The coffeehouse — or, as its clientele often referred it, the coffee-home — opened a little later and closed a lot earlier on Sundays. There was some talk of closing it entirely on “the day of rest,” but there was no better place to rest than here, and Sunday afternoons were wonderful times to play one of the delightful games that the place had to offer. No opponent? No problem. It was rare indeed when someone setting up a game of any stripe failed to interest someone else into joining them. Pente, Macala, chess, Codewords, Biblios, even multi-player games like Sleuth, Flinch, Wingspan, Ticket to Ride, all would attract curious newcomers, seasoned veterans, and all in between. The patrons who visited with a mind to spend time there were polite, encouraging, kind in tutoring, generous in victory or defeat. Some who find the coffee-home feel sure that there is something magical about its interior, some sense of safe territory that encouraged the quiet salutes of cups and, without much prodding, the beginnings of conversations, of benevolent competition, of friendships… sometimes a bit more.

Sunday games that had begun late were often allowed to continue a little past the 5pm closing, and no one minded the sounds of tidying up the place, and those doing the tidying never minded either. This particular Sunday evening, however, all had put away the games in time, waved their farewells, and the well-polished wooden doors with their glass inlays were locked in appropriate time. The customers, nearly all of them conscientious in bussing their tables, had done themselves proud, leaving little more than a cursory wipe-down of tables and a sweep-and-mop. Quixos, the rainbow-striped zebra proprietor, along with his assistants, Vincent and Cavenaugh, set things to rights in about half an hour. As always, the mule deer and sable offered to help him with the various bits of equipment behind the bar, but this particular evening, the zebra more or less shooed them out the back door.

“Go get some rest,” he told them, grinning. “You’ve got the early shift tomorrow, and you know how Mondays can get.”

“What about you, boss?” Cavenaugh grinned back. “Aren’t you opening? Owners got to sleep sometimes, too.”

“And not at work!” Vincent added.

“Just a few things for me to think about tonight, and cleaning helps me think. I promise I’ll be fine. We’ve been through this before, right? See you tomorrow, bright and on time, yes?”

In a long-choreographed simultaneity, the employees bowed and groveled, saying, “Yes, Master; we hear and obey.”

The three shared a happy laugh at the old joke, and Quixos gently closed the door to the back parking lot. He then took a deep breath and went back into the bar area to gather himself. Things would begin soon, and he wanted to make sure that the equipment was ready in good time. It was to be one of his special nights, and he realized that, going forward, he was going to have to create some excuses than just “needing to think.” His employees were friends, nearer to being family, but some things can’t be shared with everyone; if he was going to fib to them, he could at least offer better fibs.

A polite tapping sounded at the front doors, or seemed to. Quixos turned toward the doors, smiling as the Chinese alligator came through the doors… or seemed to.

“Welcome, Shumu. It’s good to see you.”

“Sweet greetings to you tonight, Quixos,” the “muddy dragon” replied in her softly accented voice. “As always, thank you for hosting us all again.”

“You are most welcome. Anything I should know about tonight?”

“Much of what you might call ‘the same old crowd’,” she smiled with gentle toothiness. Waving lightly, as if to encompass the entirety of the coffee-home, she continued, “The wards and glamours are in place. We will be safe and undisturbed.”

Quixos nodded. Shumu’s elfin blood had given her extraordinary abilities, and her very long life allowed her to practice and hone them well. The zebra had better manners than to ask for her exact age, but his best guess went back a millennium or so. Ancient armored scales adorned her back in tones of earthen clay, although the robe that she wore (adapted, appropriately, from the longpao or dragon robe) covered her well, providing a paradoxical sense of delicate royalty and friendly warmth. The expression of wisdom that had come from her long life still shone through the face whose jaw had many long teeth.

“I look forward to these gatherings,” the zebra admitted. “It offers a touch of spice to my life that is truly uplifting.”

“We are grateful for your hospitality.”

