It had knocked over the kitchen trash can and eaten most of the bloody butcher paper from last night’s pork roast. It was currently investigating an apple core and a used coffee filter. Mordecai thought maybe it hadn’t seen them. He snagged Erik by the shirt collar and yanked him backwards.

The animal looked up at them and wagged its tail. He froze. “Don’t,” he said, very softly. “Don’t run. They don’t understand we don’t want to hurt them. We scare them. Don’t stare at it. It’s like we walked in on Milo making cereal, except a dog doesn’t trust us when we apologize and say it’s okay.”

And Milo didn’t have sharp teeth or claws.

“Wagging,” Erik said.

The animal had bright silver plating over its left eye. It seemed to wink. The rough metal tag dangling from its leather collar did likewise, jingling faintly. A ragged line of gleaming steel trap-teeth was visible beneath a lip that had scarred into a permanent snarl. Its tail oscillated like a balky metronome. Mordecai swore he could hear it click.

“They wag when they’re excited,” he said. “It doesn’t mean happy. I want you to get behind me very slowly. Then we’re going to back out of here and go back to our room with the door closed. I might grab you if it looks like that thing might hurt us, try not to cry out. If it doesn’t think we’re going to hurt it, we’ll be okay. Come on. Carefully.”

Still clicking, the dog approached them on stiff legs wound with ropey scars. It scuffled across the tile.

Mordecai tightened his grip on Erik’s shoulder and prepared to run.

◈◈◈

Cousin Violet got Hyacinth a dog for her birthday. Not in a nice way. In the usual way — a broken thing that was about to die if Hyacinth didn’t drop everything and deal with it right now. She picked up a lot of things that way, and people. They usually took off by themselves again, but every once in a while she got to kinda-sorta keep one, in a loose arrangement based on mutual consent.

Milo, Calliope, Erik and Lucy had teamed up to make breakfast for the whole house, as a present. They all had vastly different levels of skill and responsibility, and irreconcilable concepts of what “make breakfast” meant. The result was bruised feelings, carnage and very little edible food. The band had broken up and gone back to their respective rooms to sulk midway through the first course, leaving Hyacinth alone with a plate of mangled pancakes and some apologies.

The boy who opened the back door while she was eating a sandwich and ignoring the mess was dirty, as usual, but the front of his shirt and trousers was covered in fresh red blood. She stood, “What happened? Are you all right?” already lifting her hand to check him for herself.

Soup shook his head. He put his hand up to ward her off and sagged against the doorway. “Dog. My dog. My dog…”

“Is it far?” she said.

He nodded.

“Okay. Two seconds.”

She took an iron frying pan from the kitchen and three steel cans from the basement.

This was standard operating procedure for a materialworker treating wounded soldiers in the field — patch, replace blood, then drag (or run, ideally) the patient back to safety before fever and shock trauma take them out of commission again. It was also basically how she’d picked up Erik and Mordecai during the siege, except she didn’t have the luxury of an advanced warning that time.

She was lacking a helmet and a stretcher this time, but at least nobody was shooting at her. “Big dog?” she asked him. If this was a heavy object, she was going to have to get Milo involved.

Soup leaned down and indicated just below knee height against his leg with a hand.

“I can carry that,” she said, “let’s go.”

They ran.

Waiting to cross the street at the corner of Violena and Sabot, she spared the breath to ask, “Do you know what’s broken?” She had been giving him medic lessons and free meals off and on for the past couple months. He could do a very blunt and basic version of a touch-know.

He looked stricken. “Everything.”

“Your dog?” she said, half a block later.

“I can’t right now,” he said.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said.

“I won’t leave,” he said.

◈◈◈

There was blood in the street, already blurred by wheel marks and footprints. Soup had disobeyed the common adage about not moving accident victims, not without reason. People didn’t call an ambulance for accidents like this; if he wasn’t careful, he’d come back to find someone had taken care of his dog with some acid and a shovel.

