may surprise you…”

Crome winced as a hard silent hiccup stuck in his throat. Water—that’s what he really needed. Poírot wasn’t even drinking his, just idly holding the glass while he talked. Crome glanced at Edith, who’d settled back into her chair by the corner. He wouldn’t want to risk asking aloud for her to fetch another glass. Maybe he could slip her a note? But Crome was on the wrong side of the room for that. He’d have to get up and step round Poírot to get over to her, and he didn’t want to do anything that would draw Stone’s eye back to him. Miserably, he held in another “*mmph!*”

“Furthermore, I am most intrigued by the small gift box that was swept away with the rubbish from the drawing room after the party that evening,” Poírot continued. As he spoke, he wandered in Crome’s direction. “No one in the household knew of any such gift, or what the box had contained. This was the same room where Miss Ryland had her music lesson with Mr. Bridges, only a few hours before the party. Could it have been a gift to her from him?”

Poírot was standing in front of Crome now, between him and Superintendent Stone. Without so much as a glance at Crome, the detective suddenly pressed the glass of water into his hand. Startled, Crome looked at Poírot in surprise, and he only just remembered to clench his mouth shut against the strong “*hpp!*” that slipped out of him.

“I confess, I find it most curious,” Poírot admitted. “What was the gift, and why does there seem to be no trace of it? What became of it? I believe these discoveries could prove an enormous help in our investigation.”

Crome looked down at the water. Poírot knew. Of course he did—he’d probably spotted straightaway that Crome had gotten the hiccups and was in a fix. Crome felt a rush of embarrassment at having been caught out, but it was outweighed by his gratefulness for the water.

So as Poírot meandered to the opposite end of the room, drawing the super’s attention along with him, Crome got straight to work. He waited for his next muffled “*hllk!*” to pass, then began to take small sips of water without stopping. By the time he reached the bottom of the glass, he was bursting for breath, but Crome made himself exhale slowly, warily keeping his lips pressed together while he waited.

So far, so good. Crome drew a slow breath in and out through his nose, then another—no hiccups. It looked like the bloody things were finally gone.

“This is everything we know,” Poírot explained to Stone. “As you can see, superintendent, there is much we’ve already determined, but there are crucial pieces of the puzzle still missing.” He raised his eyebrows to Crome in a silent question, his gaze flitting for a moment to the empty glass. Crome gave a sheepish nod.

“Inspector, would you care to go over our unanswered questions?” Poírot suggested casually. “I know you’ve been keeping an account of them.”

So that was it. Poírot’s showboating hadn’t merely worked out in Crome’s favor this time. It had been on his behalf, the old detective taking the reins to hold Stone’s attention and save Crome from having to speak until he’d had a chance to deal with the hiccups.

Crome stifled a sigh—every time he thought he’d given the sleuth sufficient credit, Poírot had to go and up the stakes once more. It could be infuriating at times, but it was damn impressive too, and in this instance, Crome was hardly in a position to complain.

“Right, yeah,” he said, nodding again. A bit awkwardly, he set down the glass, then flipped his notepad open to his running list of questions. “Erm, Poírot already mentioned the empty gift box in the drawing room. That’s top of our list. It was just the right size for jewelry, and if we’re right that it came from Arthur Bridges, that would be, er, quite an intimate gift for a young woman from her piano teacher…”

The hiccups had really rattled Crome, but now that they were gone, his earlier worries about being called before the super felt much more manageable. Consulting his case notes, he found it was easy enough to take Stone through the gaps that he and Poírot still needed to fill in the investigation: the gift box, that span of nearly an hour where Bridges’s whereabouts were unaccounted for, the figure one of the servants had heard going out the back door a little after 9:00 pm, and so on.

Before he knew it, the superintendent was shaking both of their hands, saying, “Keep up the good work. I want the devil brought to justice.”

Feeling more confident now, Crome looked Stone in the eye as he nodded. “We’ll see it done, sir.” 

“Now if you’ll excuse us, superintendent, we have a busy day ahead of us,” Poírot added. “We’ll be sure to keep you informed of any breaks in the case.”

“Call anytime, day or night,” the super replied, walking with them to the door. “I want to know the moment you get our man.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Crome promised.

When he and Poírot stepped into the hall, Crome let out a deep breath, as if he was exhaling the last of his nerves from his body. “Thanks for the hand, Poírot,” he conceded in a low voice. “With, er, with the water—and everything.”

“Ah, think nothing of it,” Poírot said with an indifferent wave of his hand. “They are an odd little affliction: more inconvenient than harmful, but if they appear at the wrong time? They can be most troublesome.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” Crome mumbled. He slipped his notepad back into his trouser pocket and smoothed down his suit, ready to put the awkward business behind him. “I was thinking. You know how we were wanting to meet some of Bridges’s other students, feel out if he’d tried anything funny with someone else? Well, didn’t Mrs. Ryland say they were gonna be doing a recital in Mary’s honor?”

“Yes, tomorrow evening,” Poírot noted. “A fine idea, inspector. We’ll have an opportunity to observe how the other young ladies behave in his presence, identify those who might have useful information for us.”

Right,” Crome replied. He frowned in thought. “Would they talk to us, though? About something, you know, delicate?” Even under normal circumstances, interviews weren’t his strongest suit, and while Poírot had a way of charming information out of people, Crome wasn’t so sure of the sleuth’s ability to handle this one.

And Poírot, it seemed, agreed. “Mmm, a fair point,” he murmured. “Perhaps we could invite your friend Constable Lewis to accompany us? After all, she is a young lady herself, and if any of the students have something discreet to reveal about Arthur Bridges, they may feel more comfortable opening up to her.”

As usual, Crome had come up with an idea and Poírot had topped it. Sometimes that could needle at him, but he couldn’t argue about it today. Not when Poírot had saved Crome’s backside with the super and then did him the courtesy of not harping on it. Not when they needed to solve this case and any good idea was a welcome one.

“But come,” Poírot urged. “That is tomorrow evening, and there is much to do before then. We have work to do, inspector. On y va!”

Since Sita was now the only one who didn’t have the hiccups—and, Laila guessed, was doing everything in her power to keep it that way—she went out into the hall to flag down a servant and send them to the kitchen for supplies. Sugar, of course, but also a cut-up lemon and two more pitchers of water.

While they waited, Aasif urged Tariq back to the table. “You’d better-*herk!*-eat your f-- your fill now-*hmmp!*” the prince said. “Unless w-*hmmk!*-we want a rep-*huck!*-repeat performa-- ance, you probab-*hup!*-probably sh-*ulk!*-shouldn’t eat a-AN-nymore once your h-- your hiccu-*hup!*-ps have stopped. *huck!* But obviou-- ously, it’d be cruel-*herk!*-to deny y-OU-ou someth-*hmmk!*-something that-*hup!*-brings you so m-*huck!*-so much pleasur-*herk!*”

Yes, Laila was starting to think she had misjudged Aasif. She’d been worried about Tariq ignoring whatever desires they did or didn’t have in their eagerness to please others—either Laila as his master or Aasif as a potential lover—but the prince was looking out for Tariq’s desires as well. He looked on with fond bemusement as the genie happily stuffed themself.

Meanwhile, Laila wasn’t waiting so contentedly. She paced, picking at her fingernails. This whole thing was unfortunately reminiscent of Aasif’s birthday celebration, and while Laila was glad that Sita had managed to avoid the hiccups so far, she hoped every meeting they had wouldn’t turn out this way. If that happened, she had to imagine Sita would soon write her off as more trouble than she was worth.

But maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Because Sita was bound to reject Laila eventually, right? This way, at least it would be because of something that wasn’t her fault. Laila would be able to lie to herself, to say it was only because of all the trouble with the hiccups—it was nothing to do with how laughable it was that she thought the princess could ever really be interested in her.

Laila walked over to Tariq and Aasif, grabbing the genie by the hand. “Excuse m-*hulp!*-me, your highness, I-*hic-ulk!*-I need to borrow th-*hmmp!*-them for a minute.”

“You never h-*HOK!*-have to borrow m-*heek!*-me,” Tariq pointed out as Laila pulled him across the room, finishing off another lamb kebab. “Aasif b-*holk!*-borrows me fr-*HUP!*-from you.”

