Revised 12/30/2019...

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The Customer Is (Not) Always Right

Chapter 6: Surrounded by Idiots

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

I open my aching eyes, feeling disoriented. I thought I was lying in my bed, but instead I'm sprawled on the cold, hard ground, gazing up into blackness. I guess I fell asleep while I was working in my shed.

I groan and roll onto my side, rubbing my tired eyes. I don't even know what time I conked out. It couldn't have been more than an hour ago. I force myself to sit up and look around at my dim surroundings. My lantern burned out, but now a thin shaft of sunlight is filtering through the crack between the double doors.

I throw them open and let the light in, squinting my eyes against the brightness. Turning away from the harsh light, I take a moment to admire my handiwork: the prototype shield I slaved away at all night. I settled on a kite design, triangular and streamline in shape. The shield's smooth surface glitters like purple ice in the morning light, like the Goddess plume infused within it. I spent all night trying to make the perfect compound. Too much iron and the shield won't heal itself fast enough; too much crystal and it will break easily. The end result is lighter and more maneuverable than a typical metal shield, but also very fragile in comparison. I can only hope the self-repair ability will make up for that.

And now for the part I've been dreading.

I grab a hammer and a large nail from my tool chest and anchor the nail at the center of my shield. If I slip up I could ruin everything, but I have put the shield to the test and see if it does what it's supposed to do. I concentrate very hard on the tip of the nail, my hands shaky from lack of sleep, my eyes sore with fatigue.

In one quick, calculated motion, I give the nail firm tap. I wince when cracks spiderweb across the shield's surface, then sigh in relief when it doesn't shatter to pieces. I set the broken shield down carefully. I'll check on it before I leave for work. For now, food. In a lethargic haze, I exit the shed, walk to the front of my house, and stumble through the front door, feeling lightheaded.

"Ruuupin, what are you up to?" a sing-song voice pierces my foggy mind. I turn and give my mother a wry, tired glance. She's standing by the kitchen table with one hand on her hip, fanning herself gently with the other. Her blonde hair is pulled back from her round, pinkish face per the usual, and she's wearing a blue dress. It's actually quite flattering on her. The darker color makes her fat rolls less noticeable.

"Not trying to avoid me, were you? Hoo hoo hoo," she chuckles softly. Her tone is playful, but there's a hint of accusation.

"Of course not," I laugh, faking a smile. "Why would you ever think that?"

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. "Oh, just a hunch."

Great. She's annoyed about something and I have no idea what it is. Avoiding her prying gaze, I go over to the kitchen to fix myself some oatmeal. Pumpkin oatmeal.

There's always this silent, unaddressed tension between my mother and I. Our relationship is so riddled with superficialities and personality clashes. She hoards things. I throw things away. She's a social butterfly. I want nothing to do with people outside of their wallets. And I know she's had it out for me ever since I quit the Knight Academy. We never talk about it any more, but I can sense it; she's never been able to completely let go of her grudge over me quitting her dream. Understandable, I suppose. After all, she did pay my way. But I just couldn't go on.

I take my oatmeal over to the table and start stabbing at it with a spoon to soften it up, still struggling to keep my eyelids from drooping shut. My mother pours herself a steaming cup of tea and takes a seat across from me, her antique chair creaking underneath her weight. We dine in silence, she observing me with her squinty eyes as I eat. Probably thinking about how disappointed she is in what I amounted to. Nothing is ever good enough for her.

"You know Rupin, I'm starting to think you just come here for food," she says, breaking the silence. "Like a stray remlit."

I arch an eyebrow. "Your point?"

"Oh, just an observation." She takes a delicate sip from her teacup, pinkie finger extended and all. "So, what kind of schemes are you cooking up in that shed of yours, Hmm?" She sounds more like she's nosing for a juicy bit of gossip rather than showing a genuine interest in my activities. "I know you're scheming again. Up to no good!"

I avert my gaze down to my bowl, shoveling another bland spoonful of oatmeal into my mouth. I chew slowly and swallow. "I'm making a new shield."

She gives me a quizzical look. "Well?"

I mirror her expression.

"Details?"

"It's a shield that can heal itself."

