In Which A Wizard Loses Control
Sasha has been thinking lately about how this place would make a good farm, what with all the room and the good pasture and the abundant outbuildings that only need a little repair, really. All it needs is animals. He’s been trying not to think about this, what with the unpredictable consequences of wishing for things, wanting them, but last night he couldn’t quite suppress a sharp stab of longing for creatures other than humans, tame ones, useful ones.
He took a deep breath, forced it down hastily, and went to bed, but this morning there are sheep in the orchard, cows on the lawn, llamas on the terrace, guinea fowl in the bathrooms, ducks in the kitchen, turkeys in the guestrooms, pigs in the living room, reindeer in the library, guinea pigs in the kitchen garden, hens in the linen closets, and goats everywhere.
Sasha is sitting on the porch rail in worn 1920s pajamas from the closets, book in his lap, pen in his mouth, staring mournfully at the pair of Asian water buffalo eating the irises.
He took a deep breath, forced it down hastily, and went to bed, but this morning there are sheep in the orchard, cows on the lawn, llamas on the terrace, guinea fowl in the bathrooms, ducks in the kitchen, turkeys in the guestrooms, pigs in the living room, reindeer in the library, guinea pigs in the kitchen garden, hens in the linen closets, and goats everywhere.
Sasha is sitting on the porch rail in worn 1920s pajamas from the closets, book in his lap, pen in his mouth, staring mournfully at the pair of Asian water buffalo eating the irises.