He’d carried her into the nearest alley and left her behind a dumpster, concealed with a sheet of newspaper. When he pulled it back, she was still there. There was a ragged piece of leather clipped around her throat with an inexpert application of metalwork.

The tag he’d made for her was similarly warped. He’d banged three letters into the tin with a nail, S-A-M, so the dogcatchers would leave her alone. He couldn’t put her on a leash or anything like that; he didn’t have a place to keep her and he couldn’t always find food for her. Besides, she was a free creature with her own agenda, like him.

Her short fur was red and matted, her right foreleg was bent in three places and her head was wrong, it was just wrong, with blood leaking out of the mouth. He was too scared to run her to Hyacinth’s house like that. What if a piece of her fell off and he couldn’t find it?

Her left eye, blood-red with a gaping black pupil, gazed blindly like a rubber fish in a chip shop window. The right one contracted and focused. She made a soft whine and her tail thumped the ground.

“Miss Hyacinth,” he said gravely, “I don’t want to be in one of those movies where I have to grow up because my dog dies. Please.”

“Those movies are fucking stupid,” Hyacinth said. She sat down in the dirty alley behind the dumpster and drew the broken dog into her lap. There was a yelp like the sound of squealing tires and Soup pressed both hands over his pale mouth.

“That’s all right, Sam,” Hyacinth said.

“Her name is Samantha, it wouldn’t fit on the tag,” Soup said.

She nodded. “Samantha is not a medic lesson. You don’t have to leave, but you need to turn around so I don’t burn your eyes out of your head. I’m sorry, Soup. I don’t have more goggles and I haven’t taught you enough to help me yet.”

He turned away and shut his eyes. “Please just fix her.” He heard the crackle of merging metal and smelled burning fur.

“I’m trying,” said Hyacinth.

◈◈◈

“Are you going to steal my dog?” said the boy in short pants — which were inevitably getting shorter on his narrow frame. There were two inches of knee showing between the hem and the stocking.

“No,” said the woman in the bloody dress who certainly seemed to be involved in a dog theft, or perhaps a ragged fur wrap. She was holding the dirty bundle against her shoulder like a baby. A single leg dangled and tick-tocked back and forth, keeping time with her rapid steps.

“Because of what happened?”

“No.”

“Because I don’t have a safe place to live and I can’t take care of a dog?”

She paused at the street-corner and looked back at him. “Do you want to come and live in my house?”

He recoiled. “No.” Hyacinth’s house wasn’t a safe place to live either. It was worse than trying to live on the street because people kept trying to burn the place down. He’d been in there the last time they tried! A bottle filled with gasoline; that guy really meant business.

“Okay,” she said, “but I’m still not going to steal your dog. I have to keep her at my house while she heals because you don’t have a safe place to live and you can’t take care of a dog.”

Soup gave a muted noise of pain and she paused again.

She shut her eyes and shook her head. “Dammit, you said it first. I don’t mean you can’t take care of a dog at all, you can’t take care of a sick dog with a body full of mergers. This isn’t a goddamn value judgment. I’m not going to steal your dog.”

“What if she decides she likes you better than me?”

“Then she’d better get over it, because I specifically can’t have a dog. I have coloured people living in my house.”

“How’re you going to have a dog in your house while she heals?”

“What’s a dog? This isn’t a dog,” Hyacinth muttered. She peeked in the front window and crept into her own house on tiptoe. Hopefully, the General wouldn’t suspect burglars in the middle of the day. “I don’t know. I’ll put her in the basement and work it out later. Keep your voice down and we won’t have to explain ourselves. Everyone is hiding so they don’t have to clean the kitchen.”

Soup sidled across the front room and checked out the basement before waving Hyacinth forward. The cot against the wall across from the stairs was wooden, with a creaking piece of beige canvas stretched across the frame. Hyacinth wordlessly tossed a folded fire blanket on top to catch the blood stains, it was easier to wash a blanket. Sam fit on it with room to spare, though she was in no shape to appreciate the extra padding.