"Really now? Mmm..." She puts her teacup down and rests her chin on her hand, pursing her lips. "Somehow I don't think that's going to work."

I draw an exasperated breath, letting my arms flop onto the table. "Must you belittle everything I do?"

"I'm not belittling you. I'm just saying I don't think it's going to work out."

"Why, because nothing ever works out?"

She responds with an affirmative, yet noncommittal "Hmm."

Groaning, I prop an elbow on the table go back to picking at my food, choosing not to continue this conversation. Why does she always have to be like this? She'll say things that make me feel like a horrible, bratty little child. Then she'll go and take subtle jabs at me. For some stupid reason, it still gets to me. I just want to move out of here already, but I have no other place to go. I hate relying on her like this.

"You know, some people came looking for you last night," she mentions offhandedly.

Well, this is news to me. "No. I didn't know," I say, unable to prevent my irritation from seeping into my voice. "And just when were you planning on telling me this?"

"Hmm...now?"

I stare at her expectantly. She just stares back.

"Well, what did they want?" I press. "Did they want to sell treasure?"

"No. I don't think they had anything to sell," she says, but she doesn't sound positive. "I presumed you didn't want to be bothered, so I told them I didn't know where you were."

I stare at her blankly as she lifts her cup to her lips takes a long sip of tea. When she's done, she picks up her handkerchief and dabs at her two chins as daintily as one of her girth possibly can.

"Something wrong, dear?"

A snort of sardonic laughter escapes me. "Haha, nope! Everything's great. Just peachy." I flash her a very forced grin. "Thanks a lot!"

"You're welcome."

She goes for another sip of tea. I get up and leave the table, deciding I've had enough of her for one day.

I go back out to the shed to see how my shield is doing. It must have been at least ten or fifteen minutes since I broke it. To my dismay, it's still cracked. I pick it up and hold it up to my face, examining the damage closely. The cracks look thinner, but they are far from closing up completely. No good. The way these knights abuse my shields, this just won't work. This thing needs to repair itself in a matter of seconds. If I don't find some way to speed up the process, all my efforts will be for naught.

I put down the shield and wrack my brains for a solution, but no ideas immediately come to mind. My brain is just so shot from that all-nighter.

And then I remember something. Blue feather oil. Gondo always greases up my shields with the stuff when he upgrades them. Surely, I could do the same. If I had any blue feathers. I make a frustrated sound in the back of my throat. Later. I'll figure it out later. Right now, I have to get going or I'll be late for work. I'll ask Gondo if he has any feathers when I get to the Bazaar.

I lock up the shed and head out. As I'm approaching the bridge, I spot a cream-colored ball of fuzz with large, bat-like ears up ahead. A remlit. It's snoozing on the rail of the bridge, its ringed tail curled around its compact body. As I pass by, the cat lifts its head and looks at me with its shiny button eyes, uttering a soft 'mew'. I pause to glare at it.

"I'm on to you."

It just blinks at me innocently and lays its head down to go back to sleep. I hate remlits.

When I near the Bazaar, a new signpost by the main entrance catches my eye. I approach it warily. Somehow, I already know I'm not going to like what I'm about to see. Once I'm close enough, I read the text etched onto the wood.

The Bazaar closes at sundown and reopens at dawn.

For urgent dealings after hours, please visit the merchant with whom you have business at home.
-Bazaar Peddler Association

Wh...what is this? I didn't agree to this! 'Association'?! I would sooner throw myself into the cloud barrier before I'd willingly join an association with these people. But that's beside the point. No one visits me at my house at night unless they want to sell me treasure! My house is my sanctuary, or as close to one as I'm going to get. For once I get to be the difficult customer. People have to impress me or I keep my money and send them packing. My shop and my home are two different worlds that must be kept apart. If this world—the Bazaar world—comes into contact with that one, everything will explode. The worlds can't collide!

I heave a disgruntled sigh. As if I need another bothersome thing weighing down on my conscience. I can't deal with this right now. I have to go set up. I leave the noticeboard behind, resolving to forget about the thing for now, and enter into the vibrant, overly-stimulating atmosphere of the Bazaar. Wouldn't you know it, the Village Idiot got someone to hack off that ugly ponytail of his. Good for him.