Laila made a face. “Don’t say things li-*ulp!*-like that,” she urged. She slipped them both behind a curtain for an attempt at privacy.

“I’m sor-*herk!*-sorry about the h-*HIC!*-iccups,” Tariq admitted quietly. “I didn’t m-*HEEK!*-mean to—”

“No, i-- it’s okay,” Laila told them. “It was a-*hulp!*-a lot to ask of y-OU-ou. I know how m-*holk!*-much you love-*ulp!*-food. When you w-*hic-ulk!*-want something that bad-- badly, it can’t be-*hmmp!*-easy to control yourse-*holp!*-self.”

“It’s-*huck!*-not,” Tariq agreed, nodding. “I did-*HIC-uck!*-try.”

Laila smiled a little. “I kn-*holk!*-know you did.”

Chewing on her thumbnail, Tariq wondered, “What’re w-*HEEK!*-we doing back-- here?”

Sighing through a strong “*hic-ulp!*”, Laila asked, “Am I craz-- crazy?”

Tariq frowned. “I don’t thi-*hic!*-think so,” they replied. At a loud “*HMMK!*”, they winced a little. “Why?”

“Have I made a-*hulk!*-a giant mist-*holp!*-mistake?” Laila persisted.

“How?” Tariq asked. A hard “*HIC-olk!*” made him bounce.

“All of-*hulp!*-of this!” Laila explained. “Th-*hic-ulk!*-thinking she’d ever w-*hulk!*-want me?”

“Who, S-*HEEK!*-Sita?” Tariq clarified. “Why wouldn-- wouldn’t she? *HIC-ulk!* You’re ama-*hmmk!*-zing!”

Laila bit her lip. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked for a reality check from a genie who was obsessed with her. She had to assume that it was some sort of magic, that something about the way the lamp worked made Tariq adore her. There was no other reason any being, magical or otherwise, would care about her that much.

“I’ve ne-*holp!*-never read her favori-*ulp!*-ite poem,” Laila admitted. “I’ve never-*hic-ulp!*-even heard of-- of that poet before. *hmmp!* I can’t tell her any-*hic-ulk!*-anything real about m-*holp!*-myself. What on earth d-*holk!*-do I have to off-*hulk!*-to offer her?”

“So-*holk!*-so much!” Tariq enthused. “You’re really sm-*HMMK-mmk!*-smart, you’re brave, *HUCK!* you’re nice lo-*HULK!*-looking, you go after wh-*hup!*-what you want, and you’r-*HIC-uck!*-you’re really nice e-*heek!*-even though you preten-- you’re not sometimes.”

It was a good thing Tariq didn’t need to breathe—otherwise, giving a rambling excited speech with a stubborn case of hiccups would’ve left her gasping for air. Laila felt a little overwhelmed at the litany of praise, but she couldn’t help the very slight smile tugging at her mouth, despite her own hiccups.

“Not everyo-*hulk!*-one sees things th-- the way you do-*hic-ulp!*” Laila pointed out. Not everyone sees me the way you do, she thought.

“Well, they sh-*hoop!*-should!” Tariq told her. “And Sita i-*HIP!*-is smart too, so I’m sure sh-*heek!*-she does.”

Before Laila’s cynicism could come up with a good rebuttal, she heard Sita’s voice, just outside the curtain. “Laila, Tariq?” she asked uncertainly. “Aasif said you went—i-is everything okay?”

Gulping back a hard “*hmmp!*”, Laila shot Tariq a nervous look. The genie grabbed her hands and squeezed them. “You’ve got th-*HIC!*-this, I know you-*HIC-ulk!*-do!” they encouraged in a whisper. “You can do any-*heek!*-thing.”

That wasn’t true, not by a long shot, but when Tariq said it, they had a weird way of almost making Laila believe it. She took a slow, hiccuppy breath and nodded. “Ok–KAY-y,” she replied, squeezing Tariq’s hands back. “Let’s d-*holp!*-do this.”

*           *           *

“Laila?” Sita repeated. “Is something wrong? Can I help?”

“No, i-- it’s all righ-*ulp!*” Laila said. Letting go of Tariq, she vigorously smoothed down her skirt—she sometimes fiddled with her clothes when she was nervous. Tariq nodded at her, grinning, and Laila came out from behind the curtain.

“Um, *hulk!* here I am,” Laila said softly. She ducked her head, looking shy. But Sita was shy too, so Tariq thought that was perfect.

Sita turned back to the table. “We have the sugar and, and everything,” she explained.

“Good,” Laila replied with a nod. She lay a hand across her chest as a hard “*hic-ulp!*” made it bounce.

Quietly, Sita took a step closer to Laila. She ran her fingers down Laila’s arm with a light touch, then took Laila’s hand. “What can I do?” the princess asked.

“*HOLP!*” Laila ducked her head again, clapping her hand over her mouth with her free hand. “It, um, *ulp!* it’s like bef-*holk!*-before,” she stammered. “I won’t b-*HIC-ulk!*-be able to get rid o-- of mine until T-*hulp!*-Tariq cures hers.”

“Y-yes, of course,” Sita murmured. She took a step back, Laila moving along with her, to make room for Tariq to get by. “Water, sugar, and lemons,” she explained. “I don’t know if there’s anything else, or…?”

“Th-*holk!*-that’s good,” Laila assured her. “One of-*hic-ulk!*-of those usually w-OR-rks.” She offered Sita a lopsided smile. “We’ve had a-- lot of practice in th-*hulp!*-the last week!”

“I’m sure,” Sita said with a sweet-looking, sympathetic nod. Looking at Tariq, she added, “This should have never happened to you—I’m sorry.”

Tariq squirmed, rocking with a “*HUCK!*” They didn’t like lies that made humans sad, but this was what Laila wanted. “Don’t f-*heek!*-feel bad, pl-- please,” he said to the princess. “It’s not y-*HOK!*-your fault.”

“No,” Aasif agreed. He got up from his cushion and sauntered over to join them, saying, “It’s n-*ulk!*-no one’s faul-- but that d-*hmmk!*-damn source-*hup!*-sorcerer-*herk.*” With a flicker of a sheepish smile, he swiped his hand across his mouth.

“Come o-- on now-*huck!*” he told Tariq. “Laila’s h-*hmmk!*-had her t-*herk!*-turn. Let’s s-*hmmp!*-see to those h-*hup!*-hiccups of y-O-ours. *huck!*”

“Okay,” Tariq said, jerking with a hard “*HOLK!*”

As Aasif led them back to the table, the prince remarked, “That’s an un-*hmmk!*-unusual-*ulk!*-friendship th-*huck!*-the two of-- you have-*hmmp!*”

“Lail-*huck!*-la’s incredible,” Tariq replied happily.

“Yes, she m-*hup!*-must be,” Aasif said, “i- if you and m-*hmmk!*-my sister-*herk!*-both th-IN-nk so highl-- highly of her-*ulk!*” He gave a small sigh, pressing his fist to his mouth as he hiccupped again.

“What about y-*HOOP!*-you?” Tariq asked. “Are you o-*huck!*-okay?”

“Attemp-*hmmp!*-attempting-*hup!*-to be,” Aasif answered. “*herk!* Let’s j-*huck!*-just say, *hmmk!* the sooner-*herk!*-your hiccu-- hiccups are g-*ulk!*-gone, the ha-AP-pier I’ll b-*hmmp!*-be.”

Tariq gave Aasif’s temple a gentle stroke and leaned in to kiss him. “It doesn’t alw-*huck!*-always work the f-*HERK!*-first time, but-*hmmk!*-Laila and I are ge-- getting better at st-*HOLK!*-stopping them,” she explained.

“G-*hmmp!*-good,” Aasif said. “Oh, b-*hup!*-but, um…” He looked at the table. “Is th-*hmmp!*-there anythi-- thing else you w-*ulk!*-wanted to eat?” Muffling a “*hmmk!*” into his fist, he added, “I don’t wa-AN-t to r-*hup!*-rush you.”

Hiccupping again, the prince gave a sheepish chuckle. Tariq remembered how embarrassed Aasif had been last time about getting the hiccups. It seemed to help him a little to know that it was a “curse”—not really, but that’s what he thought it was. Still, it was clear that Aasif was uncomfortable, despite his best efforts to play it down.

