Mouse shuddered. So that was the trap. Fight Reginald, and she can accuse me of attacking the Crown Prince, or give in, and be ruined in the human court’s eyes. Impressed, he shook his head. “What a vicious woman.”

Though humans lacked the refinement of elves, when it came to infighting and court politics, they were clearly as cunning as any elf. I'd best not take Sabelyn lightly in the future.

If I'm building an alibi, I need a disguise. Mouse hurried to the closet. The opulence that burst out nearly blinded him for the third time that day. Gold, gems, lace, velvet, and too many frills and braids to count. Every piece of clothing screamed prince in the most gaudy fashion possible.

He stuffed the closet shut. So much for that. Mouse put a hand on his chest, and his shadow swirled around himself. The dress blurred, then turned into a flouncy grey jacket and pants, oddly light and flowy.

“I like the dress better. This looks weird,” Spar offered, reaching out to touch the fabric.

Twain twitched out of his reach, already binding his hair into a slender braid. “Shut up.”

Spar shut his mouth tight and gave Twain a thumbs up.

Rolling his eyes, Twain splashed his face with a mug of water abandoned by the bedside, then scrubbed it clean with the tail of his skirt. The illusion of pants twisted uncomfortably around the disturbance. Without makeup, the softness vanished from his face, replaced by sheer, high cheekbones, big eyes narrowed and sharpened, once-arched eyebrows now flat and swordlike.

Clean-faced, Twain grabbed the bedsheet and draped it into a bundle over Reginald, then lifted Reginald and sheet as one. A final twisting shadow reshaped the outline of Reginald’s body into a neatly-folded pile of sheets.

“Show me that place you were talking about,” Twain ordered, hefting Reginald into place. The sheet-illusion jiggled like gelatin as it struggled to maintain shape.

Spar nodded, bowing. “Right this way, sir.”

He took a step. Pain surged down his arms, and in the same moment, his head spun. He staggered and fell against Spar.

Spar caught him, one hand supporting Reginald. “Are you okay?”

Twain nodded, forcing himself upright. He could metabolize most poisons, and this one was no exception. Metabolization took time, though, time he didn’t have when he had alibis to build and crown princes to hide.

He closed his eyes for a moment and focused his magic inward, toward himself. It twined through his veins and surged through his body, seeking out the poison. His metabolism sped up. The poison seeped out of his skin in thick droplets of sweat that stained his dress with tiny particles of black filth.

As he drew on his magic, the pain in his arms sunk deeper. Cold spread into his bones and ached in his wrists. He shivered, once, then suppressed it. Damn backlash. Everything wouldn’t be so hard if the Mage-Emperor hadn’t decided to ‘help.’

Between the magic and his natural poison resistance, his vision cleared in a few moments. He wiped his head on his shoulder. “I'm fine. It's just... the poison, and everything else. It’s been a long-ass day.”

“As a member of the long-ass family, I feel that,” Spar agreed. He led the way down the hallway.

“Is it all just ass? When you’re a horse, is that where it all comes from?” Twain asked.

“It’s mostly back, actually. But my quadrupedal form does have a fine ass, if I say so myself.”

Twain grimaced. “Could you not talk about your… quadrupedal form like that?”

“What? Am I not allowed to appreciate my own fine horse ass?” Spar asked, aggrieved.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“No.”

“Horses have fine asses, though. It’s a fact of horse-dom. Haven’t you ever noticed that?”

“I have not.”

Spar smacked his lips. “In fact, there’s a filly in the stables whom I would very much like to—”

“Spar. Please,” Twain begged.

“What? I can’t talk about my love life?” Spar asked.

Twain shook his head. “Not when you look like that.”

Spar frowned. “But I’m originally quadrupedal. There’s nothing strange about wanting to mount someone of your own species.”

Twain frowned. His hands itched to press against his temples, or maybe his ears, but he couldn’t reach with Reginald in his arms. “Stop. Just stop.”

Under his breath, Spar grumbled, “Damn one-form beings and their stupid anti-shapeshifter prejudices.”

Ahead, a stiff-backed maid walked toward them, arms full with a hamper of laundry. As she drew even, she stopped and cocked her head at the sheets. “Load them up, please.”

Twain stopped, mind blank. He glanced at Spar, who looked back to him.