“Be careful if she wakes up, hurt people bite,” Hyacinth said. “I can’t fix both of you at once, so don’t make me choose.” She went back upstairs for her doctor bag, and some towels.

Calliope knocked on the basement doorway and called down a few minutes later, “Hey, Cin? Oh. Hey, Soup.”

“I’m fixing something, go away!” said Hyacinth, without turning.

“That’s cool. We’re sorry about the kitchen. Do you want to hang out down here while we clean it for you?”

“I don’t care about the stupid kitchen! I’m fixing something, go away!”

“Okay. You do that, we’ll do the kitchen. Don’t worry. It’s a birthday present. You don’t have to help. You gonna be doing that for a while?”

“Go away!”

Calliope signed them a thumbs up and wandered out of view.

“It’s your birthday?” Soup said.

Hyacinth shrugged and grumbled.

“How old are you?”

“I’m a hundred-and-seventy-five and I don’t do math anymore. Hand me the iodine.”

“I turned thirteen last week.”

“Well, then this is a hell of a present, isn’t it? Give me the cotton balls, I don’t want to get my bag dirty.”

◈◈◈

“Did you get her to go, or are we going to have to break something she needs?” said Mordecai.

Milo was standing near the toaster. He obligingly nudged it towards the floor.

“Not that I care, and not that I expect you to listen, but you are straining the limits of credulity,” the General said.

“No we are not,” said Mordecai. “Hyacinth’s faith in our collective incompetence is bottomless, and I am including you in this statement, Brigadier General D’Iver with the lack of social skills. She’d buy it if we made it look like we burned half the place down assembling cheese and crackers.”

“That is straining the limits of optical magic,” said the General. She waved a hand and the pancake batter on the floor, counter and ceiling evaporated, as did the burned gunk on the dishes in the sink.

Erik put his hand up for a pause and said, “Should just give her money and say the movie at La Stella has pretty girls in it.”

Calliope shook her head. “I don’t think we’re gonna get her out of the house if we burn down the kitchen and the movie has naked pretty girls, but she seems super busy down there. We’ve got time.”

◈◈◈

Hyacinth and Soup were not nearly as concerned with the amount of time it took to reassemble a dog. A knee-high, hybrid-model stray was worthy of the same attention to detail as any other patient. Hyacinth believed that any living thing which wandered into her vicinity and wanted to stay alive should be provided a fair shot at it. Anything which made it harder to stay alive ought to be discouraged, avoided or repaired. Metal, medicine and intimidation could be employed as needed.

Soup remained nearby to pull tools out of her bag and remind her what features a street dog needed to take care of itself. He expressed his concern that any exposed metal should be covered. Nobody was going to keep Samantha in a cute little sweater, or put a hat on her like Erik.

Hyacinth used stitches and staples wherever possible to close brown fur over steel articulation, like that clockwork toy she’d bought Milo. She didn’t go nuts and start adding functions like he would have. She subtracted a few. A dog didn’t need binocular vision, two kidneys or a uterus to be happy.

Soup objected when he saw she hadn’t left enough room to add a replacement eye like Erik’s.

“No,” she told him. “We can’t explain to her what a mechanical eye is or why we’re hurting her with it, and that’s cruel. Even if we got her to accept it, she couldn’t take care of it. She’ll be all right this way.”

This was an intensely logical process about what a dog needed to live and be well, weighed against how much her little body could take. Guesswork and fatalism were implicitly forbidden; the dog was going to get better and use these repairs, so they’d better work. Hyacinth stopped short of adding teeth to the metal jaw. “I know she needs them, but she needs to rest. I’ll get it later.”

“You don’t know about later,” Soup said, looking away. It was as close as he could come.

“Nobody knows about later. An airship could fall on me,” Hyacinth said. “If I act like I might die tomorrow, I’m going to be pissed off when I don’t and I need groceries for breakfast. Take care of your dog like there’s going to be a later.”

She stood stiffly. “I’m going to lug some water up to my room and clean off, then we’ll see about your clothes. Don’t take off on me. I’m not going to lock you down here, but I need your help the next couple days, okay?”