There was always more Tariq wanted to eat, but they didn’t want Aasif to be unhappy. Tariq and Laila were already lying to the royal siblings in a way that bothered them, so she figured the least they could do was keep Aasif from being uncomfortable longer than necessary.

Besides, Tariq’s hiccups seemed pretty bad this time—louder and even harder than usual, and their side was starting to hurt. She wondered if eating more had made them worse.

“I don’t n-*heek!*-need anything el-*HOLK!*-else,” Tariq assured the prince. They interlaced his fingers with Aasif’s and squeezed warmly. “Let’s take c-*HUCK!*-care of my hiccu-- hiccups, then yours. *HIC-olk!*”

Aasif’s smile was slight but looked relieved. “All ri-*hmmk!*-right,” he agreed. “Can I h-EL-lp at all-*herk!*”

Tariq kissed the corner of Aasif’s mouth, just after a “*hmmp!*” from Aasif and before Tariq’s next “*hulk!*” They said, “Sit down, try t-*HOOP!*-to relax. *HIC-ulk!* I’ll let you kn-*holk!*-know if I need a-*HUCK!*-a hand.”

With a nod, the prince sank back down onto a cushion beside the table. Laila and Sita had sat down too, not far from Tariq and Aasif. Tariq thought Laila looked pleased but a little dumbfounded at Sita’s gentle attention, softly massaging Laila’s shoulder.

This was so much better than it had been a little while ago. Now that the humans seemed happier, Tariq didn’t feel so guilty about messing things up. He was getting a better handle on curing hiccups too, so they weren’t worried about that (as long as they didn’t have to resort to sucking on a lemon—that one was the worst!)

In an optimistic mood, they reached for the sugar.

Whíté Vän Män is a British sitcom about Ollie, who puts his dreams of starting his own restaurant on hold to take over his dad's handyman business (after his dad is forced to retire because of heart issues.) Along with the work van, he inherits his dad's slacker assistant Darren.

Darren - A skilled handyman, but he's easily distracted and *will not* do something without a good reason--and "because I'm the boss" isn't good enough for him. Very chill, enjoys it when Ollie is annoyed.

Ollie - An okay handyman, but he doesn't have his dad's knowledge or experience (or Darren's, which adds to Ollie's struggle to maintain his authority.) Very precise, very uptight.

There's another character who'll show in in the next chapter, but I'll save her picture for next time.

Onto chapter 1!

It was mid-morning, and Ollie and Darren were putting together new beds for a client’s kids. It had been hard to wrangle Darren, as usual—he’d spent the first half-hour poking round the bedroom, checking out what toys the Leongs’ two sons had—but he’d settled in now and was actually working. Ollie hoped he was getting a better hand on how to manage Darren.

The assistant was lying on the floor, screwing a footboard in place. “*hup!*”

Ollie glanced Darren’s way, but he didn’t take much notice until the second “*hmmp!*” Looking up, Ollie waited tersely, tools in hand. And five or six seconds later, what did he hear? “*hiiup!*”

“What’s the matter with you?” Ollie asked.

“What?” Darren replied, not looking up from his work. “*hmmp!*”

Ollie suppressed a sigh. “D’you have the hiccups?”

“I’d have thou-*hup!*-thought that was obvious,” Darren said mildly. His head snapped back as he hiccupped again.

“God’s sake, Darren, you’re a grown man!” Ollie griped. “You’re working!”

“What does that ha-*hok!*-have to do with anythi-- ing?” Darren argued. He grimaced a bit at that silent hiccup. “Not like I can-*hmmk!*-help it, can I?”

“It’s unprofessional, for starters!” Ollie pointed out.

Darren raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I-*huck!*-have an unprofessional dia-*hmmp!*-diaphragm?”

His indifference was getting on Ollie’s nerves. “Exactly!”

Shrugging, Darren replied, “I dunno wh-*hup!*”-at you expect me t--” another slight grimace, “to do about i-*hic!*-it.”

“Just—just hold your breath or something,” Ollie insisted.

“Won’t help,” Darren said. “*hmmp!*” When I g-- get them,” he rubbed his chest a little with the heel of his hand, “nothing really works t-*hup!*-to shift them. J-*hiiup!*-just have to wait un-*huck!*-til they go away.”

“Would you just shut up and listen to me for once?” Ollie ordered. “You probably don’t do it long enough. Now hold your breath, and don’t stop until I tell you to.”

“F-*hok!*-fine,” Darren said. Dropping his screwdriver on the floor, he lay back and drew in a deep breath.

“Hear that?” Ollie remarked. “Peace and quiet at last. I could get used to that. Just keep holding it.”

Darren shot Ollie an annoyed look, but he did as Ollie said. While Ollie worked on the headboard on the other bed, Darren held his breath, playing absentmindedly with his hair.

Ollie considered stretching it out longer than necessary, but he decided against it. Getting Darren to do anything could be hit or miss, so Ollie didn’t want to push too hard when he was actually cooperating.

“All right, let it out,” Ollie said. Darren exhaled in a puff, and Ollie added, “There, you see? That’s better, isn’t it?”

Before Darren could reply, his thin streak of a body jerked with a strong “*hup!*”

Ollie’s face fell. “Shit.”

More than just not curing his hiccups, getting Darren to hold his breath had derailed his focus. It took Ollie a good ten minutes to badger him back into working on the beds. When you could get him to work, he had the skills for it, but Darren was practically like a teenager sometimes, distractible and obstinate. Ollie couldn’t imagine how his dad had put up with having such a lazy shirker for an assistant.

Finally, though, Ollie got him back on track. All the while, Darren kept right on hiccupping. If he were at all sheepish about it, or trying to get rid of them, Ollie wouldn’t have minded so much. But the hiccups didn’t seem to bother Darren one bit, and by all accounts, it didn’t even occur to him that he might be a nuisance to anyone else.

On he went, strong “*hups!*” and “*hmmps!*” Slightly louder “*hoks!*” when he let his jaw go slack as he concentrated, tongue poking out. And it looked to Ollie like the hiccups that made no noise were the only ones that registered as unwelcome to Darren. He often gave a small wince or grunt after a silent head-jerk—they must’ve been harder and more uncomfortable than the audible ones.

By Ollie’s count, Darren’s hiccups had been going on for a solid twenty minutes when Mrs. Leong poked her head into the bedroom. “How’s it looking in here?”

“Coming along,” Ollie told her, looking up from his work.

Ollie was nearly finished with the bed he was putting together, and Mrs. Leong stepped in to admire it. “Oh, that is nice.”

At a “*hup!*” from Darren, she turned. “Have you got hiccups, love?”

Ollie grimaced. “Yeah, sorry about him.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Mrs. Leong replied. “He can’t help it, can he?” She added to Darren, “Could I get you some water?”

Darren nodded. “Yeah, ch-*hmmp!*-cheers.”

“Back in a mo,” she told him.

As Mrs. Leong bustled out of the room, Ollie pointed out, “I thought you said nothing cured them.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Darren said. His head rocked back with a “*hiiup!*”

“She’s just gone to fetch you water!” Ollie exclaimed.

Darren shrugged. “Thirsty, ar-- aren’t I?”

Ollie couldn’t help feeling a bit satisfied when Darren massaged his chest with his knuckles after that silent hiccup. Served him right, the irritating git.

Mrs. Leong returned a minute later. “Here we are,” she said to Darren, offering him a glass of water.

A “*hmmp!*” hit him as he got to his feet. He accepted the water and said, “Thanks.”

Mentally, Ollie was crossing his fingers. All right, so Darren had been right that holding his breath didn’t help, but maybe he was still wrong about nothing curing them.

Darren drank the water down in a few long draughts. “Thanks,” he repeated as he handed the glass back to Mrs. Leong. “*huck!*”

She tsked, asking, “Oh, no joy, eh?”

“‘Fraid not-*hup!*” Darren replied.

“Poor thing,” Mrs. Leong tutted. “Why don’t you have a rest? Ollie can finish up here, can’t you?”

Un-bloody-believable. Ollie forced himself not to sigh aloud. “Of course, Mrs. Leong,” he said, plastering on a courteous professional smile.

“Excellent,” Mrs. Leong said. She patted Darren’s shoulder before she left.

Darren watched her go, then gave Ollie a satisfied smile. “Right,” he said. “*hmmk!* I’ll see you back at th-*hup!*-the van.”

