“Um, sure.” She slithered from ground to bench (the waistband of her pants wailing its disapproval) as Frances packed and lit the Roselap pipe. The orange flame flickered over the Princess’s dark, wily eyes and piebald hair, streaked black and white, spilt ink on parchment. Maybe it was that Scratch had never been this close to the girl, or that she had only seen the composed image of “Princess,” but, in this moment, she wondered why she had never realized how deeply Frances resembled a badger.

“Thanks.” Scratch took the pipe—a slender, elegant thing—and inhaled. The smoke was sweet and earthy, and filled her lungs like sunshine. And then she coughed.

“Oh, shit.” Frances took the pipe back. “That was a lot. Don’t worry about the coughing; it’ll pass.”

Scratch managed a watery nod of thanks as she sputtered out her innards, sopping the leaky bits of her face with her handkerchief. This took a minute or so, as all the bits of her face had suddenly become leaky bits.

“That’s better,” the princess declared when Scratch was through. “How do you feel?”

“Uh.” She stretched her fingers and toes. “Warm.”

“That’s the intended effect.” Frances grinned through the curling smoke and took a drag. She didn’t cough at all as she released a rosy plume into the night. “Strange to have a bench here, don’t you think? Not much of a view.”

“No, but the privacy is nice.” She froze, the blood rushing to her face. “Not that I mind, I mean—”

“It’s all right. I followed you here.”

Her mouth went dry. She had heard this was a side effect of the Roselap, but this dry mouth felt organic. No, organic wasn’t the word. What was it again? Oh, yes: Panic.

“You did?”

Frances nodded, lighting the pipe again and inhaling deeply. Thankfully, she didn’t offer any more to Scratch.

“I hoped he’d give you a command, too.”

Scratch didn’t speak. She must have misunderstood, or maybe she hadn’t heard clearly. Perhaps her desire was so desperate, so totally consuming, that she had unwittingly immersed herself in a hallucinogenic daze on the wings of one puff of Roselap.

Then again, if this were a pleasant hallucination, Scratch would probably have found herself in more comfortable pants.

The princess dumped out the burnt petals and hid the pipe away in the folds of her dress, a secret pocket just for pipes and drugs.

“I know you planned the octagon.”

Scratch swallowed sourly over a throat like an open wound. “It was a team effort.”