“Well? Hurry up.” She gestured with the hamper.

“These are clean sheets, actually. I’m—ah, the Princess asked me to fetch some for her.”

“Sabelyn did?”

Twain shook his head. “The—my Princess.”

“Your princess, right.” The maid squinted in faint disgust.

“Is there a problem?” Twain asked.

The maid sighed. “Oh, nothing, just… the elves aren’t so bad, and the dwarves are fine craftsmen, but the demons, the goblins, the drow, the…” she shuddered, “undead… why we let such horrid creatures run amok in the castle is beyond me.”

Twain stared, at a loss for words.

“You’re going the wrong way,” the maid added. She nodded ahead of her. “Your princess’s quarters are this way, in the south wing.”

Something about the way she said ‘south’ made Twain frown, but he couldn’t put it in words. Instead, he glanced up at Spar.

Spar noticed his glance and smiled. His head inclined in a short nod.

So there’s something this way, too. Reassured, Twain followed the maid quietly.

The south wing turned out to be a fair clip from Reginald’s room, and the further they walked, the more sweat dripped down Twain’s back. In his arms, Reginald shifted almost imperceptibly. The illusion shimmered and gave in, revealing the sheet-draped form of the real Reginald. Reginald stirred again, shifting his legs this time. Again, the illusion broke, motes of shadow fleeing for a moment before Twain narrowed his eyes, focused, and forcibly reigned them back in.

Icy cold seared up the fresh backlash scars on his forearms as he cast the magic. His grip weakened. Reginald slipped from his arms. He grasped desperately and barely pulled the man back before he dropped him. The illusion wobbled wildly. Twain gritted his teeth. Hold, please hold. If it broke now, he wasn’t sure he could cast it again without dropping Reginald.

The illusion settled. Twain breathed a sign of relief.

Nearly at the same moment, the maid glanced over her shoulder. “You’re sure you don’t want me to carry those sheets?”

“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Twain replied. Strain showed at the corners of his eyes and the edges of his slightly-too-broad smile.

The maid’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment. Sweat rolled down Twain’s back. Look away already! What’s so fun about watching me? he screamed silently.

At last, the maid turned around, seconds before Reginald stretched. The illusion deformed and grew wide, as if someone had stretched the sheets out in his arms. Shadows flickered around the illusion’s edges as it strained to contain him. Twain licked his lips. He wandered closer to the wall, then whipped around viciously.

“What’s down there?”

Mid-sentence, Reginald’s head cracked into the wall. The man went still once more.

He’d pointed randomly, but the maid paused. Staring down the dark, narrow hallway, she finally shook her head. “Nothing good.”

Twain peered after her, but saw nothing worrisome. He glanced at Spar, who shrugged. Don’t suppose I should expect a horse to know the castle inside as well as out, he reasoned.

“And here we are,” the maid said, pointing her hip at a small door on a row of doors.

“Thank you,” Twain said. Halfway through, the voice changing potion abruptly wore off, and his voice dropped an octave to its usual tone.

The maid frowned at him. “Excuse me?”

Twain coughed. Of all times? It should have been good for another day… Ah! When I overcame the poison, my metabolism sped up, which shortened the duration of the potion, too! “I, er, a cold—”

“His balls just dropped,” Spar interrupted.

Twain and the maid both stared at him.

Spar cleared his throat. “Elves, you know. Long lives, so they, uh. Puberty. Late.”

“Spar, please,” Twain mouthed, already horrified.

“And it happened just now?” the maid asked, one eyebrow cocked.

“Mhm. Uh, you know, elves have a hard time conceiving, and it’s all because their puberty is kind of… violent. Happens all at once or not at all, you know?” Spar said, nodding as if he was convincing himself.

Under the sheets, Reginald rolled away from Twain. Twain lunged and caught him with his knee. Reginald splayed across his lap. Under the illusion, Reginald half-raised a hand. The illusion struggled to hide the motion, but couldn’t completely contain it. The sheets around Twain’s crotch bulged outward.

“Oh dear,” the maid whispered, backing away.

“Yep. That’s exactly it. Spar, come on, we have to make the bed before the princess comes back, thank you so much, ma’am.” Bowing vigorously, grappling the half-conscious Reginald, Twain shoved Spar into the room and slammed the door behind him.