Mibbet woke up with a groan, from a nightmare turned dream that started off with hunting clowns and ended with... well... hunting clowns but in the other sense. In one hand she held a thoroughly flattened red nose, and in the other Choppy. Really waking up in pain twice in as many days was definitely not in her life goals. But it beat not waking up, even if it was a pain so she’d take it.

Around her several exhausted healers did their best to patch her up, which given that healing magic is to natural recovery what a chariot is to a wheelbarrow was a fairly decent job. But it did have a side effect, that despite all those pies she was still hungry (that’s what you get when you turbocharge your metabolism, your body has to get the energy from somewhere, and in this case that somewhere was enough eel pie to keep a fishmongers above a pie makers in business for several weeks. (Unlike the barber above a pie makers who managed to keep a business going for years, but that’s a Todd-ally different story with very different circumstances involving two very un crust worthy individuals.)

Turns out after all that she had still managed to drop a couple of pounds by the looks of things, though she really did not recommend the getting the crap kicked out of you, then being subjected to healing magic which will use up all the calories you consume diet. Which while effective, is hardly the most pleasant experience.

On the plus side it looked like from the number of people waiting, and the look of relief on the nurses faces she was getting discharged today. (Gidea was a lousy patient, but it turns out that she was an even worse relative of a patient, maybe due to having had practically every injury imaginable, and a few you don’t want to imagine, at one point or another in her long and illustrious career as an arena fighter. Leading her to the flawed belief she understood said injuries better than the professionals. Though she was refusing point blank to explain where she had gained a clown related acid injury, or spinning bow tie cut, or even a comically oversized mallet mashing injury in the past to have become such an expert in the field. When pressed on it she simply insisted she didn’t want to talk about it, and usually when a queen refuses to talk about something it is probably for the best you do not ask again, lest they tell you, and in doing so ruin your life.)

So she got unsteadily to her feet, wobbling for a few moments, before being given another Gidea related crushing injury masquerading as a hug.

“I’m so glad you’re okay sweetie.” Gidea said, “just you wait I’ll teach those filthy scuzzmunchers not to hurt my daughter, nobody hurts my kid and gets away with it.”

“M--mum, much as I love the sentiment you’re crushing me to a pulp.” Rosalind gasped as she desperately tried to claw herself free, or at the very least free enough to be able to breathe. Looking for all the world like a cat trying to crawl away from hug time, you know? On that rare occasion where they don’t simply maul the hell out of the hugger for some inexplicable reason known only to cat kind.

“Oh dear, why didn’t you say something? You know how often I mix up a bear hug and my crusher grapple, I’m trying to get better about it.”

“In the meantime mum pretend I have bones made of glass or something. I like my organs on the inside, and my eyeballs un bulged. Just a personal preference but it is important to me, so is air.”

“Picky picky, and I don’t know why, your father loves an extra squeezy hug.”

“Mum in the list of top ten things to say to your teenage daughter that is numbers one through nine, whatever you two get up to back at the palace, there’s an unspoken rule. As a teenager I would like it if you’d respect the pact and not share it with me.”

“OK sweetie, whatever you say, just one question though if that’s numbers one through nine what’s number ten.”

“That’s a tie between anything involving the words, would your little friends like, and the dread phrase matching outfits. Honourable mention of course goes to anything prefaced by the words, why when I was your age, nothing good follows that line.”

“So talking about baby pictures is fair game then?”

“Nope that’s in the spoken rules, as in try it and we will speak, loudly, for a long time, probably in a manner unsuitable for a parents ears.”

“Duly noted.”

“The spoken limits come with an unspoken rule of their own. Which is if you break those we will most likely never speak to you again.”

“That’s a lot of rules, I’m used to more simple rules, like two people enter, one person leaves. Usually but not always followed by the other on a gurney. Or don’t eat the yellow snow, though that one’s more a guideline I still follow it, now let’s get you back to your carriage.”

“Sure thing mum.” Rosalind replied, doing her best to smile while also not thinking about the yellow snow thing, wishing that rule had remained unspoken too.

Stepping back into the carriage Mibbet was pleasantly surprised by a little discovery, not only was the Sqwoomphette still alive, the little creature seemed to be napping peacefully atop Rascal’s hidey hole. Noticing Mibbet and Rosalind’s surprised expression Elvira explained what had happened.

“They reached a truce, the little creeper rats out the local rats, and helps Rascal get food out of the bag of holding. Being magical in nature they can get past the pet locks we put on, so it’s lucky we stocked up well I guess. Now the only problem is the little bandit needs a name, since it seems we aren’t getting rid of it.”