Page 126 of Shroom for Improvement

Claude swallowed. His eyes remained fixed on my face. “You’re nervous.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s your home. I don’t want to put you out if—”

“My home,” he repeated quietly. “I would love that. You have no idea how much I’d love that. You’re welcome back any time you like. For however long you like.” His hand cradled my jaw and tilted my face down to his. He kissed me. Slow and soft.

A goodbye kiss.

The taxi honked its horn. The sound echoed through Claude’s room, slicing through the moment and piercing my heart.

“You need to go,” Claude said.

I couldn’t agree out loud, so I let him escort me through the labyrinthine corridors of Stinkhorn Manor, to the front ofthe property where Oggy, Willow, and John waited with my suitcase.

I said my final farewells. Kissed Claude. Resisted the near overwhelming urge to tell him I loved him. To lie on the ground and wrap my arms around his shins and refuse to let go until he carried me back into the house and fucked me into his couch and then brought me a chai latte.

I resisted, and I got into the back of the taxi.

According to the nameplate inside the cab, the driver was Paul. He was a motus fae. I didn’t bother to absorb any other information about him, or my immediate surroundings.

Instead, I watched Claude grow smaller and smaller as the tires crunched down the drive.

And then he was gone. I buried my face in my hands.

No, this was the right thing to do. I’d been working on this paper for so long. I couldn’t let a couple of months with Claude cloud my judgement.

When would I ever get the opportunity to publish in EHK’s Society journal again?

But when would I get another two months that were as perfect as those I’d spent with Claude? I’d been alive for over three-and-a-half centuries and I’d never experienced anything quite as magical as those two months.

Wait, why was I being so dramatic? It wasn’t as though I’d never return to Agaricus.

I pulled the compass out of my bag and rubbed my thumb over the face. I clicked the dial once.

Mend a broken heart.

Not just me being dramatic then. Of course the needle pointed directly behind me, towards Stinkhorn Manor.

I clicked the dial again and again.Mend a broken heart. Mend a broken heart. Mend a broken heart. Mend a broken heart. Mend a broken heart. Mend a broken heart.

“Wait. Stop the car,” I said.

But Paul kept moving forward. He made eye contact with me in the rear-view mirror. “Thought we were heading to the train station.”

Inside my head, I heard Claude correct him.“You mean railway station.”Laughter escaped my throat. Paul raised a brow.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “I think I want to—”

A high-pitched screech cut off my sentence. Tyres slid along the tarmac. The taxi skidded to a stop and I was thrown forward.

Paul threw his door open and flung himself out of the car towards the vehicle that had swerved in front of us, already spewing a string of profanities. He halted abruptly when the other vehicle’s driver jumped down to the asphalt.

From the driver’s side of a monster truck.

Jasper Dupont, the nine-foot, micro-shorts-wearing surtr, stamped over to my taxi, blocking out all the sunlight with his massiveness. Jasper held both his wings and his arms out at his sides, taking up as much space as physically possible.

Paul froze. On the breeze, I caught the scent of urine. Couldn’t say I blamed him really.

“Give me the mycologist,” Jasper boomed.

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