He sauntered out of the room, leaving Ollie to finish both beds on his own. “Wanker,” Ollie grumbled.

“Ready?” Tariq asked. Even from across the room, Laila could see the bowl of rice in the genie’s hands shaking with anticipation.

“Ready,” Laila replied. That was all the encouragement Tariq needed, and they practically dove headfirst into the bowl.

Laila had to say this for Tariq: the genie knew how to enjoy himself. It was no surprise that the sumptuous dishes at the palace drove them wild, but Tariq had basically the same level of unbridled excitement for the meager meals Laila managed to scrape together. Rice or flatbread, a sauce if they were lucky, some kind of meat if they were very, very lucky. And yet, Tariq would attack her meal like it was made from the finest ingredients by the best chefs in Iqara, even licking their bowl clean when they were done.

“It’s delicious!” Tariq groaned happily through a garbled mouthful of rice. “Mmmmm-mmmmmm!”

Laila wished she could let herself feel such unvarnished enthusiasm like that.

Several more bites, and…“*HIC-olk!*” Right on cue came Tariq’s hiccups. They barely slowed the genie down as she gobbled up her food.

Laila could feel herself smiling a little. “I’m glad you like it.”

“You’re th-*huck!*-the best!” Tariq cried. “I’ve said-*HIC-ulk!*-thank you for letting m-*heek!*-me have food, ri-- right?”

Okay, she was definitely smiling now. “Every time we eat,” Laila replied. “Now come on, stress me out or make me mad.”

“Sur-*herk!*-re,” Tariq agreed. “How?”

Laila rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

 In truth, though, the longer their acquaintance, the less the genie annoyed her. To be sure, he still annoyed her, undeniably—but they annoyed her less. Laila sometimes caught herself thinking about wishes, wondering if it worried Tariq that she wasn’t fulfilling her duty as their master. Wondering what would happen to them if Laila used all three of her wishes. She supposed Tariq would have to go back into the lamp and wait for his next master to find it. And Laila had heard enough about Tariq’s past masters that she didn’t like the thought of them having to make that gamble again.

A hard “*hulp!*” hit Laila, and she lay her hand across her chest.

“Hey, I di-*hic!*-did it!” Tariq exclaimed.

“I told y-*hmmp!*-you you would,” Laila replied softly. “*hic-ulk!*” Wincing, she rubbed her chest with the side of her hand.

“Ooh, do th-*hup!*-they hurt?” Tariq asked. “I don’t-*HIC-uck!*-like those.”

“Kind o-*hulp!*-of,” Laila admitted.

Tariq wrinkled their nose. Stuffing the last scoop of rice into her mouth, she got to their feet and asked, “Can I c-*hup!*-come over ther-*herk!*-now?”

“Yeah, that’s-*holp!*-fine,” Laila told them. “Once I’ve g-*hulk!*-got the hiccups, *HIC-ulp!* it doesn’t rea-- really matter any-*HOLK!*-more.”

As long as money didn’t get too tight, they ate twice a day, and Laila and Tariq had come to an arrangement about their meals. In the morning, Tariq would do her best to pace himself, at least attempting not to scarf and avoid ending up with contagious genie hiccups. That was…iffy. So far, they’d only managed to do it once.

In the evening, meanwhile, Tariq was free to gobble away. Knowing that hiccups were pretty much inevitable there, Laila instead focused on testing the reaches of the strange interactions Tariq’s body had with his magic. She wanted to find out what the limits were, if there was anything either of them could do to avoid Tariq’s hiccups spreading. Tonight, Laila and Tariq had seated themselves at opposite ends of her one-room hovel, seeing if that could be a way to avoid the effects of the magic. 

Sitting on opposite sides had worked once before, but Laila hadn’t interacted with Tariq at all—she’d not spoken to them or looked at them, even going so far as to turn her back to him. But those were pretty extreme measures, and it didn’t seem fair to put Tariq through that, so this time, Laila had hoped the distance alone would be enough to prevent catching the genie’s hiccups. Apparently not.

“You’ll th-*hic!*-think of something,” Tariq encouraged as they came over to sit down beside Laila. “You’re g-*hoop!*-good at tha-A-at.”

Laila gave them a soft bump with her shoulder. “Thanks. *HIC-ulk!* Ooh…” With a grimace, she rubbed her chest again.

“Here-*herk!*-let me get r-*HIC-olk!*-rid of mine,” Tariq offered, readying to hop right back up again. “*HIC-uck!* That way, *hulk!* you can c-*hup!*-cure yours.”

“In a-*holp!*-a minute,” Laila told her. She grabbed Tariq’s arm so they couldn’t scurry off. “You d-*HIC-ulk!*-don’t always have t-- to jump to do-*HIC-ulp!*-doing things for m-*ulp!*-me.”

“But I wa-*holk!*-want to!” Tariq pointed out eagerly.

Laila sighed through another hiccup. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. “I kn-- know,” she said. “*HIC-ulp!* You can take-*hulk!*-a second, though, o-*holk!*-okay? I won’t b-*ulp!*-be mad if you don’t in-*HIC-ulk!*-instantly fix everyth-*hmmk!*-thing.”

“Okay,” Tariq agreed, although they didn’t look convinced that this was a valid option. “I-*huck!*-I don’t like i-*hic!*-it when you hur-*herk!*-hurt, though.”

“It’s not tha-*holp!*-that bad,” Laila promised her. “Just a li-*HIC-olk!*-a little uncomforta-- able, that’s-*ulp!*-all.”

“Hmm-*mmp!*” Tariq murmured. After a beat, his face lit up hopefully and they asked, “Can I hel-*hulk!*-help?”

“I’m good-*ulp!*” Laila said. She rested her head on the genie’s shoulder. “Just sit wi-*HIC-ulp!*-with me. We-*holk!*-we can get the water-*hulp!*-in a few mi-IN-utes.”

“All ri-*HIC-ulk!*-right,” Tariq said. Settling in, she rested their forehead against Laila’s. Both their hiccups jostled one another when they were sitting so close, but Laila didn’t mind.

“It’s okay i-*hic!*-if nobody looks-*HIC-uck!*-at me or talks t-*hoop!*-to me,” Tariq offered. “I kn-*holk!*-know getting the hiccu-*huck!*-ups can bother the rest o-*hup!*-of you.”

“No,” Laila told them firmly. “*HIC-ullk!* We’ll find somethi-- ing else that wo-*holp!*-works. And if not, *ulp!* we humans will j-*hulk!*-just suck it up.”

“Mmm,” Tariq murmured, jerking with a distracted-sounding “*HIC-ulk!*” He chewed on their thumbnail. “You don’t h-*hmmk!*-have to do that, *HIC-uck!* though.”

“I wan-*hulp!*-want to,” Laila insisted. “And the o-*hulk!*-the others will too-- oo, at least m-*HIC-ulk!*-more than they-*hmmp!*-want you to be lef-*holp!*-left out.”

Giving a contented sigh, Tariq said, “You’r-*herk!*-the best.”

Laila chuckled. “*hulk!*--*HOLP!* So you keep t-*HIC-ulp!*-telling me.”

If she told Tariq she’d been thinking about wishes, they’d probably be ecstatic. The genie had stopped pestering Laila about it, but only because she’d ordered him not to. A few weeks ago, the thought of using a genie’s wishes as a shortcut had almost felt like an affront to Laila. Now, it seemed silly to scrounge and steal to keep her and Tariq fed when a genie could ensure that she never went hungry again. And as she faced the prospect of pursuing Sita in a genuine way, Laila knew how much Tariq’s magic could help with the logistical challenges: she couldn’t keep wearing the same two nice dresses if she was supposed to be a noblewoman. (If this was to become something real, Laila knew she’d eventually need to come clean, but she wasn’t ready for that yet.) 

Even so, for all that a genie’s wishes could do for her, Laila was rapidly finding herself unable to imagine her life without Tariq in it. She didn’t know how she could say goodbye.

Laila let out a strong “*HIC-ulp!*”, a hard thump in her chest. “*HOLK!*” With a little grunt of discomfort, she rubbed her chest with her knuckles.

“You’ve g-*hulk!*-got them really b-- bad this time,” Tariq noted. Before Laila could argue with her, the genie jumped to their feet. “H-*heek!*-here, let me!” Tariq fetched the water pitcher, filled their cup, and bent over to drink from the wrong side.

