Cameron To Candy

He had a good lather going when the shriek shot down the hall. His hand jumped, the razor nipped his cheek, and a sting bloomed.

“Marcus! Marcus!”

He snatched a towel, pressed the cut, and jogged out with shaving cream still frosting one ear. Candy stood on a chair, toes clenched on the edge, robe hitched, finger aimed like a crossbow at the floor.

“What?!” he shouted back.

“Kill it!”

“Huh?”

“It’s a Seamcada, kill it!"

On the flagstone, a hand-sized, dirt-brown bug hunched and shivered. Paper wings twitched, veiny but flightless. Its shell still looked damp where it had pushed up early from the soil. The thaw had come early this year, the kind that coaxes the burrows to stir. Seamcada weren’t due to emerge for another month in the four-year cycle, but a few always came up wrong. It let out a thin, tinny buzz, like a toy whistle being bitten by a toddler.

Marcus glanced from Candy to the bug and back, a laugh trying to escape. “Seriously, you can’t kill a bug now?”

“Shut up! It’s not funny. Just, just kill it!”

He touched the nick, his fingers coming away pink. “I thought you hated it when I treated you like a woman if the law isn’t forcing us. Kill your own damn bug.”

“If I’m stuck doing the crappy woman things like curtseying to guards,” she shot back, “you can do the crappy man things like killing bugs.”

That gave him pause. He nodded once, shrugging his shoulders. “Fine.”He took the small hearth spear from the rack. It wasn’t bravado, just for distance. Distance kept bug guts off slippers. The Seamcada quivered, legs ticking. Candy swallowed.

She thought about it. She’d always hated these, even as Cameron. She powered through killing them and other crawlies like spiders or snakes because she'd had to. Paddlewick men weren't allowed to squirm in the face of pests. But as Candy, she no longer had to. And yes, she was more scared like this, which was concerning. Maybe it was the smaller body. Maybe the spell was changing her again somehow; a troubling thought, or maybe it was just an excuse. Perhaps she was letting herself be honest about how much they bothered her now that social expectations weren’t shackling her to the stoic man role. Well, whatever the reason, it didn't matter in this moment. He could do it.

Marcus lined up the point and drove it quickly. The bug gave a short, off-key shriek and went still. He slid it into a dustpan and set the pan outside on the stoop.

“Good,” he said. “Now I have lunch planned.”

Candy put a hand over her mouth and turned a shade paler. “Say that again and I will report you to the Ministry for Crimes Against Taste.”

“Plenty of folk grill them.”

“Plenty of folk need supervision.”

He wiped the spear tip and put it back in its place. “You’re shaking.”

“I know.” She breathed deep, steadier. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He felt the nick again. Still bleeding, just slightly. Tomorrow was Lord Trevain’s dinner, and the first time meeting the man’s wife, assuming she actually got to speak. Trevain had joked last week that he was training his dog and his wife, and the dog was learning faster. Marcus had laughed politely, then gone home to bathe off the stink of it.

Candy noticed the cut. “You’re worried about that.”

“I am. It’s just, well, he’ll notice, or pretend not to and file it away.”

“Then tell the truth,” she said. “You cut yourself when you went running because your wife screamed about a bug. He’s a sexist, he’ll think it’s funny. And his wife will probably find it relatable.”

“Huh… Okay. Fine.” He gave her shoulder a quick pat, the kind friends trade. “On another note, tea?”

“Tea.”

“Do we have immuni-tea?” he asked. “It might help the cut heal faster.”

“Sorry, no, I think we just have Earl of Obedience. Oh, and Sereni-tea, if you'd rather. I’ll stock back up next time I’m at the market.”

Back at the basin, he dabbed cream on the nick and hissed. Candy lingered in the doorway as the kettle began to murmur.

“If he starts on the dog and wife bit, I will be thinking very loud thoughts,” she said, heading back into the kitchen.

He checked the mirror. The cut looked worse than it actually was. With luck, it would be gone by morning. If not, he would tell the small, true story and let Trevain laugh, then get to the business that mattered.

From the kitchen came the clink of cups, the soft rattle of the tin of leaves.

“Marcus,” she called, lighter now, “if you ever try to feed me one of those, I’m moving to Bellefemme.”

“They have bigger hats,” he said, heading for the kettle, “and the hats attract bigger bugs.”

She made a face so sour he could hear it, and the kettle whistled.

Option 1

Option 2