Page 62 of Shroom for Improvement

But that felt wrong. A violation. Especially since I had no doubt all of those images would feature the shroom fae currently snoring softly beside me.

Think of Mash, I told myself. And Jasper with his tiny denim thong, and that creepy old human guy with the notepad who sneaks up behind me and makes my guts flip as though I’dmissed a step. Or think of unrecyclable plastic packaging, slug pellets, out-of-season veg shipped halfway across the Eight and a Half Kingdoms.

Ooh, that was working. It was deflating a little.

Beside me, Claude groaned, and my cock reacted like a modelling balloon being blown up. I let my head fall against the pillow.

“Give me a break,” I mouthed wordlessly to no one. I turned to Claude. “Hey, good morning.”

Claude rolled onto his back and seemed at once to remember where he was, and that I was next to him. “Sonny! Good morning!” he said, as though he was trying to get the words out as quickly as possible. His eyes were wide, they flicked down his body, and then back to me. The silver freckles on his cheeks and nose sparkled like glitter. He was blushing.

I followed the line of his sight, and my gaze snagged on something around the middle of the duvet. Something massive. My brain tumbled over itself trying to solve all the clues. At first I assumed the shape near Claude’s waist must have been one of his arms. But no, both his arms were accounted for outside of the bedcovers.

Holy heck.

Ho. Lee. Heck.

“I’ve, um—” He laughed. “I’ve got a bit of a situation.” He didn’t look at me.

“Same, though,” I replied, finally letting a hand brush over my erection, like I was making sure it was still there. It was. I forced myself to stop groping it in Claude’s presence, even though he determinedly would not look at me.

Maybe it was the way the duvet fabric had folded over itself, but I had the sudden urge to poke Claude’s third arm. To see if the tenting would collapse, or if that whole thing—the whole thing—was solid.

Claude caught me staring and flipped onto his side. I averted my gaze. Didn’t know what to say, so I just made a“hnaaah”sort of sound and rolled in the other direction, falling out of the bed and landing on my feet.

“I’m gonna go and get changed. I’ll see you in a bit, and then we can head downstairs for breakfast,” I spewed, my voice about thirty octaves higher than it normally was.

“Yep, same,” Claude squeaked in reply.

By the time I’d dressed—in my black jeans and mustard-yellow hoodie with the bee identification guide—my raging erection had calmed itself somewhat. Claude opened the door to his rooms at the same time as I did. He’d donned a brown woollen suit with a matching waistcoat and cream shirt. It fit him seamlessly, classically. No disconcertingly large lumps at the front of his trousers, leading me to wonder if my memory was overcompensating.

“Did you... ?” His gaze flicked down to the crotch of my jeans and then back to my eyes.

“No,” I replied. “Did you?”

He shook his head. “I feel like at some point... the need to do...thatmight become too much.”

“Yes, I agree.” And that was all that was said about morning boners and morning-boner-related issues.

We headed down to breakfast. I had waffles and fruit and Claude had three portions of eggs royale again, and then Claude popped his hat on, and we made our way to the ley lines. He’d asked Willow and Oggy to pack us a picnic, as he figured we’d be there for the best part of the day.

“And here it is,” he announced when we’d reached the very centre of a particularly uninspiring field. The grass here was clumpy, threaded with silverweed and clover and occasionally daisies and dandelions. He stood over a flat, square rock, about twenty by thirty centimetres in size. I attempted to lift the rockwith my foot to see what was underneath, but it wouldn’t budge. It seemed to be rooted deep into the soil.

“It’s . . . uh . . .” I began.

“Underwhelming?” he offered.

“Honestly? Yeah, I thought it’d be like some clearing in a magical mushroom forest. With, I dunno, forest creatures and will-o’-the-wisps and what not.”

Claude rolled out a purple and orange checked blanket next to the big flat rock. He held out a hand, inviting me to sit. “Well, Jenny told me there were mushroom folk that lived... around here somewhere. It called them Earth Bells. But”—he raised his voice when he clocked the excitement on my face—“it said they’re mute, and cannot tell us anything ritual related or otherwise.”

I sat. Crossed my legs underneath me. Claude watched my movements and sat next to me.

I opened my notepad, wroteEarth Bellsin the corner of the first page for later research, and began scanning my notes. “Right. Here’s what we already understand about the ritual. It has to be performed by you, a direct descendant of Mycelium the first, and only you. It can be performed solo, so we know it’s not something that requires two people, but your father often brought other people with him.”

“Women,” Claude corrected. “Women, not people. From the information I have gathered, my father brought only the women he was romantically involved with. More often than not, though, he came alone.”

I jotted that down. It might have relevance later. Who could tell?

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