He was getting pretty good at that now. Despite their hiccups, Tariq emptied the cup without spilling a drop. When they straightened back up, curiosity danced in her eyes as she waited to see if they were cured—Laila watched in amusement.

“Hey, it worked!” Tariq said, and the delight in their voice made Laila feel warm.

Coming back over to sit beside Laila again, Tariq urged, “Now you!

Laila held her breath, but she could still feel herself hiccupping through it. “I don’t th-*HIC-ulk!*-think that’s gonna d-*holp!*-do the trick,” she admitted. “I-*holk!*-need some wate-*HULP!*-water.”

“Wait here!” Tariq cried, scrambling up again.

It would’ve been logical to just bring the pitcher and both their cups over the first time, but Tariq wasn’t exactly the most logical of beings. Laila looked on as she ran back to the pitcher, realized they’d forgotten to grab Laila’s cup, went to pick that up, then returned to the pitcher again and filled it.

Finally, the genie brought the cup over to Laila. “I really hope it helps,” they said, and he managed to inject more sincerity into those few words than Laila thought she’d ever felt in her entire life.

How could she go back to life without them?

Laila drank the water with slow continual swallows. When she finished, she couldn’t help grinning at the eager hopefulness in Tariq’s eyes. “Give it a second,” Laila told them. She waited, but there were no more hiccups.

“Yeah, that did it,” she said, and Tariq pulled her into an exuberant hug.

“Oh, good!” he exclaimed. “Always tell me if they hurt, okay? I want to stop mine as soon as possible if yours are hurting you.”

Although Laila made herself roll her eyes, drawling back, “You worry too much,” she was genuinely touched by the genie’s concern.

“No I don’t!” Tariq pointed out. “Because you worry way more than I do, and you don’t worry too much. You worry just the right amount.”

Laila laughed. Was there anything they didn’t think was perfect about her? “Fine, have it your way,” she replied.

Wishes or no wishes, there was no way she could just send Tariq back to his lonely lamp, Laila realized. Not an option.

One thing Tariq did have right—Laila would think of something. She always did.

“It’s a shame,” Geneviève said with a sigh as they stepped out of the restaurant. “It really felt as though I would.”

Given the bustling Parisian street around them, she spoke obliquely, but her meaning was of course evident to Casanova: it had felt like she would get the hiccups. But alas, fortune was not with them that evening.

“Yes, we’ve been rather thwarted of late,” Casanova agreed. It had been more than a fortnight since they’d had any success.

He offered Geneviève his arm, and she took it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You—I mean, you must be getting terribly bored of me.”

While Casanova was used to bringing women to ecstasy in all sorts of ways, the bedroom only held interest for Geneviève when one of them had the hiccups. No hiccups, no lovemaking. Certainly not what Casanova was used to, but he’d always been one to enjoy novelty, and bedding a hiccupping lover—or bedding her when he had the hiccups himself—was quite the singular experience.

More than once, Geneviève had offered herself to Casanova when neither of them had hiccups, but that was not how he wanted her. Some men sated their appetite on an indifferent lady, but to him, it seemed an utter waste of lovemaking. What was the point if they were not arriving at their pleasure together? 

It was true, he’d rarely gone this long without gratification. Casanova was just as disappointed as Geneviève that their usual methods of indulging with rich food and good wine hadn’t been paying off.

“Thwarted, yes,” Casanova told Geneviève. “But bored? Never! It’s only a matter of time before we find what we’re after. And in the meantime, your company offers plenty to divert me.”

His eyes roamed the street, looking for some consolation he might offer his lover. Casanova smiled as he spotted the theatre ahead on their right. “Would you care to take in an opera, my dear?” he asked.

Casanova’s infamy frequently allowed him entrance even when his purse did not, and soon, he and Geneviève were being ushered into a box with a fine view of the stage. A fine view, too, for others to peer at Giacomo Casanova and his lady companion.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this,” Geneviève remarked as a trio of ladies looked over at them from another box, coyly waving their fans and whispering to one another.

“Does it bother you?” Casanova asked.

“It sometimes perplexes me,” Geneviève told him, “and perhaps annoys me on occasion. But more than anything, it simply amuses me.”

“Yes, it can be strange,” Casanova said. “It seems I cannot help but fascinate.” He threw the ladies a wink, and they fell over one another giggling and whispering.

“That’s most certainly true, monsieur,” Geneviève replied. Grinning, Casanova took her hand and kissed it.

The opera was Handel’s Rinaldo, a rather good production. Geneviève was a singer herself—an exquisite alto who regularly performed at salons—and her interest in the opera was as every bit as enjoyable to watch as the actors on the stage. Normally, Casanova laughed off the notion of going to the theatre to watch theatregoers rather than the performance, but he admitted it was difficult to take his eyes off Geneviève.

Her soft smile and bright eyes as the lovers sang together. Her delight at the ambitious scenery, which created quite the onstage spectacle. Her eagerness as she leaned forward, engrossed in the music.

Because Casanova was so taken by Geneviève’s enjoyment, he noticed when the base of her throat contracted, perhaps fifteen minutes into the first act. And he was not imagining things—Geneviève instantly sat up a little straighter, her eyes widening. She pressed her lips together and drew in a breath through her nose.

Their eyes met. They waited…Casanova counted seven seconds before the next hiccup, and with it the unmistakable leap of her breasts and backward snap of her head. Five seconds, and then another hiccup. And another.

Casanova did not share his lover’s peculiar inclination toward hiccups, but her amorous affinity for them always made her even more beautiful. Cheeks flushing with excitement, Geneviève’s eyes sparkled as she gave Casanova a tight-lipped smile.

He swept her fawn-colored curls over her shoulder and leaned in close to her. “Are you all right, my dear?” he asked in a low voice.

Geneviève nodded, and now that he was closer to her, Casanova could hear her quiet muffled “*hmmk!*”

Brushing his lips against the nape of her neck, he asked, “Would you like to leave?”

But his lover surprised him—she shook her head. Casanova raised his eyebrows. “No?” In response, Geneviève merely gestured toward the stage. 

Casanova slipped his arm around her, the better to murmur in her ear. “It’s fine opera, but I’d no idea you were enjoying it that much,” he teased. In truth, though, he was puzzled. They’d both been waiting for Geneviève to get the hiccups. Now that this moment was finally here, did she really not want to take full advantage of it?

Bouncing with another hiccup, it was Geneviève’s turn now to speak in Casanova’s ear. “Not y-*hok!*-yet,” she whispered with slow deliberation. He turned to her, and her eyes flitted to the other boxes around the theatre.

A delicious smile spread across Casanova’s face. “Are you perhaps enjoying the attention after all?” he suggested. Geneviève adopted a coquetteish shrug, her head snapping back with a strong “*hmmk-mmp!*” Running his thumb lightly along her shoulder, Casanova reasoned, “I suppose we have time.”

When Geneviève tried to keep her hiccups quiet, it made them more difficult to cure. So long as she was muffling them, there was little concern that they would suddenly go away. Casanova lifted his hand to her hair and slowly twisted one of her curls around his finger. “There’s a particular spot in the theatre, in the lower level,” he remarked. “Very out of the way, high assurance we wouldn’t be heard—especially if the audience is enraptured by what’s happening onstage. Armida’s entrance perhaps?”

Geneviève nodded. “*hmmk!*”

“Excellent,” Casanova told her. “Until then, shall we play?” His eyes met Geneviève’s, and they both smiled.

Meeting Eric’s mom was just about as scary as Martiza had imagined, and like Eric predicted, Maritza didn’t exactly wow Theresa Langdon. She was sort of coldly civil, which Eric told Maritza afterwards to count as a win.

“It’s just how she is,” Eric explained. “Nobody really impresses her.” He kept his voice light as he said it, but Maritza caught the hurt he was hiding behind it, and she drew him into her arms.

It was hard to imagine that Eric’s mom once had a baby with a man her own parents hadn’t approved of, a relationship that hadn’t been settled like a business contract. Had she retreated into chilliness when things hadn’t worked out with Eric’s dad? After stepping out of the expected high-society line, had she clung to their rules even tighter to get back in their good graces? Had she wanted to keep coloring outside the lines but life drummed it out of her?