He nodded and sat down by the cot.

Hyacinth frowned. “Did Calliope say they were going to clean the kitchen for a birthday present? Do I remember that happening?” She sighed. “They screwed it up in the first place for a birthday present. I might be a while. If the house is on fire, I’ll let you know.”

◈◈◈

Calliope padded into the kitchen on bare feet. She waved both hands for quiet. “Shh, shh, shh! She’s coming. I heard her on the stairs.”

“Is she coming towards the kitchen?” Mordecai said.

“Well, she sure will if she hears everyone, so be patient and shh,” Calliope said.

◈◈◈

It didn’t seem like the house was on fire. It was quiet and there was nobody in the front room. Maybe they gave up on the kitchen and went out for lunch.

Hyacinth hooked into the doorway. She was still wearing her goggles and stained all over with dog blood. There was even some in her wild hair, which had lost its tie some time ago. She already had her mouth open and she managed, “You…”

“SUPRI…” said most of the room. Nobody made it through the whole word and a few of them never began.

“Oh, my gods!” That was Cerise.

Milo dropped the cake and the candles went out.

John grabbed Tom and Jenny and hid their faces against him. Chris copied him and hid Lucy entirely.

Seth barrelled out of the back door and threw up in the alley, involved in a siege flashback.

Mordecai suppressed his own and frowned. “Calliope, was she fixing a person down there?”

“No,” said Hyacinth, sullenly. “A stray. What the hell, you guys?”

“Barnaby said we should invite people,” Calliope said. “Six people.”

And Soup in the basement makes lucky number seven, Cousin Violet told Erik. He covered his mouth to muffle the irritated groan.

“Calliope,” said Hyacinth, “I’m gonna ask you to write this down somewhere and then make art out of it later so you remember it: Barnaby is evil.”

Calliope saluted her and picked up the kitchen pad.

“I don’t know why I expected anything else,” Cerise muttered, gesturing. “I don’t know why I even bothered to put on my hair. Milo, it’s not your fault. She looks like she walked out of a horror movie. Come on.”

Milo was still staring, gape mouthed, at the cake.

“Hyacinth, what kind of a stray?” said Mordecai.

“What’s a dog?” said Hyacinth.

◈◈◈

It was agreed that Soup would stay in the basement for the duration and look after his dog. If Samantha made a sudden, miraculous recovery and got it into her head to kill Erik and Mordecai, Soup would prevent her. Presumably this would mean taking the bullets out of her gun, since she wasn’t much of a threat unarmed at her size. Or perhaps she’d try to sneak up while they were sleeping and smother them with a pillow.

Mordecai taught everyone in the kitchen what “reductio ad absurdum” meant and reiterated that the dog didn’t have to commit premeditated murder to hurt someone, so they had all better be serious.

Hyacinth changed out of her bloody dress and told Milo she didn’t like bakery cakes anyway. She ordered a chocolate replacement from Mordecai and went out the back to apologize for traumatizing the schoolteacher. Again.

◈◈◈

Hyacinth’s birthday cake had three candles, because that was all that was left in the box. “I’ll have four next year, I’m starting over,” she said.

“I shall buy you a tricycle,” Cerise said.

“Go ahead, I need the metal.”

◈◈◈

Uncle Mordecai hadn’t been out of the house without Erik in tow since the dog’s arrival. There was also a polite note stuck to the basement doorway in his neat handwriting, reminding Erik to please not go into the basement and specifically not to pet the dog.

Erik was a little irritated with the lack of trust involved, and a little ashamed of his attempt to pet the horses that got his eye knocked out of his head. But, come on. He hadn’t done anything like that for two whole years. He was like a whole different person now.

He wasn’t going to pet the dog, he just wanted regular updates on its wellbeing and maybe a quick visual confirmation from a safe distance. It was asleep most of the time!

This would be a lot easier if Maggie were home. He didn’t know how to do much magic all by himself and if he called a god his uncle would hit the ceiling.

