[Diamond18]

“Can I have the pocketknife now?” Skittles asked, as Anakron’s girlfriend fled sobbing down the hall.

“Oh, yes, here you go,” said Igör, handing it over. This was perhaps not the wisest thing to do, but Igör had promised and he could not lie, so from freak to freak the knife went.

“Score!” Skittles said, inspecting the handle. “This is part of a limited-edition set of classic Disney pocketknives! I have all the others, but never could get ahold of Mickey-Mouse!” She pocketed the pocketknife (naturally) and gave Igör an enthusiastic pat on the back. “Thanks paleeoh!”

One of Igör’s eyes popped loose and went bouncing over to stare up at Dracomir, and Igör rushed over to pick it up before the Gondorian either smashed or evanesco’ed it. He plucked it from between Dracomir’s feet with a murmured apology and blew some dust and hair from it before reinserting it.

When he turned around, Skittles was nowhere to be seen, and he frowned. Anakron had rentered the room and sat down, looking rather gloomy, and Igör shot an encouraging smile his way. Half his face was still frozen into the frown, as it was rather hard to change expressions on the dot. Anakron caught the look and shifted away, trying not to look disgusted.

Meanwhile, Skittles was on her way again. She carried on an engaging conversation with Mickey as she wended her way down the many ominous, twisting, gothic halls in the Palace. She knew that she had an appointment with Roggie, and intended to visit him, but she felt like taking the scenic route to his chamber. She also knew that she was expected to travel with the others Alli had asked to speak with Roggie, but frankly all they seemed interested in doing was sitting around, looking at each other, and waiting for something to happen. Correction: looking at Lola. She found all this terribly boring, so struck out on her own and figured that the longer she wandered before finally turning up at Roggie’s door, the more likely the others would be there as well.

As fate would have it, soon she heard a quiet whimpering from a particularly dark and lonely corner, and pocketed Mickey to go investigate. She didn’t want to sully her new blade with blood, so she got out one of her trusty switchblades.

She found Pancake, that lady who had come to see Anakron, curled up in a tight little ball of misery on a bench underneath a pool table in a deserted billiard room, and so she hopped on top the table. Hanging herself upside down to get a good view of the pancake-lady, she said. “Hello there. Why so sad?”

“Oh go away,” the woman sniffled.

“Awww, whatsamatter, Pancake, hon? Why does the lady cry?”

“Panakeia,” she said between gulps, her upper lip stiffening slightly at the opportunity to correct someone. “My name is Panakeia.”

“What did the mean man say to you, eh?” Skittles cooed. “Nasty, mean Anakronism Conveyor. Want that I should hurt him? I make him sorry....”

“No, I should not like that,” said Panakeia, though Skittles thought she could detect the slightest bit of hesitation. “And please do not talk to me as if I am a baby. Really. I am old enough to be your mother, by the looks of you.”

Skittles affected a pout and made a clucking noise in her throat. “I wouldn’t hurt him much. Just enough to make him sorry.”

“No, thank you,” Panakeia said, firmly this time. She crawled out from under the pool table and straightened, fighting to regain a little dignity.

Skittles sighed. “So much for hell hathing no fury,” she muttered. “Okay, suit yourself.” She swung herself down from the table and shrugged. She sauntered out of the room, but paused in the doorway and inspected her fingernails, saying carelessly, “I could put itching powder in his trunk.”

“No,” Panakeia was unmovable. “If I want to put itching powder in his trunk I am quite capable of doing it myself, thank you.”

“Awright,” Skittles capitulated, and then decided to sprint down the hallway at full speed and see how far she could run up the wall before doing a backflip. She was quite pleased with the result.