Maritza didn’t know, and she thought that asking Eric about it might upset him. So she didn’t ask. She just wondered. At any rate, her questions helped keep her from taking Theresa’s aloof attitude too much to heart.

She also couldn’t help but think about Eric’s last name: Langdon-Reyes. Even though Eric’s dad hadn’t been “part of the plan,” as he’d once said, he still had both their names. His mom hadn’t prevented that. Maybe she’d even been the one to ensure it. And Maritza supposed that was something.

Winter break came and went. While Maritza had a fun time back home with her family and friends, she missed Eric too. They texted and video chatted to “an obnoxious degree,” according to Lila—easy for her to say, her new girlfriend lived a 20-minute bus ride away—and when she returned to Camden in January, Maritza found that she didn’t care about seeming lame or thirsty. She was just happy to be with him again.

“Would it be cool if I moved some more of my stuff over here?” she asked as they cuddled on the couch in Eric’s apartment on their first night back, cozied under a blanket.

If Maritza was lame and thirsty, Eric was too, because he gave her a squeeze and murmured, “Mmm, I’d love that.”

It wasn’t that Maritza was entirely wrapped up in Eric, honestly. Honestly. But as her class load got more demanding, she found she had less energy for the Camden elite and their bullshit and veiled microagressions—even if the latter had gotten less frequent and more covert since they found out she was dating Eric, that didn’t mean it had gone away entirely.

So more and more, they were spending their free time cocooned away from the rest of Camden. They’d put on jackets and gloves and go hiking at Evenswood, or they’d hit up the movie theater or indulge in lazy evenings at the apartment. Was it the most level-headed or balanced way to handle things? Maybe not, but Maritza was feeling increasingly over Camden, and she viewed their one-on-one time as coping strategies to get her through until she walked across that graduation stage and never looked back.

Still, they did occasionally have to put in “face time” with Eric’s friends. It was that weird quasi-networking thing where a lot of their parents did business with one another, so you couldn’t snub anybody for the sake of the stock market or something. It was dumb, and the fact that Maritza and Eric both knew it was dumb helped. As often as he could, Eric supplied plausible reasons for why they couldn’t go to this party or that group hang, limiting the time they spent with that crowd.

“You can totally go if you want,” Maritza told Eric one morning as they were walking Trail #2. “I don’t want to keep you from your friends. If I can stick to making the bare minimum of ‘appearances’ myself, I don’t mind you hanging with them on your own.”

“To be honest, I kind of like getting away from all that,” Eric admitted. “Those guys…” He shook his head, and Maritza caught his jaw clenching a little. At his grandpa’s birthday party, Eric’s best friend Olivia had walked Maritza through his “stress tells,” the small hints of “not okay-ness” that could bleed through even when he was putting on a good act.

“Even before we’d started seeing each other, I’d pretty much outgrown them,” he explained. “It’s nice to claim coupledom as a reason not to go to their stuff.” With a soft, self-conscious smile, he added, “And sometimes I get tired, having to be ‘on’ all the time, you know?”

Maritza took his hand, stopping them in the middle of the trail so they could kiss. “You should come around my way this summer,” she suggested. “Spend as much time in the city as you want. My friends are lovable weirdos who aren’t fake, and we’re good at adopting strays.”

She winked, and Eric laughed. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, putting his arm around her as they started up a leisurely stroll.

“Also, you badly need more melanin in your life,” Maritza told him. “People of color beyond just me and folks who work for your family.”

“God, I know,” Eric replied.

“Although, fair warning, my mom will spend the summer saying she has to fatten you up,” Maritza warned.

Eric grinned. “This plan just gets better and better.”

The following week, they had their requisite face time with the Camden crowd—that’s how Maritza had started thinking of them, which felt more accurate than “Eric’s friends.” They all met up for dinner at one of the fancier restaurants in town. Maritza’s Princess Diaries lessons with Eric had paid off well, and she could go to a high-end restaurant without getting confused about silverware, experiencing a gut punch of dread at the priceless menus, or feeling too out of place.

Of course, the Camden crowd could sneak in flasks and be rude to the waitstaff to their heart’s content, but god forbid if Maritza unfolded her napkin wrong.

She couldn’t deny that the food was really good, though. While she’d still take her abuelita’s cooking any day of the week, Maritza liked getting fancy dishes in three courses. Tonight, it was salmon croquettes for an appetizer, chicken in a delicious pomegranate sauce for her main, and she was already looking forward to dessert—she didn’t know what she was gonna get yet, but probably something chocolate.

Okay, so the food helped her get through it too. Easier to listen to Brody Chatsworth brag about his planned getaway to Ibiza for spring break when she was eating like royalty. “Ugh, I’d kill to go to Ibiza!” Hayley Cavendish groaned. “We’re just doing stupid St. Barts.”

“I like St. Barts,” Tina Franklin offered.

“It’s sooooooo boring!” Hayley insisted.

“What about you, Maritza?” Danielle Mercer asked sweetly. “What are you doing for spring break?”

“Go Greyhound,” Jason Hamilton murmured to Lindsey Westbrook, who laughed like she was on the verge of climax.

Maritza was learning that, while Jason and Lindsey were the most overt assholes of the group, Danielle wasn’t one to be counted out. She was good at looking doe-eyed while giving backhanded slaps, and she was always finding excuses to cozy up to Eric in ways she probably wouldn’t dare if he was dating Hayley or Tina.

And the truth was, Maritza had less than an interstate bus trip planned. “Nothing special,” she said, shrugging and pretending she didn’t see the smirks. “Probably just—”

Eric slipped his arm around her waist. “It’s a surprise, actually,” he informed the table.

At those words, the table was split between wordless surprise and tantalized exclamations. “Seriously? Langdon, that’s so generous of you!” Danielle said with an admiring sigh. She was sitting on the other side of him (because of course she was,) and she sort of hugged his free arm.

“Charitable, you might say,” Lindsey remarked.

Count Maritza among the “wordless surprise” contingent. “You, uh…huh?” she managed to stammer out. Was he actually planning on taking her somewhere, or was he just saying it to get everyone off her back?

“I don’t really see it that way,” Eric replied. “I like traveling, and I like spending time with Maritza, so it’s a win-win for me.”

His tone was casual, but he rubbed his thumb across his mouth: stress tell. Maybe Eric was planning a trip, maybe not. Either way, he didn’t like this conversation. Or Danielle hanging off him, for that matter.

“Hey, you’d better step it up,” Lindsey told Jason. “Langdon’s gonna start making you look bad.”

Maritza held back a snort of laughter. Start? For one, Jason didn’t need anybody to help him look bad. For another, Eric had been outclassing him since freshman year, at least.

“Oh yeah?” Jason asked. “‘Cause I was thinking the Virgin Islands.”

Brody laughed, probably because Jason said “virgin.” The whole Camden crowd launched into a debate about the best vacation spots, with lots of arguing between private beaches, ski resorts, and party destinations. Scintillating, they were not.

And hey, Maritza liked travel—or at least, she liked the idea of travel based on watching travel shows. But didn’t these guys ever talk about music or hobbies or interesting video essays they’d stayed up late watching on YouTube?

She started a little as Eric suddenly leaned over and murmured in her ear, asking, “Hey, can I h-- have some of your water-*mmp!*”

It was an odd question to ask in a restaurant filled with waitstaff that was ready to serve Camden kids at the drop of a hat, and Maritza answered, “Uh, sure,” on a kind of autopilot.

Shooting her a look and a grateful nod, Eric reached for her glass. That’s when Maritza noticed his jaw clenching. What was the matter? She glanced down at his plate. Had he swallowed down the wrong pipe or something?

Eric drank Maritza’s water with long, deep drafts, as if he was trying to quench a heavy thirst or put out a five-alarm fire on his tongue. But she couldn’t imagine his lobster tail was unbearably salty or spicy.

Then, setting the glass down, he drew in a breath and held it. Oh, crap.

He was rubbing his mouth again. Maritza rested her hand on Eric’s thigh and gave it a squeeze, hoping he’d welcome a comforting touch. He glanced at her and offered her a flicker of a smile.

When he exhaled, discreetly, Maritza saw Eric’s head jerk back within a couple seconds. “Didn’t work?” she asked in a low voice. He shut his head, running his hand through his hair.