I look past the restaurant and see my fellow first-year Knight Academy dropout already hard at work inside the Scrap Shop. Gondo is the best kind of co-worker. The kind who minds his own business. He's always plugging away at something off in his own little world over here, too engrossed in his mechanical doodads to bother anybody else. At the same time, there's one tiny thing I can't seem to overlook. The fact that Gondo is nothing but a big mooch, riding on what little success I've managed to procure. For the most part, he just upgrades and repairs the gear I sell. His business never would have made it if I hadn't paved the way for him first.

Gondo, preoccupied with his repair work, doesn't notice me approaching until I'm standing right in front of him. "Hey little buddy!" he exclaims, wiping some saw dust off of his mask. "Long time no see!"

"Hello, Gondo!" Not wanting to waste any more time, I cut straight to the chase. "You wouldn't happen to have any blue feathers, would you?" I ask. "If you're willing to trade me a few, I'll pay you in rupees or other treasure. Whichever you would prefer."

"Blue feathers? Nah, I don't have any of those. I used them all up trying to get Scrapper back in working condition. No luck, as you can see..." He frowns, motioning to the rusty old robot disassembled on his back table. "You could always try asking the fortuneteller over there," he suggests with a shrug. "I know he's kind of goofy looking, but when it comes to finding things, he's usually right on the money!"

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I don't care what the guy's track record is, I'm still convinced he's a sham," I say in a hushed voice, very aware that the fortuneteller in question is directly across the room. Ogling us. "Maybe if I'm ever floundering in debt and my life depends on it."

A deep laugh bursts from Gondo. "Little buddy, you crack me up sometimes!"

He thinks I'm joking. I'm not.

I say a quick goodbye to Gondo and head to the Gear Shop to make opening preparations, stewing over my next course of action all the while. I suppose I could go hunting around for blue feathers, but they're not exactly easy to come by. There aren't many birds that have just the right pigmentation, and they are far more likely to shed their feathers over open air than over land. Ugh, why must my goals be so elusive?

Before long, my favorite couple arrives with the screeching devil's child. It's strange, but I think I'm actually starting to get used to the tantrums. Not that it makes them any less aggravating.

"I was looking for you," says a low, gravelly voice. I turn toward it and see a short old man limping up to my counter.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said I was lookin' for you last night!" he croaks impatiently. "I wanted to buy new wallet but you weren't at home!"

Buy a wallet from me? At home? Just then, I put two and two together. The new sign outside the Bazaar. The mysterious visitors at my home last night. The old man stares at me stone-faced, silently demanding an explanation.

"Um...I'm sorry you couldn't reach me, sir, but I don't actually sell anything after closing time."

"What?" he exclaims. "But your sign out there says you do! Urgent dealings, visit at home."

I exhale, putting my hands up defensively. "Look, I don't know who posted that notice, but it's a mistake. My shop doesn't re-open for business at my house."

"Is that so?" he says, squinting at me. "Well then, you'd better investigate and get things straightened out!"

My jaw tightens in annoyance. "I assure you, I'm working on it. In the mean time, you're welcome to buy a new wallet now if you like."

He sighs in exasperation, shaking his head at the floor. "That's alright. I bought one from Beedle earlier this morning."

Oh, of course he did. Probably for three times the price, too. Oh well. His loss.

"Are you sure you don't sell anything at night?" the old man asks, scratching at his thinning hair. "Because I could have sworn you ran a nighttime business or something."

What does he mean, 'am I sure?' I think I'd know how I run my own life! "Yes, I do, but I don't sell anything at night," I clarify. "All of my wares and materials and the like remain here at the Bazaar. Night is when I do my buying, see. I buy treasure people find."

"Ah," he mumbles after a moment. It all seems to finally be clicking together for him.

"Yes. I'm sorry for the confusion," I apologize. Even though it's not my fault.

"Uh huh," he nods. He doesn't seem totally in there. Makes me wonder if he's hard of hearing. "Well, I guess I'll have to take advantage of this night business of yours sometime, then," he says, drawing out the word 'night.' Yeesh. When he says it that way, he makes it sound so shady. "I don't make as much money as I used to, bein' retired and all, but it's nice to sit at the cafe all day long and chat with the locals. I've heard some pretty tall tales in my time!"

