Page 20 of Mixing Drinks For Tipsy Weasels

I take a sip of my slushie and sit back in my chair, letting out a sigh. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"You're welcome," Rupert says. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay. I think the shift worked off the majority of the fuzziness."

"It is supposed to," he points out. "One of the many advantages of being a shifter."

"I'm not a shifter, I'm a mythical being," I remind him.

"Yes, yes. I know. You're a least weasel, not a weasel shifter. Though I still don't know the difference."

I shrug and grab one of the chips lingering on the plate between us and think about the best way to answer while I eat it. "It's a Greek thing."

"Helpful."

"I don't know enough about history to be sure, but there's a folktale from Greece that says that the first least weasel was a scorned bride, after she turned, she went around destroying the dresses of other brides because of her jealousy. Apparently, we're also the mortal enemies of basilisks and are able to kill them with our smell. Though never having met a basilisk, I can't verify that one."

"So what you're saying is that your powers are extreme jealousy and extreme stench?"

I choke on my own laughter. "Something like that. I've never had cause for either one."

"But your magic is basically the same as mine, right?"

"As far as I know, but maybe I have latent powers I don't know about."

"I guess we just need to find you a basilisk to find out."

I snort. "I'd rather not, the myths also say that the least weasel dies while killing the basilisk."

"Ah, a fair reason to avoid them."

"Mmhmm." I eat another chip. "So you've got to quiz me about something. Is it my turn to ask a question?"

"That's generally how conversations work," he says.

"What happened between us?" The moment the question is out of my mouth, silence descends and he looks a little uncomfortable.

"I was mad at you," he says.

"Yes, I know. But why? I've always wondered and never really understood what happened."

He takes a deep breath. "You remember the bouncy ball incident?"

I blink a couple of times. "You're not seriously still mad about that?" I ask, unable to keep my surprise out of my voice.

"It was my favourite bouncy ball," he says.

"That was eight years ago," I point out. "And it was an accident."

"You bounced it straight into the river and then laughed."

I open my mouth to argue, trying not to think about how ridiculous that sounds. "What was I supposed to do? I couldn't swim, so it's not like I could shift and go in after it."

"I was convinced you did that on purpose."

"You have to know that's not true," I say. "I'd never have done that to you."

Indecision wars on his face and I can tell he's trying to decide whether his current feelings, or those from when he was ten, are going to win out. "Logically, I can see how it would be unlikely that you'd lose my bouncy ball on purpose."

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