I join the mad scramble to take possession of the old garage; His Honor The Mayor has deeded it to me; a personal gift, not the city’s property, and I own it. The knights drive their horse trailers across Manhattan. We arrive to meet the City Superintendent of Buildings in front, I show him my deed, and he laughs as he hands me the keys. He warns that I have just two weeks to make it habitable, or the city will smash it to rubble.

Opening the front door, the deep musty smell of rot attacks me. It is dismal; a water leak somewhere upstairs is causing the plaster walls to disintegrate. The concrete floor in the garage is soaked with oil, and that is the good stuff. The garage isn’t a gift; the Mayor is dumping a dump. Thank goodness Lady Stuart isn’t here to see this; she and Sir Amaryllis are heading out to Long Island to collect a rescue horse, and Wolf and Sara have taken our truck to collect Ishmael and his students. I’m needed at the garage for my meager mechanical skills.

Sir Gunther finds the leak and crimps the pipe with a clamp. The other knights use their mucking shovels to clean everything loose, dumping it into horse trailers. Many of the knights worked in the construction industry before taking up their present occupation, and they dedicate themselves to the job. Good boys.

I examine all the fixtures making a list of every doorknob, towel rack, and stove. Replacing the water heater is needed. Unfortunately, there is nothing salvageable except the Art Deco chandeliers.

Sir Michael rigs a temporary repair to the lighting panel, and we have electrical power. I place the outdated wiring on my list.

The students arrive and express their total disapproval of the stench of urine and rat feces permeating the air with fake gagging. Of course, they blame me, but I know this is far better than where they have been staying; this building has real doors that lock and barred windows downstairs.

It gets worse when Lady Stuart and Amaryllis arrive and unload a tall starved Belgian draft horse. His ribs are standing out, and his hooves are in poor condition. Seeing red, I reach over my shoulder for my sword, which I’m not wearing. I would love to kill the horse’s previous owner.

The children surround the gentle giant of a horse and start caressing it. They call him Hope, and she responds with licking and nuzzling.

Ishmael is also seething at Lady Stuart, “What the hell is this place of disease. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”

“I will personally guarantee this place will be better than new, a proper place to live. But, until then, I invite you and your students to my horse farm, where they will have some peace and cleaning,” replies Lady Stuart.

At eight o’clock in the morning, the last knight leaves with their horse trailers filled with rubble, and the building inspector arrives to examine the entire building.

At eleven o’clock, the inspector hands me a twenty-page list of building code violations. He laughs and leaves. Lady Stuart snatches the list from my hand and says, “We’ll do it in two weeks.”

I stare at her. “It can’t be done, not even in two months.”

She winks at me and says, “You should know me by now. There are lots of contractors just waiting for an opportunity. They will work for free and fast because it will gain them publicity and a tax write-off. I warn you there will be television cameras recording everything. I own the show, and it will help gain patrons.”

Mary Stuart and Amaryllis take Hope to her farm in upstate New York, and Ishmael with the children follow her by bus. I am left to direct the design of the stables.

~

In two weeks of nonstop action, the construction is complete by rotating shifts of craftsmen. The camera crew records every detail, and they are always trying to get a view of my face in whatever task they are filming. The workers accommodate them by calling me over to examine everything, even if I’m not involved in their project. The show wants its audience to gawk at my tattoo. I know enough to keep smiling and control my temper: the more people who watch, the more potential support. I have to admire Lady Stuart even more; she is crafty.

Upatu faces the same fate from the cameramen. He laughs at their stupidity, points to my chin, and says, “Soon, other girls will take on a beautiful mark as you have.”

I hope not.

~

The stables now sport a blue and white tiled floor with good drainage, six horse stalls, workbenches, a tack room, and storage for feed. Nudge, Peggy, and Brunhilda occupy three of the six stalls. The building inspector approves our work, and a Veterinarian approves the horse’s housing arrangements. But, unfortunately, we won’t bring Hope back until all the cameras leave.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

At the appointed hour, the Mayor arrives, and yes, he didn’t give me the place for free; he’s seeking his glory, but I don’t hold it against him; he’s doing the right thing by the children.

He makes a speech, after which the students arrive in new blue uniforms with stuffed backpacks. The sign is uncovered, revealing the school’s name, Wolf Street School, along with Wolf’s red and black wolf’s head ensign. Grrr, it’s not a rattlesnake ensign, and I am the one who owns the place, sort of. Wolf Street sounds better than Rattlesnake Alley any day.

The students swarm inside, fawning over every detail. Two large and two small classrooms on the second floor with a full kitchen. Two dorm rooms on the third floor as well as smaller rooms. Wolf demonstrates dressage on Nudge and has the giant horse walk on his hind legs; Wolfs’ a big showoff, and Nudge enables him. He’s milking it.