He’d spent the last week searching around the house for a big box that he could cut eyeholes in, so he could see the dog, but the dog couldn’t see him. He could write “What’s an Erik?” on the box, like Auntie Hyacinth pretended she didn’t know what a dog was. She’d think that was funny and he’d have her on his side when he got in trouble.

Soup came out of the back door and lit up a cigarette with a sigh. He saw Erik poking through the trash back there and put up his hand. “Hyacinth’s with her. You’re safe. A kid’s gotta eat sometime.”

“You’re not eating,” Erik said. Which was a rare thing.

“I will in a minute.” Soup sat down on the stairs and plopped his head into his hand. “Does it really hurt? Getting put back together like that?”

“Not when she’s doing it,” Erik said. “Unless she has to open you up. My uncle doesn’t like to talk about it, but he thought she was trying to kill him when she did his lungs the first time. It didn’t hurt my hand at all.” He flipped his hand around to show his gold tattoo: Tartar Emetic Will Kill Me. “Just later. She said the nerves were growing back. I couldn’t play violin for a week, but it was just annoying. I don’t remember a lot about when she fixed my head.”

Soup scowled at him. “Don’t bullshit me, Eyeball. That hurt like hell and it was months. You timed out on me and Maggie that one time and we had to drag you inside while you were yelling at us to stop touching you. You swore like a goddamn sailor.”

Erik winced and sat down. “I don’t remember it. But that wasn’t really me. Not all me. It was me with them pushing on me trying to get in. That can’t happen to a dog. You know?”

“You didn’t remember me,” Soup muttered. “Not just with them pushing you around. I mean, period. I feel like Maggie introduced us fifteen times.”

“I couldn’t… remember… names,” Erik said. He took a few huffy breaths. He was trying as hard as he could not to sound like he was still messed up. He didn’t want Soup to think he was going to have a dog with a bark impediment or whatever. It was harder with Soup acting all stupid, though. “I didn’t forget you fifteen times… dummy.”

Soup sat back and rested the hand with the cigarette in his lap. “Be honest with me. Seriously. Do you remember me from before you got hurt, or just Maggie telling you about me?”

Erik winced again. He looked away. That was all the answer Soup required.

After a moment spent collecting and sorting the words, Erik added, “But I didn’t like you. You didn’t feed me or pet me or play fetch at the park.”

“We didn’t go to the park,” Soup said. “I didn’t take her places, we just hung out for a while when we saw each other. That’s barely even having a dog.”

“That’s like we have you,” Erik said. “Have we been feeding your dog forever?”

“I don’t know. A while. I fed her a long time but it’s not like we ever made it official. I only put that tag on her for the dogcatchers. It’s got your address on the back, I did that after Maggie taught me mergers.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Soup flung an exasperated gesture. “Because it’s stupid. I obviously can’t have a dog! You guys would’ve told me I was being stupid.”

“No,” Erik said. “I can’t have a dog, but I still want one. It looks really fun in the movies. Right up until they die or get rabies or whatever. Nobody does movies about a little boy with a cat. Boys get dogs and girls get horses. Isn’t it fun having a dog?”

“Not this part.” Soup had finished his cigarette. The wind had smoked most of it. He flicked the spent filter away and sat staring at the ground.

“Do dogs like peanut butter?” Erik said.

“I dunno. Samantha likes it.”

Erik stood. “Let’s make her a sandwich. I think peanut butter tastes least yucky when everything tastes like metal.”

◈◈◈

Soup reported that Samantha ate part of the sandwich. Erik thought that was almost as good as finding a great big box he could cut eyeholes in.

◈◈◈

To be fair, Soup had no idea Samantha was capable of navigating stairs yet, nor that she’d be interested in the butcher paper. She’d barely been interested in peanut butter. They were still having to pour chicken broth into her to keep her hydrated.

And a kid had to sleep sometime.

Samantha was not terribly good at stealth anymore, but she was highly motivated and accustomed to serving herself meals out of the trash. She staggered past the sleeping boy without making any special effort to wake him. It just so happened that he was tired enough not to notice the clicking.