“Speaking of which,” the host continued, “what libation may I offer you?”

The muddy dragon had taken herself to the bar, her smile still full and affectionate. “Your writer friend, Grigio, would be pleased. Properly, originally, the word refers to a drink poured out, perhaps on the ground, as an offering to a deity. I don’t imagine myself a deity, nor would I care to waste a drink that you would pour for any of us.”

“You have given me my new learning for the day.” Quixos smiled, nodded respectfully. “Then what would you like to drink? One of your usual choices?”

“And you know them all,” Shumu chuckled softly. “Something different, to start the night. A London Fog, if you please.”

Nodding, the zebra began his work as another guest arrived. The half-goat, half-wolf satyr clopped his way noisily to the bar, grinning a greeting to his host.

“For me, the Mexican Mocha Coffee, and don’t spare the spices!”

“Going to be one of those nights, Dolus?” Quixos observed wryly.

“It’s good to indulge.” The satyr set his lyre on the bar, taking a moment to arrange his mantle of gray-brown-white fur to its best appearance and straightening his cotton garb. The zebra would have used the word preening, but not in any malicious sense. Even the goat half of his body was well-tended, although his musk could become overwhelming when he was in a particularly lusty mood (which, it had to be said, was often). He turned toward the alligator, extending his forepaw to take her own with gentility. “Well met, good elf,” he said warmly, bowing his head toward her in acknowledgement of long and fond acquaintance. “Thank you for making our evening possible.”

“Perhaps I’m in the mood for a song tonight.”

“Just a song?” the satyr leered with happy suggestion.

Smiling, the ‘gator said, “The night is young.”

Quixos set the steaming mug on the bar in front of the elf, offering her a smile. “Let me know how you like it. And now…” He turned to the male, raising an eyebrow. “I hope I have all the extra ingredients. You want to burn?”

“I want to suffer.”

“That could be arranged,” said a new voice.

All eyes turned to the bat-winged bull who flexed his wings briefly before descending on the trio with a blustery bonhomie that brought forth more smiles from the assembly. Like the others, the bull was dressed casually but well. His horns and hooves were well cared-for, his black hide brushed, his leathery wings now properly furled. If one had done nothing to spark his need to invoke retribution for violating cosmic order, Nemesio could be wonderful company.

Quixos brought out a large plastic container that held the mixture of cocoa powder, sugar, chipotle powder, cayenne powder, a touch of kosher salt, vanilla powder, orange zest, and cinnamon, taking a few teaspoons of the blend to put into a large mug. He located more chipotle and cayenne (in hope of sating the satyr’s desire to suffer) and infused his best coffee into the mug before topping it with some whipped cream and dusting it with cinnamon. He set the brew on the counter in front of Dolus as Nemesio, whose sensitive nose had caught quite a whiff, looked on with trepidation.

“In my darkest vengeance,” the bull observed, “I have never dreamed of such a profoundly punishing act.”

“You don’t know what’s good.”

“Quite the contrary.” He turned to the zebra and asked, in his full basso grandeur, “Quixos, now that you have completed tending to this satyr’s self-sadism, would you be so kind as to provide to me a generous mug of mild-roast vanilla latte, iced, and should it be available this evening, a warm chocolate chip cookie?”

The satyr stared disbelievingly at the bull. “That is an affront to all that is most hallowed about our sacred bean. Iced, by all things allegedly holy? And vanilla, whose only valid purpose is to enhance the richness of chocolate?”

“Hence the cookie.”

“Peace, both of you,” the alligator soothed, smiling. “This is a night of friends and family. Jousting is meant only for jesting, yes?”

“I second the motion,” Quixos agreed, setting the latte on the bar.

