“What’s wrong with Bowser?” a voice asked.
“The storm makes him nervous. He doesn’t like all the thunder.” That was a deeper voice, but I couldn’t remember if that meant male or female.
“I don’t like it either – it sounds like something’s fighting out there.”
The other speaker blew out a gust of air. “Just go to bed, dear.”
“Do I have to?”
The conversation went on. I rolled my
|eyes – as many as weren’t squeezed shut against the dust, at least. Any creature worth its shadow would order the youngling off and teach it not to question orders. These were strange ones, with two few eyes and too much hair.
Footsteps padded up the stairs. I tensed, preparing for the scare, then stifled another sneeze. Blast that Bernice!
The youngling climbed into bed. That was another thing I never understood.