Gretel sat at the desk, the golden harp resting on the polished wood in front of her. The thing wouldn't shut up.

  "Bread delivery to the south bakery," it announced in its low, singsong voice. "Three wagons. Four bakers working the ovens. Religious procession forming at the pza—dancers in gold and silver—"

  She barely listened. The harp did this all day. Watched the city, reported every mundane detail. Useful when something actually mattered. Annoying the rest of the time.

  The door opened.

  "Honey, I'm home."

  She looked up. Jack stood in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, that easy grin on his face.

  Gretel smiled. She stood, walked around the desk, hips swaying.

  He didn't move. Just watched her come.

  She reached him, tilted her head up—he was taller—and pressed her mouth to his.

  He kissed her back. His hands found her waist, pulled her closer.

  She let it go on for a moment, then pulled back just enough to speak, her arms draped around his neck.

  "It's amazing how believable you Puppets are," she said, looking up at him. "Sound like him. Smell like him. Even taste like him."

  His voice changed. Deeper.

  The illusion dropped.

  Jack's face melted away, repced by sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. An attractive Asian man stood in front of her now, dressed in bck. Lean. Dangerous.

  "I'm gd you liked it," he said.

  She kissed him again, harder this time, fingers sliding into his hair.

  When she pulled back, she kept her hands on him.

  "Do you have time to take care of your employer?"

  He smirked. "I think I can make time."

  "Good." She tugged him toward the desk. "Then get to work."

  Behind them, the harp kept singing. "Merchant caravan at the east gate—"

  Gretel didn't care.

  ---

  Wind curled up through the circur opening, carrying the faint scent of ozone and polished brass. The thick carpeted floor vibrated slightly beneath Much's boots. From where he stood at the edge of the open circur port, the city sprawled far below—silver lights stitched into the dark, the unseen Harp's magical detection field surrounding the city.

  He grinned. A mile of clean air between him and adventure. Perfect.

  The saucer's interior was quiet luxury—carpeted floors, brass rails, soft white glow along transparent curved walls. Goldie's expensive toy now used for a troop carrier.

  Not too much for me.

  He rolled his shoulders, tightening the st strap on his chute. The rig was elf military issue—half woven silk, half responsive weave keyed to his thoughts, designed to respond faster than a spell. The harness bit in against his ribs, grounding him. His altimeter glowed steady green, ticking down to his starting point.

  "Chest strap," Robin said, voice low but even.

  Of course Robin sounded calm. The Hood always did—edges sharp, thoughts sharper. He checked each csp himself, as though his attention alone could defy gravity.

  Much spped the strap, grinning. "Tighter than Roslyn's ass."

  Robin didn't flinch.

  "Yeah, I bet you wish you knew that personally, don't you, Mr. Daredevil," Roslyn smirked at him.

  "Yes, I do wish I knew. So if everything goes all right, maybe you give me some of..." He said with a wink.

  "Maybe if you come back safe and not paralyzed. It would be a waste if you couldn't feel it." Roslyn said with a saucy swat on her own ass, making sure that Much saw it.

  Robin rechecked every strap again: leg loops, hip rings, release tabs, cutaway tches. "Altimeter green. Handles clear. No tangles. Remember: open at one thousand."

  "Where's your sense of adventure, boss?" Much said.

  "I find my men surviving enough adventure for me," Robin said. "Do your job and don't start freestyling. If you don't have to. Understood?"

  From behind, Little John's rumble carried through the silence and tension of the Merry Men. "Says the man dropping him into the city wards from a flying dinner pte."

  Much turned, half-twisted, catching the crew in a single sweep. Little John filled most of the lower deck, arms crossed like a mountain trying to be patient. Will Scarlet leaned against the rail, pretending he didn't care but gripping tighter every time the hull tilted. Friar Tuck looked like he was debating the moral theology of parachuting. The rest—An, David, Arthur—just looked nervous.

  They were all nervous. He loved them for it.

  "Rex," Much said. "Last time was worse."

  "It always is," Will muttered. "That one had dragons."

  "Two," Much said cheerfully. "And they were barely awake."

  Robin's hand rested on his shoulder—steady, warm, solid through the fabric. "You nd outside of Jack's home," he said. "No triggering spells until your boots hit street. You find cover, you open the portal. If the field feels off—"

  "Off is retive," Much said.

  "—you abort," Robin finished. "You get clear. We'll find another way."

  Much nodded, tapping the rune-stone in his vest pocket. Its magic pulsed slow and sure against his chest. "Once I'm there, I'll open your front door. Try not to spill tea on your way through."

  Little John grunted. "If you die, I'll drag you back and kill you proper."

  "That sounds interesting," Much said. "Is it because I still owe you two gold pieces?"

  Will snorted. "Just remember, it only counts as interesting if you nd upright."

  "Back not broken and not paralyzed," Much said, giving Roslyn a roguish wink. "Our mistress of spycraft demands it."

  Friar Tuck murmured a blessing under his breath, two fingers raised in an old sign. "May the ground remember mercy."

  "The ground doesn't do mercy." Much fastened his gloves. "But it does keep its promises."

  The ship's pilot called down, voice crisp over the speakers. "Altitude holding. One mile. You're go, on your mark."

  The ring-light around the drop portal turned amber, soft and warm as sunrise. The wind coming through it tugged at his harness and hair, filled with challenge and promises. Beyond, the city waited.

  Robin adjusted one st strap that didn't need it. "Be careful," he said. "Your sister Mil would kill all of us if we let something happen to you."

  "Only half of you. She would spare the other half because she knows it probably was my fault," Much said, meeting Robin's eyes. "You can buy the drinks when it works."

  Robin held out his hand. Much took it—firm, grounding. "You're not expendable," Robin said. "Not to us."

  For half a heartbeat, everything stilled: no hum, no wind, no motion. Just weight, warmth, and breath.

  Then Much smiled, sharp and bright. "It's not too much for me," he said. "It never is."

  He turned, stepped to the edge of the porthole. The wind cwed at him, tried to pull him back. He ughed at it.

  "When I'm down there," he called over his shoulder, "I'll open the door and put the kettle on. Try not to keep me waiting."

  Someone swore behind him. Someone else ughed. Robin said nothing—but Much could feel the Hood's focus like a touch between his shoulder bdes.

  The ring light turned green.

  He jumped.

  The wind seized him, spun him, filled his ears with a wild roar that drowned everything but his racing heartbeat. The saucer's glow vanished behind him, the night swallowing all sound but the rush of air. The city rose fast—a glittering maze of lights and shadow.

  He tucked, streamlined, let instinct take over.

  The fall was the purest moment there was—no noise, no doubts, just him and the sky.

  He screamed into the night, not in fear but joy.

  "It's not too much for me!" he shouted, wind tearing the words from him . "I'm Much the Miller's Son—it's never too much for me!"