Chuckling softly, Nemesio and Dolus touched their coffee mugs together (particularly careful not to spill any of the liquid, especially not into each other’s mugs — unthinkable!) and shared the silent toast as yet more of the “friends and family” began pouring into the café through the portal that lay just inside the front doors. Quixos hailed them as they came up to order, and he prepared a variety of drinks as astonishingly varied as the clientele. As the evening progressed, the rainbow-striped zebra served at least one each of various legendary beings who might or might not be the original being that they represented. After all, the Cerberus who appeared might have been the first or one of the many who have come after him. The only certainty was that each head wanted something different; the flavors were varied, but only one shot of espresso was allowed in each mug, since all three would meet up in the same stomach and nervous system. Overamped dogs become as uncontrollably cantankerous as puppies. Later orders were strictly decaf.

Amid the fascinating mix were Anubis, Pixiu, Yeti, Yowie (the yeti’s Australian cousin), Whowie (also from Down Under), Skvader, Mo’o from Hawai’i (who, at gatherings like this, would change shape at least three times, by Quixos’ count), Rainbow Serpent (yet another visitor from Aus), Ratatosker (who took a calming chamomile and rooibos mixture, glad to relax his paws from the constant running up and down Yggdrasil), Keresh (enjoying a bit of happy noise before returning to the sweet quiet of the forest of Bel Ilai,) even a rare white stag who caught Quixos’ eye and brought a touch of mischief to his heart. It did not escape the muddy dragon’s watchful eye.

“How are you holding up, my dear Quixos?” she asked him.

“Quite the crowd tonight,” he admitted, “but I’m managing. I’m very glad to meet so many new faces. That’s not a jab at Cerberus, I promise.”

“Of course not,” the elfin alligator chuckled. “After all, you’ve met him before. I refer more to your husband, and perhaps also to your heart, if they are not the same thing.”

The barb was not meant to be cruel, but it did hit its mark. The zebra coughed gently into his shirtsleeve to buy a moment’s time. “That might be a lengthier conversation, Shumu, than we would have time for.”

“Still young, this night of fancies. And I suspect you are in need of a break.”

“Next to order, please?”

Quixos looked a little further down the bar, his jaw dropping open as he saw Vincent announcing the request. The mule deer looked fresh, professional, and unfazed by the patrons who filled the coffee-home. He took orders quickly and began preparations just as he would on any given workday. The zebra looked back to Shumu, whose smile was even more self-satisfied than usual.

“No, that is not your employee, although he might as well be. He will have all the charm and talent of him; the many customers here would not know any difference. I will lift his glamour for you, just for a few moments.”

When the zebra looked again, he saw the Mo’o in his actual lizard-like form. His name, Quixos somehow remembered (perhaps with Shumu’s help), was Kanoa, a Polynesian name meaning “the free one.” A fitting name, since it would be difficult to imagine being able to keep a shapeshifter prisoner in any situation.

“Come with me,” the muddy dragon said to Quixos. “I have a surprise for you. There is someone I want you to meet.”

Dolus had begin strumming his lyre and singing songs, back in the tavern-like area of the coffee-home, and much of the crowd attended the hypnotic strings and voice of the satyr. Several others were still in the front room, enjoying games of one kind or another, with a happy mixture of exaggerated competition and comical insults that held no barbs at all. Quixos had seen and heard much the same sort of exchanges at the tables made by far less exotic company. Granted, there was something much more magical in the air than usual, a sensation of being softly cocooned. Part of that was the actual cocoon: the wards that Shumu had created to give the illusion to the outside world that the establishment was closed and quiet. The rest, however, belonged to the presence of so many beings who were, in fact, magical. Being in that presence is what made the zebra so happy that they chose his coffee-home to party in.

The Chinese alligator had led him back to the corner table where, often, Grigio and Zenzero would talk, getting what was jokingly called the “family rate” that included the free refills of any paw-crafted drink that they wanted to enjoy. The zebra considered mentioning this to Shumu, but they had already arrived at the table. She waved an arm with just a touch of the dramatic and said, “Quixos, I’d like for you to meet Elouan.”

