The Stray

2-43: ...is to Give Yourself Away

Despite Miss Larue's best efforts, Timothy greeted the day of the meeting clammy, pale, and sick to his stomach. The rhino and her wife'd been at the table when Timothy and V returned...

"Damn, you move fast, V." The captain'd snarked, drawing a blush from V.

"Mom!"

As soon as Timothy'd told them the plan, and answered a lot of questions, Miss Larue had sent him straight back to bed instead of letting him work a shift for her. She even kindly left out a saucepan of warm, cinnamony rice pudding. He knew it was delicious, but he had to force himself to eat.

And then, as though the day til then simply didn't exist, Timothy found himself fidgeting in Madam Rose's shop. V dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Here, darling," the partridge finally called, and then she walked out with his hat.

For a moment, Timothy forgot all about his dread, his anxiety, even the way his stomach was churning. It was lovelier than he deserved. It had a soft, flexible brim and inside, meant to form to his head comfortably. Protective glyphs were sewn into its insides, making the material waterproof, fireproof, scryproof, and sweat-resistant. It rose to a high but adorably floppy point, falling back cutely. And the material was supple but strong: he could tell this thing wasn't gonna tear easily.

"It's beautiful." Timothy breathed. "You're an artist, ma'am."

She puffed out her chest. "And don't I know it! Not many can make a hat this good without proper measurements!"

"Thank you for that." The wolf said softly. "I know it was inconvenient."

"Oh, no, I completely understand." She shivered faintly. Timothy shot V a glance. What the heck had the dragoness told her? "Now, I didn't decorate it. I'm sure you know, but a witch's hat—"

"Should be adorned with tokens of her steading. I know."

"Well, here's something you don't. I embroidered a custom Ride Where You Like on that little number. It'll glom on and mold perfectly to your head, and stay right where you put it in anything short of a hurricane." She winked. "Truly, I am the greatest."

Timothy smiled faintly. "Is there anywhere I can, ah...?"

There was. There, in her storeroom, in the company of a few spiders and no one else, Timothy undid his bandana. He'd barely taken it (or one of its siblings) off since he got it. No going back now. With a deep breath...

He wore the hat.

<<Lookin' good, sis.>> a featherstar spider said.

<<I hope so.>> It felt good, at least. It rode comfortably low, low enough to hide his brand scar fully and shade his sensitive eyes. He felt its enchantments hum to life, attuning to his aura. The hat shifted and molded for perfect comfort, and without growing any tighter, took a strong hold.

Timothy stepped out of the storeroom, timid. "How do I look?" V gaped at him. "Aw, no." There was a mirror here, right? Timothy darted in front of it... "Oh!"

"You look lovely!" The bird cooed.

When Timothy stared in the mirror, a witch stared back. A small witch, sure... But a week of eating seconds, thirds, and even fourths of miss Larue's cooking, backed by the refeeding potion, had put a smidge of meat back on his bones. Mat's healing job added onto that so that his pelt looked healthier; it had a bit of shine now, and both layers were thicker and warmer, with far fewer weak patches. The shampoo he'd been using even left it a little fluffy!

The dress flattered what little figure he had, turning bony and brittle into slender and willowy. Even his red eyes, the other mark of his curse, looked sharper and brighter under the brim of a witch's hat. He shook his head, and while his braids bounced, the hat didn't budge.