Stress tell number three—the whole trifecta. Eric hiccupped again, keeping it completely silent. But Maritza caught the head jerk.

She couldn’t really blame him for being on edge. Maritza wouldn’t want to have the hiccups in front of these guys, either. Remembering how he’d helped her at his grandpa’s party, she whispered, “Do you want to go to the bathroom? I can come meet you in a minute or two, if you want some help.”

“Yo, Langdon!” This was Jason’s voice, and while it startled Eric, it unfortunately wasn’t enough to scare his hiccups away. He suppressed another.

As he turned toward Jason, Maritza saw Eric wait for his next stifled hiccup before he said, “What?”

Jason laughed. “You asleep over there or just eye-fucking Maritza?”

Eric cleared his throat. “What is it?” he asked, getting the question out between hiccups.

“Aspen or Vail?” Jason prompted.

“Oh.” Eric rubbed his knuckles across his mouth as he muffled another hiccup. “I’m not really that big a-*hup!*-a skier.” Maritza could practically see him willing himself not to cringe.

Most folks at the table didn’t seem to react—maybe they didn’t notice, but then Danielle cooed, “Ohhh, Langdon, do you have the hiccups?”

If blushes showed up on Eric’s complexion, Maritza would’ve bet money that he’d have been beet red. Ducking his head, he ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh,” he mumbled. “Um, y-- yeah.” He pressed his knuckles to his mouth and hiccupped again.

Brody laughed and Jason smirked, while Lindsey rolled her eyes. “Oh, poor thing!” Danielle cried. “Here, let me.” She signaled one of the servers. “Excuse me! We need more water over here!”

“No, it-*hmmp!*-it’s fine,” Eric insisted. “I already tri-- tried that.”

“Not like this, you haven’t,” Danielle replied. Adding an exasperated, “Not mine, his!”, she honest-to-god snapped her fingers at the server as she motioned for him to refill Eric’s glass.

Eric sank down a little in his chair. He held in another hiccup, then mumbled, “Thank you,” to the server, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Maritza winced. According to Olivia, when Eric’s stress tells persisted, headaches probably weren’t far behind. “Look, Danielle, just don’t worry about it, okay?” she offered. “It’s not a big deal.”

Normally, that’s probably what Eric would’ve said about getting the hiccups, “not a big deal.” Tonight, though, they very much were. But based on Eric’s reaction, Maritza didn’t doubt that Danielle making a fuss over him was the worst part of it.

“It’s fine, rea--*huck!*” Eric pressed his lips together and cleared his throat. “Uh, really.” He drew his fingers through his hair, at the back of his head this time.

“No, this works every time,” Danielle assured him. 

“Come on, Langdon,” Jason needled, in a tone that suggested he wanted to settle in with some popcorn and watch the show.

“It works every time,” Lindsey echoed, amused.

Eric’s head jerked back with a silent hiccup as he rubbed the spot between his eyes. “What do I h-- have to do?” he asked in a low voice.

“Here,” Danielle said, handing him the water. “Try and drink it from the wrong side of the glass.”

Jaw clench. “That doesn’t wor-*herk!*-k on me,” Eric explained.

“Just try it!” Danielle urged.

“Yeah—it can’t hurt,” Hayley pointed out.

Eric’s sigh was interrupted by a “*hic-ulp!*”, and he snapped his mouth shut. “Whatever,” he muttered. He pushed his chair back a little and leaned forward, putting his mouth on the far rim of the glass.

Jason’s eyes shone as he argued, “Hey, man, not like that!” Eric paused and, muffling a hiccup, turned to him with a puzzled frown. “You have to do it properly. Stand up.”

Eric swiped his hand across his mouth. “I’m not doing tha-- at.”

“It is a lot easier to do it standing up,” Danielle noted.

With a self-conscious glance at all the people dining around them, Eric replied flatly, “I’ll ma-AN-age.”

Before anyone else could say something, he bent forward again and started to drink. It was a little awkward—the Camden crew, naturally, thought the whole thing was funny—but Eric managed to down the glass with minimal spilling.

“There,” Eric said, straightening back up and setting the glass on the table. He rose from his chair. “Be right back.”

“Aww, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Langdon?” Brody joked.

“It worked, right?” Danielle asked.

Eric didn’t reply, just headed off in the direction of the bathroom, but Maritza saw him pressing his fist to his mouth. She got up and followed him without a word to any of the assholes.

Eyes widening, the prince brushed his knuckles across his mouth. “F-- forgive m-*hmmp!*-me,” Aasif said. He hiccupped again, a sharp “*huck!*”, and cleared his throat. “I m-*ulk!*-must have dr-*hup!*-drunk too fa-- ast, I’m sorr-*herk!*-sorry.”

“Rememb-*herk!*-ber what Laila-*HIC-ulk!*-said,” Tariq reminded him. “You mus-- mustn’t apologize, b-*heek!*-because it’s your birth-*huck!*-day.”

The fun they’d been having just a minute ago had disappeared, and Aasif’s easy, charming manner had grown self-conscious. “Ju-UH-st a minu-*hup!*-minute,” he mumbled between hiccups, hastily getting up from the ledge of the pool. Taking a few steps, he looked away from Tariq as he raised his goblet to his lips again.

He drank more slowly this time, more carefully. Tariq supposed it was to try and stop the hiccups, like Laila had had them do. But it didn’t work any better for Aasif than it had for Tariq. When he emptied his goblet, he stood waiting, a hand held lightly against his middle, but another “*hup!*” burst out of him only a few seconds later.

“It’s o-*hulk!*-okay,” Tariq said. They hopped to their feet and closed the distance between them. She took Aasif’s free hand and raised it to their lips, kissing it. “You didn’t m-*huck!*-mind my h-*hic!*-iccups, and I don’t-- don’t mind yours-*HIC-ulk!* either. *holk!* It’s fine.”

“Yes, b-*hup!*-but I’m a pri-- a prince-*hmmp!*” Aasif replied. Insistently, as though it signified something. Tariq wasn’t sure what.

“Don’t-*huck!*-princes get hiccu-*hup!*-hiccups?” they asked curiously. “I’d have th-*huck!*-thought all huma-- humans did. *HIC-ulk!*”

“No, I-- I do-*hmmp!*” Aasif said, raising his fist to his mouth with a grimace. “I’m j-*huck!*-just not m-*ulk!*-meant to.”

“That doesn’t m-hulk!*-make any sen-- sense,” Tariq pointed out, but Aasif drew in a deep breath and motioned for Tariq to wait, so they waited. As Aasif held his breath, he paced a little, his fingers drumming at his sides. This seemed wildly unnecessary, especially since Tariq’s hiccups were still going strong.

Tariq wasn’t sure how long humans could hold their breath. It felt like Aasif managed a long time before he let it all out in a puff, almost immediately jerking with another hiccup. “*herk!* Damnit!” He hiccupped though a sigh, raking his fingers through his hair.

“I don’t kn-*holk!*-know what you’re bothe-*herk!*-bothered about,” Tariq offered. They came up behind Aasif, resting their hands on his shoulders. “Maybe it’s-*huck!*-it’s about formali-*hic!*-ity and rudene-*hulk!*-rudeness, those kinds of-*HIC-ulk!*-rules, but you know I-- I don’t care a-*hup!*-about that. *HIC-uck!*”

Softly, Tariq began massaging Aasif’s shoulders. “So why d-*holk!*-don’t we just s-*hic!*-sit down?” they suggested. “Trying to make th-*huck!*-them stop obviou-*hup!*-ously isn’t working, *HIC-ulk!* and it see-*heek!*-seems like it’s just b-- bothering you more when th-*hulk!*-they don’t go aw-*hup!*-away.”

With a “*hmmk!*”, Aasif nodded, and Tariq took the prince’s hand again. 

Aasif’s notion that he wasn’t “meant to” get the hiccups made Tariq suspect that going back to sit by the fountain would feel too out in the open for him. He seemed like he was embarrassed. “Is it bett-*herk!*-better to go some-*hulk!*-where more priva-- private?” Tariq asked.

Aasif sighed. “Y-*hup!*-yes,” he admitted.

“Okay,” Tariq said. “You sho-*holk!*-show me wher-*herk!*”

The prince gave another nod. He led Tariq off the flagstone path and wound them through the trees. They walked past the length of the pool, and Aasif pulled Tariq down to sit beneath a palm.

