Sheep. Everywhere. When the king announced that only cloaks made from the finest wool would be worn at the royal feast, I didn’t expect to be buried under a mountain of wool.

  Green wool.

  Now I can’t even leave my house. The peasants have herded every sheep they own to my doorstep, demanding I cure them — or at least recolor them. One especially “bright” fellow, who bought a hair growth potion from me a couple of weeks back, decided to give it to his sheep.

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  Because obviously, sheep’s wool and human hair are the same thing.

  Honestly, after that, I can only refer to him as what he’s become — a ram-brained idiot.

  To be fair, the wool did grow back better. Fuller. Thicker. But now it’s a deep swampy green. And somehow, nearly every sheep in the village is starting to turn the same shade. And guess what’s happening next week?

  Tax collection.

  In wool.

  Straight to the royal treasury.

  Looks like we’re getting executed.

  Wonderful.