The zebra’s breath caught in his throat. The stallion who sat in the booth wore simple cotton garments the color of oatmeal, the better not to contrast too starkly with the hide and lush mane of such dazzling white. His eyes were not blue but a warm golden color that seemed to have an inner sparkle. While not “ripped,” he was well-made, with enough muscle to remind any onlooker of the power of the equine. He rose to meet the zebra, showing both his manners and his slightly greater height. The smile was bright and warm, and he presented his forepaw for shaking. Quixos took a few seconds before he noticed it, as his attention had been riveted on the perfect golden spiral of horn in the middle of the stallion’s forehead.

The unicorn took the zebra’s forepaw and squeezed it gently. With a smile, he said, “Shumu has been telling me about you.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same,” Quixos temporized softly.

“I did say it was a surprise,” the elf grinned. “Be seated; become better acquainted.”

Releasing their forepaws, the males slid into the booth, making themselves comfortable against the smooth chocolate-brown fabric of the plush padded seats. That, at least, was Quixos’ intention, although he was still astonished at the mere sight of his new acquaintance. There had been only three other gatherings of this sort at the coffee-home before, but this was the first time that he had met a unicorn. It might be easier if they both had something to drink. He was about to suggest this when the yowie padded to the table, setting two steaming mugs upon it.

“Thank you, Warragul,” the muddy dragon said to the huge simian-like being. He bowed slightly from his height of some 250cm, his face alight with a gentle smile. “Now, let us leave these new friends to discover each other. They may find that they have much in common.”

With astonishing quiet, the yowie turned and padded away, Shumu holding his forepaw as if they were courting. Quixos considered that, tonight, nothing lay in the realm of “impossible.” He found the unicorn raising his mug; he returned the salute and took a sip of his brew, finding it to be his favorite: a caramel-blended latte, a creation of his own making that improved on a recipe all but trademarked by a famous national chain.

Feeling revitalized by that first sip, the zebra looked back to the unicorn, trying not to focus too much on the golden horn. “I’m not usually tongue-tied,” he said, offering a smile.

“How can I help?”

“I’ll let you chose the direction for the conversation.”

“No pressure, I see,” the white stallion chuckled. “A bit of background, perhaps? I hail from Ireland, originally, although I don’t always let the brogue show. Like the horn, it can intimidate some.” He grinned. “I’m not one of the original unicorns of legend, but my existence is as much a legend as theirs. I have tales to tell, like any of us here; I try not to impose them on others without being asked.” After a pause, he wondered, “Is there anything about my legend that you want to know?”

“Not necessarily.” The zebra waved a casual forepaw. “What you get up to with virgins is entirely your own business.”

The unicorn laughed, full and joyfully, with a sound that made Quixos think of brightly-lit meadows, of playfulness, of sweet breezes and clear brooks of cold, fresh water. There was life in that laugh, openness, invitation. It might have had something to do with magic, or perhaps it was just that there was no guile or concealment in the sound. The feeling was refreshing, and when it was done, the stallion’s kind quietude invited the zebra to take up the conversation.

“My sire and dam settled into Montana, long before I was born. I grew up in Big Sky Country, and I’ve never forgotten it. Schooling, college, a bit of drifting, different jobs and, eventually, I found myself enjoying being a coffee-bartender. I grew disheartened by the way so many commercial places became just drive-throughs or app-only stores that are more like vending machines. I wanted something more, something warmer, and I thought maybe other folks might feel the same.”

“You’ve certainly proved it with this place. It’s wonderful.”

“Thank you… Elouan, is it?” The unicorn nodded, smiling. “It took a lot of convincing to get the financing, part from my sire and dam, part from a kind of crowd-funding. I sometimes have no idea how it took off without losing it’s heart.”

“Quixos, that’s easy. You are it’s heart.”

Feeling himself blushing, the zebra asked, “How can you know that? Or should I ask?”

“Partly from things that Shumu has told me of you, and partly from the feelings that I get from this place.” Elouan seemed to blush a little. “And from you.”