I give him a polite nod, not feeling particularly interested in these 'tall tales' of his. He looks at me funny, scrutinizing me.

"You don't know who I am, do you?"

"Um, no?" I say, furrowing my brow. "I don't believe we've met. Should I know you?"

"Really?! You don't remember me?"

I study his features. Tiny eyes, long face, deep wrinkles running from his nose to the corners of his thin lips. I suppose he looks vaguely familiar, but I can't recall when or where I last saw him. "No, sir," I admit. "Hundreds of faces pass through here each day, so I don't always remember everybody." Unless it's an attractive woman. Or a person with some kind of deformity.

The old man gapes at me like I have two heads. "But we ate breakfast together the other day!"

"Oh!" That guy. I guess it is him. I didn't recognize him without the doo rag. "Now I remember you."

"What's my name?" he asks defensively, crossing his arms.

I cringe. If I didn't remember his face, there is no way I am going to remember his name. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm drawing a blank. Can you help me out?"

He stares at me with a deadpan look on his face for an uncomfortably long moment. Awkward.

"It's Croo," he says flatly. "I'm going to ask you again next time, so you'd better remember it."

"...Ah huh." I'm just hoping there won't be a next time.

Wait a minute. This guy, Croo...he's telling me he spent the whole entire day sitting at the bar. In the same building as me. And yet he waited until I went home to come and buy something? ...

What is going on?!

"Anyhow," Croo says, leaning forward to rest an arm on the counter, "I heard a juicy piece of gossip from the rescue knights this morning."

Oh, wonderful. Just what I need, more juicy gossip. Why me? Doesn't this guy have any old man friends he can talk to? Can't he see I'm busy? Honestly, I must have missed at least half a dozen prospective customers while he was wasting my time. I nod to appease him as he rambles on, but tune him out, glancing over his head at the doorway every so often. Speaking of deformities...here come dumb and dumber.

I haven't yet decided which one is dumber. The human cotton swab or the little troll? I keep one eye on the entrance, half-expecting that ginger oaf they sometimes tag along with to come bounding in after them, but he doesn't show. Guess it's just these two bozos today. The taller of the two—not even kidding—resembles a used cue tip, with his long, skinny neck and his choppy yellow bangs obscuring his eyes. The shorter one is a portly fellow with resting bat face syndrome and a pointed nose that's usually wrinkled up in disdain. He kind of reminds me of the freaky little lawn gnome my mother used to keep by our front door. Before I chucked it off the edge of Skyloft.

These two's nuisance has practically become routine. They get too hot or too cold, depending on what time of year it is. They come in here and loiter around in the open space between my shop and the door. They block the entrance. They get in my paying customers' way. Sometimes the tall one crawls around on the filthy floor looking for bugs. Sometimes the short one buckles down and gives his ginger friend a shoulder rub, which makes me think he might be...a masseuse.

I look around again, realizing I am alone in my shop again. Where did Croo Rag go? I guess he realized I wasn't listening to him anymore and slunk off to go bother somebody else. Oh well, not my problem. I'm working for crying out loud! He's not supposed to be talking to me unless he's shopping. But now just my luck, I've got a new batch of idiots to deal with. The shorter one is just standing around whining about losing the Wing Ceremony to his friend, who only appears to be half-listening. He is currently on his hands and knees, much more interested in the dead bugs on the floor than whatever his friend has to say. It's actually kind of insulting. If he were more astute, he might realize the roaches are making their nests on Bertie's side of the market, not mine!

I groan inwardly as an unsuspecting woman walks through the entranceway and nearly trips over him. As if there isn't already enough nonsense going on around here to deter customers from visiting my shop. Why doesn't this so-called "Bazaar Peddler's Association" implement something useful for once? Like an anti-loitering policy? Maybe I should consider making another sign. As I'm contemplating whether to make it now or later, Shortie wanders over and plops his rear end down on my counter. Now that is crossing the line.