A weather-beaten woman taps me on the shoulder and asks in an Irish accent, “Might you be the one called Grace Watch-you-call yourself?”

“Yes, I am, Ma’am. How may I help you?”

“I am Miss Henshaw, the cook. they told me you own this place.”

“Yes, Ma’am, well sort of. It’s my name on the deed, but ownership will soon transfer to a Board of Visitors. Lady Stuart is the president, and the Mayor is a member.”

The woman spits on the ground. “These children need a mother, not a president. I’ve met Mister Ishmael. He is a good soul, but he knows little about children. What will he do when one of those girls starts a monthly for the first time?”

I shudder; I had my first one in a crowded school hallway. Miss Henshaw, can you help these children; two weeks ago, they lived on the street as I once did?”

“Well, you came out all right despite that tattoo on your face. I will if you get me one of these shields like you fancy knights have on the wall in the main hallway.”

“Lady Henshaw, I can’t make you a knight, but we have enough Ladies present to present you with your own buckler.”

“What is a buckler?”

“It is a small woman’s shield; perhaps yours will have crossed spoons or a spoon and cleaver.”

“Hah, I think crossed spoon and fork; don’t want to scare the little tikes, they will be working in the kitchen soon enough.”

“And, the boys?”

“Especially the boys.”

I lean in and give her a big hug.

The press leaves, and Hope arrives; he is recovering and has gained at least a hundred pounds. The Vet gives his conditional blessing and hands us a supply of medicine and vitamins. Students are assigned to their bunkbeds while Wolf and Upatu sleep in the room with Ishmael; Sara, Losau, and I sleep with Miss Henshaw.

~

In the morning, we go outside to run and make a gruesome discovery; a wounded dog lays on the sidewalk. Wolf and I comfort the dog, which has an oozing eye. I hiss, “Spike.” He is challenging us. Sara steps out, ready to do her morning exercise, and seeing the wounded animal, nods to us. She returns inside to keep the students away and to call the police. Wolf and I take Shadow and Lady Gray on a long walk, following the scent of whoever wounded the dog.

We turn a corner, a man in a blue cape pepper sprays the wolves while more men strike at us with bats. The second blow explodes through my head.

I wake up in a small room, I’m not tied up, but I’m gagged and can’t move, drugged; Wolf is tied up and gagged. A hooded man sits on a chair in front of Wolf; Shadow and Lady Gray are drugged. I can see their breathing, and their eyes look okay. I can’t see the man’s face under the hood; he must have a cloth over it.

He hisses, “Good, you’re awake. If you want to know who I am, you’ll find out soon enough. But first, leave this city; leave that school to me. I have a bone to pick with Ishmael. Leave my disciples alone, and remember this; my face is the last thing you will ever see.” The robed figure sweeps out of the room, and I hear the door locked.

I regain muscle control and untie Wolf, who pulls his gag, tossing it into the corner. The door is locked, and Wolf is about to break it open when I remind him it opens into the room. The lock is backward; we’ve been locked in instead of locking others out. We search for something to unlock it. I check under some rags and Wolf’s gag to find a blind kitten, its shut eyes oozing clear jell. I stuff the kitten into my jacket along with the gag, a pair of leather gloves.

Wolf finds an ink pen, pulls out the pink tube and trips the lock. He pulls the door open as I push him out of the way of the nail-studded board that swings in at eye level. I have to admire Spike; the reversed lock was just a distraction from his real trap. He hates Wolf beyond imagination.

We walk back to the school, the sleeping wolves over our shoulders. Sara is waiting and is hopping mad. The precinct captain is there with two women detectives. He informs us that this is a police matter, not something for amateurs. The two detectives are to keep watch over us.

Miss Henshaw has treated the one-eyed dog, I think a pit bull and called a vet. The students are comforting the animal; maybe it’s not a good idea. The cook takes the kitten, washes it, and the Vet sews its empty eye sockets shut. The students take turns holding it, and Carolyn names him, Touch. In the evening, after teaching self-defense, I head down to the stables and send the student watching Hope up to fetch Sara and Wolf.

Sara hisses her anger at us for being so stupid in getting caught. Wolf snarls back that knights are supposed to look for trouble. She snarls even quieter that we were the ones in danger. Finally, she looks at me and snarks, “And you, Miss Lady Knight Sir Grace Wachinga, confidant of his Lord Majesty, the Honorable High Mayor of the Great City of New York; what do you have to say?

I slam the leather gloves on the workbench and say out loud, “I know who Spike is.”

We stare at the brown leather riding gloves, tooled with the letters KRS, short for Knight Riding School. “Wayne,” whispers Wolf. “He framed me with these very gloves, and now he intends to kill me.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “I believe Wayne will blind you; he’s been practicing it all along.”

“Same thing, blindness is the living death for a knight.”