◈◈◈

Erik resisted. He was getting big enough for that to make a difference. “But…” It didn’t seem like a scared dog or a mean dog and he couldn’t get past that. She was just hungry and hurt. What if she didn’t know she looked like a movie monster and they hurt her feelings running away?

People were like that to him sometimes, and he really hated it.

Erik hooked the bottom of a drawer with his shoe, and before Mordecai could yank him back again, he used it to boost himself onto the counter. The peanut butter and jelly were still out from lunch. He wanted the peanut butter.

“Erik!” hissed Mordecai. “Stop screwing around! This is not…”

The animal gave a yelp and reared back on its hind legs, and Mordecai jumped onto the counter too. “Damn it!”

The dog overbalanced and toppled sideways with a light crunch. She wiggled on the slick tile, rolled over and regained her footing. She drummed the floor with her front paws and gazed raptly at the boy with the jar, still wagging.

Erik reached into the jar and dropped a glob of peanut butter from his sticky hand.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Mordecai said, crouched on a neighbouring counter and unable to stop him otherwise. “Why are you like this? Are you missing the part of your brain that’s capable of understanding you need to protect yourself?” He gasped and clapped a hand over his own mouth.

Erik looked disapproving, but not stung. He shook his head. “She doesn’t want to hurt me, she just wants to eat.”

The dog had finished lapping up the peanut butter. She rocked back on her hind legs again and planted both paws on the doorless cabinet to prop herself up.

“Erik!” said Mordecai.

“Yikes,” Erik said. He threw himself backwards, but there wasn’t much space to manoeuvre.

“Sam.”

Mordecai snapped his head sideways.

The General was standing in the foyer doorway with her hand out and a library book tucked under one arm. The dog sidled over to investigate, still clicking.

“Sit,” she said calmly. She lifted her hand over the dog’s head with practised ease, offering a piece of dark substance that looked like a wood chip.

The dog lowered her rear end but failed to make contact with the floor. She crouched and wagged.

The General considered the state of the dog and decided not to impart a better understanding of “sit” at this time. This was clearly the poor creature’s best effort. “Good girl, Sam.” She turned her palm upwards and served the treat, following up with another from her pocket. “Down, Sam.”

Sam was a bit better at “down.” She got another treat.

“This dog is not aggressive or afraid,” the General informed the ignorant gentleman on the counter top. “She is curious, hungry and undisciplined. She may stain or tear your trousers by jumping up and licking you; otherwise, you are in no danger.”

“Why are you walking around this house with dog treats in your pocket?” cried Mordecai. “Did you expect this to happen?”

“This is beef jerky,” said the General. “It is a healthful snack.”

The clicking dog was chewing with determination.

Erik gripped the edge of the counter and peered down at her. “She really won’t hurt me?”

“I cannot guarantee it. Her injuries are extensive, and she may correct your behaviour if you hurt her. You have also coated your entire right hand in dog-friendly food; she cannot be expected to differentiate between peanut butter and fingers under these circumstances. However, she does not want to hurt you.”

“Erik, we have no reason to trust this person,” Mordecai said quickly. “You are going to listen to me and leave that dog alone because you are eight years old, and your mother is going to come back from the dead and kill me if you get hurt on my watch again. Tell me you understand this!”

Erik snagged the dishtowel that was closed in a drawer near the sink, and wiped his hand. He plunked both feet on the floor and offered the whole jar of peanut butter. “Sam, do you want more? It’s soft.”

“Her name is Samantha, it wouldn’t fit on the tag,” Soup said. “I’m really sorry she got away from me. Please don’t steal my dog.”

Samantha removed her muzzle from the peanut butter jar and staggered to the boy in the doorway. She put her nose in his hand and flopped down on one hip, leaning against his legs. Her tail thumped the floor.

He knelt carefully and put his arms around her. “Hey. You feeling better, huh? We can’t go through the trash in people’s houses. You know that?” She licked his ear. “Cut it out.”