The zebra felt his own blush growing on his cheeks. “I… well, thank you.”

“Did I go too far?”

“Maybe just a little.”

Elouan smiled softly. “I have no sense of decorum when it comes to social gatherings. I think the phrase is, ‘You can take me anywhere but out’.”

Quixos chuckled. “It’s okay,” the zebra reassured him. “You’re here, at this party, to enjoy yourself. I think you’re doing fine.”

“Then let’s enjoy the party, shall we? You are just the slightest bit underdressed.”

With that, the unicorn took the zebra gently by his cheeks and leaned forward. Quixos’ first thought was that he was about to be kissed, which was sudden but not entirely unwelcome. Instead, he felt his head tilted slightly downward then, ever so gently, the touch of the golden horn against his forehead.

The feeling was like cool, clear water washing through him, like walking through a delicate, ephemeral mist, except that his hide remained dry and his insides, his spirit, was soothed and revitalized. It crossed his mind at that moment: Legend held that the touch of the unicorn’s horn to a stagnant, brackish pool of water would purify it, make it drinkable and able to sustain life. Had he been…?

“How are you feeling?” Elouan asked softly.

Quixos paused before answering, as the emotions in him had somehow changed, lightened. “I’m not sure,” he said, realizing that he wasn’t lying, yet he wasn’t telling all of the truth, and he really wanted to do that.

“You look better,” the unicorn smiled, directing the zebra’s attention toward the large mirror that Warragul had brought over to the table and held easily in his huge forepaws.

When he caught sight of himself, Quixos gasped. His fingers explored delicately, and he found that the spiral horn — white, with thin winding threads of red, blue, and green, like his own stripes — was indeed attached to his forehead, as if growing out of the bone. “Is it…?”

“I thought it might make you feel a little lighter, a little more in the party mood.”

The zebra laughed, almost giggled. “It’s amazing. I really do feel… well, lighter.”

Warragul bowed again, taking away the mirror as Elouan smiled. “I’m very glad, Quixos. I wanted to give you something special for a… may I call it a ‘first date,’ or is that also going too far?”

After a moment of surprised silence, the zebra was even more surprised when he realized what he was feeling. “Perhaps not,” he said. “I should tell you that I’m married.”

“Shumu has told me that,” the white stallion nodded. “She had told me also that you are lonely, even so.”

“Did she give you any details?”

“No.”

Quixos shrugged, a little sadly. “It’s not exactly a secret. My husband, Lysander, is…” The emotions in him shifted, tumbled, tried to right themselves. “I don’t want to sound cruel toward him. For instance, when we married, I knew that he would not give up his desire for other partners. Our agreement was that he would be with me, usually, and reduce his philandering to something occasional.”

“Did he keep to that agreement?”

“No,” the zebra sighed softly. “He rarely visits our bed, although he visits others’ with great frequency.”

Elouan reached a forepaw across the table to take Quixos’ gently. “Will you tell me of you tonight, as I want to tell you of me? It is,” he admitted quietly, “why I wanted to meet you.”

Quixos paused, realizing that his explanations did not hurt him as much as he had thought that they might. What he had said was true, nothing more or less. He was surprised that he had such little emotion about it, although… no, it was that the facts about his marriage didn’t have the depressing quality that they usually held for him. These things were true, and he wasn’t dragged down by the truth as he had been before.

“You called this a first date for that reason,” the zebra realized. “You wanted to meet me because…?”

“Because you want someone to know you for who you are.” The golden-horned stallion smiled. “You want to be fully yourself, and I wanted to meet that furson.”

“That’s what you did.” Quixos’ free forepaw again reached gently toward the horn upon his forehead. “That’s the freedom I’m feeling. You let me feel…” A faintly giddy chuckle escaped his lips, and his other forepaw squeezed Elouan’s briefly. “I’m a unicorn tonight, and I can tell you everything and anything, anything at all.”

“And I will do the same. Would you like to start?”