"Excuse me," I address him in the politest tone I can muster. He ignores me and keeps on yammering to his friend. I guess he didn't hear me. "Excuse me!" I say a little louder, tapping him on the shoulder. He turns around and gives me a grumpy look that just screams, what do you want? His normal look.

I intercept his scowl with a toothy smile. "Can I help you?"

"Nah. I'm good," he grunts, turning back around. My happy face instantly dissipates. Can't this kid take a hint? What part of 'can I help you' doesn't he understand? Obviously, that was a gentle way of saying, 'get your butt off my counter, you little troll!' but I guess that was lost on him. Being the stubborn jerk that I am, I hover close behind him and invade his personal space, trying to awkward him off the counter. I eye him contemptuously, boring two holes into the back of his scruffy blue head, but he seems immune to my presence.

Suddenly, he turns to face me again. I instantly perk up.

"Actually, can I borrow a quill?"

For a moment, I just return his dull stare. Then I begrudgingly go back into the storeroom and get one for him. He mutters a halfhearted "thanks" and takes a crumpled-up piece of paper out of his pocket. He smooths it out on the counter, twisting his upper body sideways into a very uncomfortable looking position to write on it. Shortly, an awful moan emanates from his mouth.

"Can I get a clipboard too?"

What am I, his personal servant? I'm a salesman, not some butler stationed here to attend to the whims of every lowlife who wanders in and mistakes my counter for a park bench. Despite my irritation, I fetch it for him, since he is technically my customer. Even though he's just loitering. He snatches the clipboard out of my hand and begins scrawling some illegible guay scratch on his paper, crossing and blotting out words here and there as he goes.

"Here, Strich!" he barks when he's done, slapping the piece of paper face down on the counter. "Tell me what you think. Uh, whenever you're done down there." He swings his stubby legs over the counter and hops down on the inside of my shop. Then to my complete and utter surprise, he starts browsing my wares. Am I dreaming? Is he actually thinking of buying something?

After a little while, he pauses by the bombs. "Maybe we should buy Groose a present," he says, picking one up and fidgeting around with it. "He's been really down in the dumps lately."

"Ehh." The taller of the two climbs up off the floor, dusting off his knees. "I think the last thing Groose needs right now is more bombs."

I shoot him a withering look. Gee, thanks kid. Thanks a lot. Thanks for the input I really appreciate it. A dark object flickers in the corner of my vision. I turn my attention back to Shortie to see him tossing the bomb up in the air absentmindedly. With each successive toss, I can feel my patience slipping.

"Ahaha...um, friend?" I snatch the bomb out of the air and set it firmly back on the counter. "Not a volleyball."

He gives me another blank stare. With a little "humph," he turns on his heal and struts over to the iron shield on display. He peers at his reflection on the glossy metallic surface and starts fixing his hair. Like that's doing anything for him.

"Do you think Karane likes me?" he wonders aloud. For a moment I'm confused, then I realize he's speaking to his friend.

"Yes, I already told you. I think you should go for it," Cue Tip answers from the other end of the store. He picks up the piece of paper Shortie left on the counter. "Cawlin...you've been working on this letter for a week and you've only written four sentences?"

"Y-yeah!" Shortie bursts out, whipping around. "So?"

Cue Tip rubs the back of his head, squinting at the letter. "I dunno, it just seems a little..." he trails off and makes a sour face.

"Fine, don't read it then!" Shortie dashes over and rips the letter out of his hands, going red in the cheeks. "Humph!"

"If you say so," Cue Tip sniffles, wiping at his blobbish nose. "I'm going to go check if they have any new potions." He takes a step toward the Potion Shop, but then pauses and whispers creepily over his shoulder, "I'll 'bee' seeing you."

He slinks across the walkway, leaving Shortie to puzzle over his letter by his lonesome. He stands in the middle of my store with his face buried in his piece of paper, grumbling inaudibly into his double chin.

"Hey salesman, whaddya think?!" he snaps suddenly.

I give him my full attention. He clears his throat and begins reading the letter aloud.

"Greetings. My love for you is wider than the horizon and deeper than the clouds, for you are more radiant than the morning sun, and more breathtaking to behold than a midnight moon...wanna go out with me? From your brave knight, Cawlin."

