Page 68 of Shroom for Improvement

“My ankles are so toasty,” he joked.

You look cute.I bit back the words. Gods, that would be so inappropriate. But he really did. So fucking cute.

We ascended the spiral staircase and climbed into bed on our usual sides. I flicked the lamp off. Jenny stayed quiet, sleepy perhaps. We’d already developed a routine, and somethingabout that small observation made my insides ache. I tried to remind myself that I was happy in my central Remy basement flat. I was happy alone. No one to tell me what to do, or fight with over what to watch on the telly. No one to tell me what to eat, or call me gross, or a slob. No one to up and disappear in the middle of dinner, leaving me wondering if they would come back this time.

No one to start conversations when I really wasn’t in the mood to talk.

Which, to be fair, did not happen as frequently with Sonny as I thought it would.

Or at all, come to think of it. I seemed to always be in the mood to chat to him. How odd.

“Sonny?” I snuggled down under the duvet, turned half onto my side so I could gaze at the highlights of the moon on his features.

“Truth,” he replied.

“Actually, I was going to ask if you wouldn’t mind telling me about the paper you’re working on.”

He sat up, pulling at the duvet. “Really? You want to hear more about that?”

“Yes.” I tried to keep emotion out of my voice. Tried to keep it as professional as two guys sharing a bed could be. “It’s probably useful to the ritual. I think your research and my responsibilities are linked, somehow. That’s why the house brought you to me.”

“I agree. I feel like they are one and the same,” he said, his voice bordering on a whisper. He scooted back down under the covers. “Okay, so prepare yourself. This is long and quite boring, and if you fall asleep while I’m talking, I don’t blame you.”

“If I fall asleep, I apologise. I’ll hear the rest tomorrow, or the next day, or however long it takes for you to explain it all.”

Sonny sucked in a wobbly breath. “I’d love to. So, my paper is essentially a follow up from one I published a few years ago about fostering favourable habitats for the sexual selection of monokaryotic mycelium.”

“Gods,” I said, proving I was amongst his peers with my devastating wordsmithiness. I didn’t know which to focus on first, the fact I understood the words separately but not combined, or the term sexual selection. “What’s the name of the paper?”

“That’s it.Fostering Favourable Habitats for the Sexual Selection of Monokaryotic Mycelium. Academic articles tend to be rather to-the-point.” The sheets rustled. The moon bounced off the curve of his cheek as it arched into a smile. “But I really enjoy the triple alliteration in that title.”

“What journal—is it journal?—was it published in?”

“Yep, journal’s the right word. It was published in theEHK’s—Eight and a Half Kingdom’s—Society for Biological Sciencesjournal.” I heard the pride in his voice. “It’s a—no, it’sthemost prestigious journal for my type of work. I’ve had a few papers published in other journals, ones that specialise in mycology, but if you want the wider scientific community to sit up and pay notice, you need to get the big boys’ attention.”

“It’s more well respected?”

“Not necessarily more well respected, just that typically what happens in mushroom world stays in mushroom world. The EHK Society has such a phenomenally wide reach, that if you make it there, you’ve made it everywhere.”

Sure, that made sense. “Will your next paper be published in the same journal?”

Sonny shrugged. “At the moment, no. I have nothing concrete. I know a lot of science is based on speculation, but I don’t even have any speculative ideas. Only the notion that ancient shroom fae glamour has the potential to be the biggestconduit for sexual—uh, mycelium reproduction we’ve ever seen. After all, it built this house, no? It could change everything. Solve so many problems. Malnourishment, crop production, famine. It could restore ecosystems. Reverse greenhouse gases. Reforest the planet.”

“Wow,” I said, as I let the gravity of Sonny’s words sink in. “You can change the world through soil health?”

He laughed, loud and brilliant, and threw himself onto his side, grabbing my arm. “Yes! Yes, exactly.”

Now I understood. Now I got it.

Sonny was the epitome of good. Tireless, selfless, incredible. A hero. A saviour in scruffy trainers and holey jeans and graphic print T-shirts.

And then a lead weight dropped in my stomach.

“I need to come clean,” I said in a whisper.

Sonny’s smile fell in an instant. “What is it?”

“I’m acutely aware that once we figure out this ritual—if we figure it out—you won’t be able to include it in your paper because of the shroom law stopping us... stopping me from talking about it.” I winced, braced for impact.

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