“How’s thi-*hic!*-this?” Tariq asked him. Aasif shrugged, but as he muffled another hiccup, the corner of his mouth crooked up in one of the smallest smiles Tariq had ever seen.

“*HIC-uck!* All right,” they decided. “That’s a-*huck!*-a start.” Tariq put his free arm around Aasif, who rested his head on their shoulder.

Tariq’s hiccups were a little louder than Aasif’s and quite a bit harder—they’d thought so, but it was confirmed now that the two of them were sitting so close together and Tariq could feel the slight jerking movements of the prince’s body. But Aasif’s hiccups were definitely faster, with a “*hup!*” or a “*hmmk!*” erupting from him every few seconds.

“They’ll g-*ulk!*-go aw-AY-y soon-*hmmp!*” Aasif said forcefully, like he was trying to convince himself. “I m-EA-n, usua-*hmmk!*-usually-*hup!*-I can g-*herk!*-get rid o-- of-*huck!*” He made a face. “But I-*hmmp!*-I never-*herk!*-have th-- them for lo-*ulk!*-long.”

“*hulk!* Okay,” Tariq said agreeably. They turned to kiss Aasif’s temple. 

Even though his only master was Laila, Tariq liked helping humans in general, especially nice humans, and they really wanted to help Aasif. It seemed there wasn’t much they could do to stop the prince’s hiccups, so Tariq decided that helping him feel more relaxed and comfortable would be the next best thing.

*           *           *

It wouldn’t do to creep or skulk through the palace. After all, Laila was officially a guest of Prince Aasif—one he’d only met once, but a lot of the prince’s guest list was probably like that. She was a noblewoman tonight, and noblewomen didn’t creep along halls. Doing so would only attract more attention.

No, a noblewoman would walk like she didn’t care who saw her. So Laila strolled idly down a hallway, pretending to admire the bronze and ceramic artwork. Even if anyone were to find her here, what could they do? Oh yes, the noblewoman was poking her nose around—just curious, you know! What’s the harm in that?

Laila slipped through a doorway and found herself in a bedroom. The bed looked profoundly inviting, and Laila suddenly felt a desperate urge to sink into it, to feel something that soft and cushy just once in her life. But the hourglass was running, and she had a job to do.

Tiny precious things, small enough to disappear inside Laila’s dress, bits and bobs that the royal family would barely notice but could change Laila’s life. She resisted the urge to be greedy and pulled her itching fingers away from the most beautiful trinkets on display. Instead, she searched for the treasures that had carelessly slipped beneath the rug or been brushed into a corner. This was the wealth that would never be missed. That loose bangle, that forgotten gem.

She’d just taken a few things here, then move onto another room. Not too much missing from any one place. Not too much missing to make any noticeable pattern.

“Who are you?”

Laila forbade herself from looking nervous or startled. She waited a full beat before lazily turning around, ready to act bored and unimpressed by whatever servant had come across her. “Oh, well, I simply had to—”

But as she turned, her words dried up. Because she hadn’t been found by a servant. For the second time that night, Laila had stumbled into a royal sibling.

Prince Aasif made more public appearances, so Laila had already seen him plenty of times before meeting him at the party. But she’d only glimpsed Princess Sita on occasion with the rest of her family, always from a distance.

The princess shared her brother’s nose and eyes, though her thick waist-length hair was more curly than wavy. She had a small and voluptuous figure, full lips, and a golden nose ring. The lashes framing her kohl-rimmed eyes were long and lush.

“Who are you?” Sita repeated. “Are you here for my brother’s party? Why are you in my room?”

Sita’s room, of course. In her search for valuables, Laila had recognized it as a bedroom, but she’d not really considered it as belonging to anyone. It was a place full of precious things and an enormous bed that was still pleading with her to roll around on it—strangely depersonalized, a room of objects.

But no, it was the princess’s room. Why was Laila here? She did her best to come up with an answer, although her mind and tongue both felt clumsy from standing so close to Sita. 

The princess glanced toward the doorway, and Laila realized there was a non-zero chance Sita was about to call for her guards. So Laila blurted out the first thing that came into her head, which turned out to be, “Why are you here?”

It was quite possibly the flimsiest response she could’ve given, but it stayed Sita’s hand, for the moment anyway. The princess turned back to Laila, a confused frown on her lovely face. “Why am I in my own room?” she asked.

“Y-you’re not at the party,” Laila rushed to explain. The idea was still taking shape as she spoke. Never her favorite way to handle things during a con—it felt like having to cross a bridge while she was building it. “No doubt everyone is eager to see you.”

“O-oh,” Sita mumbled, looking down. “Well—I mean, I was just….” She trailed off, and as she stole a quiet glance at Laila before looking away again, her eyes sent a pleasant flutter of nervousness through Laila’s stomach. “These kinds of parties—”

The princess faltered a second time, and another glance from her made Laila’s throat feel dry. Laila cast her own eyes self-consciously about the room, and they landed on a few sheets of calligraphy drying on a table, lines of verse drawn in a delicate script. Evidence of a quiet night in.

And before she Laila stop herself, she spoke her realization aloud: “You’re not comfortable in that sort of company.”

Sita caught her lower lip between her teeth, and Laila wondered if she knew how alluring she looked. “I make my appearances when I have to,” the princess confessed softly. “But all those people, all that chatter—either about things I don’t understand or things that disinterest me. So much noise.” She gave a soft sigh. “My mother and father…well, I don’t think they understand it, but they tolerate it, at least for now.”

Laila was fascinated. She’d always assumed the princess was stuck-up and that was why she wasn’t seen in public often. But no, it seemed only that Sita was deeply shy and preferred her solitude.

That’s where Laila found her own answer, although it suddenly felt unfair to use it. “Then perhaps you’ll grant me a moment’s refuge,” she said. “I had to get away from the crowd—I know we were outdoors, but it just felt stifling.”

At those words, Sita looked up once more. But instead of another momentary glance, she turned her full gaze on Laila. Those large black eyes felt just as inviting as the bed, and Laila wanted to sink into them.

“Tr-truly?” Sita asked, a hopeful air in her tone. “You can’t bear these occasions either?”

Laila didn’t reply. She was lost in Sita’s eyes, in her lips, in her lashes and nose and dark curled hair. And then, without warning, Laila was hit with a hard “*hulp!*”

Her hand flew to her mouth, only to be met with a “hulk!*” Sita’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“M-my deepe-*holp!*-deepest a-apologies, y-*hic-ulp!*-your highness,” Laila stammered out, her cheeks burning as she stifled a strong “*hmmp!*”

“Um, no, n-not at all,” Sita replied, sounding just as unseated as Laila was. “Don’t be silly—you obviously can’t help it.”

There was no way this was a coincidence, right? How could it be? Hiccupping again, Laila groaned internally—genies were far more trouble than they were worth.

As another “*holp!*” burst from her, Laila said, “I-I’m intru-*hulp!*-intruding on your soli-*hulk!*-solitude. I m-*hic-ulp!*-I must—”

“Here, can I help?” Sita asked, coming over from across the room. The princess did not touch Laila, but her fingers hovered inches from Laila’s arm. “Let me have some water sent down for you.”

Laila must’ve been cutting a fairly pitiable figure if Sita could overcome her shyness to offer her assistance. Scrabbling around for a last scrap of dignity, Laila stifled another “*hmmp!*”, intently smoothing down her skirt as she said, “No, I-*hulk!*-I just need a mo-*holp!*-a moment, your highn-*ulp!*-highness.”

With more than a little desperation, Laila plugged her nose and held her breath. But almost right away, she could tell it wasn’t going to work—she could still feel her body rocking with hard silent hiccups. All the while, Sita’s eyes were on her, a look of sweet concern on her face.

Laila exhaled in defeat, not remotely surprised by the next “hic-ulk!*” that hit her. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Sita told her. “Would you like me to—?”

“N-*hulp!*-no,” Laila insisted, shaking her head. What was the point in trying other cures if, as she suspected, these weren’t ordinary hiccups? “I need t-*holk!*-to find my-*hic-ulp!*-friend. He’s the onl-*hulk!*-only one who can-*ulp!*” 

Laila broke off, shaking her head again. Grabbing her skirt, she turned tail and hurried away from the princess as fast as she could.