He looks to me for my opinion. Oh, that was rich. My mouth crinkles as a fit of laughter rises in my throat and threatens to break free. I clap a hand over my mouth and pretend to cough, suppressing it, but it's too late. I can tell from the look on his face that he's already onto me.

"You want to know what I think?" I splutter. "—What's your name again?

"Cawlin."

"You know what I think, Cawlin?" I grin, placing a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to get him to loosen up. It's not working. "I think you're asking the wrong man. I'm afraid I am simply not qualified to deal with this type of problem. You see, I'm horribly inept with women." I give a light laugh. "Horrible! You're looking for love advice in all the wrong places, my friend!"

He looks very unamused.

"Why...don't I refer you to my dear friend, Sparrot?" I suggest. At that very moment, the fortuneteller's eyes flick to me. A chill runs up my spine. Cautiously, I lean a little closer to Cawlin, lowering my voice to a quiet hiss. "Do you see the good sir over there with the crystal ball?"

"Huh?!" Cawlin squints and looks around, scrunching up his nose.

Jeez, how hard is it going to be get rid of this kid? "The gentleman with the crystal ball! Top knot, bulging eyes, blinding yellow robes. Can't miss him."

"Oh," his gaze settles on the very obvious satiny purple tent in the middle of the marketplace. "Yeah."

"Well, that's him!" I say, giving Cawlin a gentle nudge toward the exit of my shop. "Why don't you go tell him about your dilemma? I'm sure he'll be able to point you in the right direction!"

He hesitates, looking a little doubtful, but then he slowly plods off toward Sparrot's tent. Finally! Good riddance. The little runt is out of my hair and into someone else's.

When he reaches the tent, Sparrot's gigantic blue eyes light up with pure elation.

"Yesssss!" he gasps, positively wriggling with excitement. "The young man is here! Welcome! I have been waiting for you!"

I cross my arms and lean back, nodding to myself in approval. I am such a good person. This is probably the first customer this man has had in weeks. Who else would do something like this? Nobody. I allow myself a triumphant smile. Nobody thinks about people like I do.

"You've got that smirk on your face, yessss…the one that says you want me to see what the future will bring!" Sparrot says in a high, quavering voice as he begins slowly wiggling his fingers over his crystal ball. "I can foresee what will befall you, for I am a fortuneteller. Trust my piercing eyes. Listen to my pure and innocent voice. I will do you no harm. Come. Gaze deeply into my eyes and come closer."

Ugh. It's like he's trying to seduce his customers. It's disturbing.

Meanwhile, the Potion Shop is busy. Cue Tip is sniffing each of Manhands's cauldrons, and now that chubby kid who bought the stamina potion yesterday has just come back. He heads straight on over to Bertie's dirty old cauldron. Bertie is looking quite pale and sickly today as he mixes a concoction that resembles remlit vomit, enveloped in a cloud of greenish steam. His eyes pan over his customer.

"Oh," he breathes out. A delayed reaction. He stops stirring and leans heavily against his giant wooden spoon, using it as a crutch. "You want me to upgrade that potion for you? Did you bring all your ingredients?"

The boy nods and hands over his stamina potion. Bertie unscrews the bottle and pours it into his cauldron. The green color quickly permeates the rest of Bertie's mixture, causing the liquid to hiss and spit and churn in a violent way that makes it look alive. Like there's some kind of creature thrashing around just under the surface. That kid had better adopt Beedle's workout regimen if he doesn't want to wake up with feminine curves tomorrow morning.

After letting the potion simmer for a few minutes, Bertie asks the customer for the ingredients and starts adding them to the pot, dropping them in one by one. A grasshopper. A dragonfly. Two gigantic, blue beetles. And that is why Bertie and I will never, ever, be friends.

"Fledge?" Cue Tip takes one look at the insect soup Bertie is making for the fat kid and freezes on the spot, his eyes widening in terror. "Wh-what are you doing with those specimens? Are those the ones I traded to you?! I thought you were going to preserve them!"

Fledge and Bertie abruptly turn their heads toward him, alarmed. "Eh, well, these are the ingredients we use to upgrade our potions...?" Bertie responds softly, twiddling his thumbs. It sounds more like a question than an answer.