“If you have any intention of training your dog, ‘Sam’ is easier for her to hear at a distance and understand,” the General said.

“I don’t,” Soup said.

“She might be a bit less likely to get hit by cars if you did,” the General said.

“If that animal hasn’t figured out that cars are trouble after this, it’s not possible to train it,” Mordecai said. He was looking at Erik when he said it.

“Your dog doesn’t… hate me!” Erik cried. “I… fed… her!”

Soup managed a vague laugh. “Yeah.” He was feeling magnanimous about it. Samantha had abandoned a whole jar of peanut butter to say hi when he walked in. She had to still like him at least a little. “Couldja bring it over? It’s hard for her to walk. Hyacinth says she’s adjusting.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s hard. It sucks,” Erik said. He approached shyly, peanut butter first.

Samantha stood, wobbling, and looked back at Soup for approval. He nodded at her. “It’s yours. Go get some.”

Mordecai watched Erik feed peanut butter to a clockwork dog with metal teeth. “Oh, gods, this house is like a bad trip,” he said. He sat on the edge of the counter and let his legs down, but he wasn’t ready to come down the rest of the way yet.

“You would know,” said the General.

“What the hell is the matter with it?” he asked her, since apparently she was the dog expert. “Did Hyacinth break it?”

“Given the unpredictable nature of magic and the large number of alterations, that is not a bad guess,” said the General. “I would hazard that since all three of you were repaired with metal by the same woman, you may also share some sort of metaphysical link, like wooden gears cut from the same tree. But there are too many variables and it is impossible to replicate the experiment without animal cruelty, so all we can do is speculate. I recommend caution when introducing Samantha to any innate magic-users whom Hyacinth has not repaired, there are still a few in the neighbourhood.”

“The metal?” Mordecai said. He rubbed his chest with an absent hand. “That’s just stupid. If that’s how it is, I have a metaphysical connection with that drawer of tin forks over there.”

Nevertheless, he slid down from the counter and regarded the dog.

“A fork is incapable of expressing any affinity it may feel,” said the General.

Mordecai frowned at her. “And you wonder why the government refuses to admit you were running the war?”

Hyacinth banged in the back door just as the General was preparing to return fire. “Oh, gods, now what?”

Erik beamed up at her. “You… made me a… dog!”

Soup swatted him. “She’s my dog!”

“We’ve been helping you feed her and you should share,” Erik said. “She can stay here and you can visit.”

“She’s going to stay with me and you can visit!” Soup snapped. “You can’t keep her boxed up in this crazy house forever! People keep trying to set you on fire!”

While Soup and Erik fell to arguing about who had a safer living arrangement for a dog, Hyacinth set her shopping bag on the table and removed several chew toys. Mordecai nudged her and lowered his voice, “Is the boy right about us trying to steal his dog?”

“No. She has a bunch of new teeth and they’re sore. This is medical care. She’ll destroy every last one of these by the time she’s ready to go, and if there’s any left, Soup can have them.” She glanced away. “Or we can keep them here for when she visits.”

She scowled at his amused expression. “I didn’t know the dog was gonna like you. It’s different now that she likes you. That’s like a minor miracle! Why shouldn’t she visit? We can build her one of those little houses outside and she can hang out here when it rains!” Erik was tugging on her skirt and she looked down. “What?”

“Will… you… make… me… a… horse?”

Hyacinth opened her mouth and Mordecai said, “No!”

She smiled sweetly and patted Erik’s head. “I will fix anything that breaks around here, but I’m not going to start hurting animals trying to make them like you. Understand?”

“I guess that’s okay,” Erik said. He stood and hugged her around the waist. “Thanks for the dog!”

“She’s my dog!” Soup said.

Samantha continued to eat peanut butter unsupervised until the General gently removed the jar.

◈◈◈

Calliope helped them paint an asterisk above the words “No Dogs” on the sign offering rooms to let. They added a third sign below the one Maggie had made prohibiting real horses, with another asterisk to complete the footnote, “Except Samantha.”