"No..." Cue Tip starts hyperventilating. "No. No no NO! NOT THESE! Not THESE bugs! THESE ARE NOT POTION BUGS!" Now in full-blown panic attack mode, he zips over to Bertie and plunges his hands into the man's cauldron. "THEY'RE MY BUGS AND I'M TAKING THEM BACK!"

Bertie is stunned. The chubby kid—Fledge—slowly backs away and retreats to my shop, pretending like he's suddenly very interested in what I have to sell. A part of me wants to roll my eyes at the conundrum before me and go about my business, but I can't bring myself to look away. This is the first time in a long time I've witnessed a customer flip out on someone other than me and I must admit it's entertaining.

Suddenly, a deranged war cry rips across the Bazaar. Manhands springs to action and charges at the angry customer, brandishing her stirring spoon like a paddle and chasing him away from Bertie. Cue Tip opens his mouth wide into a silent scream, turns tail, and shoots out the exit, leaving a trail of gunk in his wake. I would do the same if I saw that coming at me.

"Dear Gods," Manhands exhales. "Ya gotta have some more backbone, Bertie!" She points her spoon at her husband. "Don't let these pipsqueaks intimidate you!"

Bertie's lips part, but no sound comes out. He looks shell shocked. The baby is screaming and kicking again, but nobody seems to notice. Or care.

"Aw, Bertie," she chuckles, shaking her head at him. "Just try to be a little more assertive, mmkay?" She leans over and plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Blech. I tear my gaze away, my insides squirming with revulsion. Must they do that in the middle of public?! Suppressing my disgust, I flit over to my customer and busy myself by talking to him, in an effort to forget what I just witnessed.

"Hello, friend! Finding everything all right?"

He quickly puts down the seed satchel he wasn't actually looking at. "Yeah, I'm good," he replies, seeming a bit uneasy at my approach. He casts an anxious glance toward the Potion Shop.

"My friend, you must forgive me for prying, but what on earth just happened over there?" I can't help but ask.

"Oh," he says, turning to face me. "Strich is just really picky about bugs, I guess." He gives a light shrug. "He's normally a pretty easygoing guy, but everyone at the academy has just been high-strung ever since...yesterday," he trails off, averting his eyes. It's so annoying when people drop little hints like this and then neglect to tell the whole story. Hmph. Well, I'm feeling ornery today, so this kid isn't going to get away with it.

"Yesterday?" I press him.

"Yeah..."

I hold my inquisitive gaze. He caves.

"Um...we were told to keep this on the lowdown so we don't freak anybody out, but I guess the news has been going around anyway, so..."

"Mmm hmm," I nod, offering him an encouraging smile. Just get to the point already!

"Just don't freak out, okay?"

"I'm not going to freak out!"

"Okay," he gulps, fidgeting uncomfortably. "Long story short, the headmaster's daughter Zelda went missing after the Wing Ceremony."

Zelda? Oh, of course. Zelda. Anyone who's ever attended the Knight Academy knows who she is. So she's gone missing. Interesting. Very interesting. I've had my eye on something of that girl's for a long time. Her loftwing. That bird's feathers are a very distinctive shade of deep blue.

"I don't know all the details," he goes on, "but it sounds like she just went out flying and her bird came back without her."

"Really now?" I frown, trying to appear sympathetic. "That's an awful shame."

"Yeah," he agrees sadly.

"So the girl's whereabouts are still unknown. And her poor loftwing is just flying around the sky by itself. Riderless."

"Pretty much."

Yes. Everything is falling into place. "Oh..." I sigh in regret. "Well, I sure hope they find her soon."

"Me too." He glances at the Potion Shop again. "Well, it looks like my drink's almost ready. See you..." He heads back across the aisle. My heartbeat quickens at the prospect of my wonderful luck, and suddenly, I feel an uncharacteristic twinge of gratitude toward the fat kid.

"Ah, hey," I call after him in a quiet voice. He turns halfway around and meets my gaze. "Don't drink that potion too fast."

"Huh?" he tilts his head to the side, confused. "Why?"

I let my smirk crease my lips for just a moment. "Just take my word for it."