Oh, Quixos did, and despite the torrent of thoughts, memories, and feelings that he shared, there was still plenty of room for Elouan to share his own. Tales of creating the coffee-home met with descriptions of Ireland, and comic stories from days on a college campus sparked narratives of how to deal with being aboard ship when seas were rough and hooves couldn’t gain purchase on the decking. Accounts of self-discovery, of friends, of dating (the good, the bad, and the utterly awful), all of them true. The painful bits shared made the pain lessen, and the joyful bits shared doubled the joy. So much transpired between them, so much laughter and enjoyment, and no matter how much time passed, their mugs never empty for long; each time, they were delivered by someone who assured the zebra that the orders were being tended just fine, that he should stay right where he was.

The hours passed all too quickly; it became time to start winding down the party before the dawn would break, and the more ordinary sort of clients would begin arriving not long after. There was no issue with cleaning up and setting right; the party guests did a fine job of taking care of their own detritus, and a touch of elfin magic would take care of the rest. Shumu was well aware of her responsibilities when organizing such a gathering, particularly when it came to ensuring that the host and owner of this fine establishment would not be put out by it. This included a bit of magic that would enable said host to feel rested and able to face his Monday with as much energy, ability, and enjoyment as Monday would allow (perhaps more, in the circumstances).

Quixos found it difficult to keep the sense of disappointment from his heart, despite the general buoyancy of spirit that had defined the last many hours. He looked to his new friend, the amazing stallion with the golden horn in the middle of his forehead, and his heart gave several hard thumps in his chest. Doing his best not to express his usually self-deprecating humor, he said, “All good things, eh?”

“No,” Elouan said softly, his smile still warm. “Not an end. A pause.” He rose and moved to stand near the booth, his arms open wide.

The zebra needed no further coaxing. He rose, moving into the embrace, careful not to knock either his or his friend’s horn against anything that didn’t bear knocking. The hug was warm, powerful, most devoutly desired, and he felt as if his spirit had merged and melded with the stallion’s. It was a connection unlike any he had felt in a very long time. He wondered if he would ever feel it again.

Perhaps the bond truly was made for, as if Elouan had heard his thoughts, the stallion said, “I would never be so cruel. You will see me again. If nothing else, your brews hold me in thrall as much as you do.”

“If not Paris, we’ll always have coffee,” the zebra quipped. He leaned back from the embrace, touched the horn at his forehead, smiled wanly. “I suppose this will go with you.”

Elouan’s brows crossed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you made me a unicorn for the night, and I’m grateful, but I suppose it will fade when you’ve gone.”

The stallion chuckled softly, kindly. “My dear Quixos, do you need a lesson in biology? That is not how unicorns, or any other being, are made.”

It was the zebra’s turn to be confused. “What are you saying?”

“Do you know another legend of the unicorn, Quixos? About the power of his horn?”

“To purify water.”

“A form of healing, or purification… or of making things clear.” Elouan reached up a forepaw to cup the zebra’s cheek tenderly. “I said that I wanted to give you something special tonight, my dear one. I thought perhaps a little clarity about yourself would be appropriate.”

That same clarity that he had felt all evening, that sense of knowing and sharing the truth, continued. Somewhat pop-eyed, he managed, “I’m a…?”

Elouan nodded slowly, a soft smile on his lips.

“But… how can I… I never even suspected… and what now, what… everyone will stare; unicorns aren’t part of this world, they’re only legends!”

“We are part of this world, Quixos. No one sees us, because they don’t believe, or they can’t really see.” His smile grew larger. “The legend isn’t about virgins; it’s about hearts that are true. Not ‘purity.’ Clarity. Being true, particularly to oneself.”

The zebra’s mind cascaded with disjointed thoughts that surrounded a single emotion: certainty. He could not doubt the truth of Elouan’s words, therefore he doubted not the truth about his own horn, his self, his identity. His thoughts shifted their patterns, from How could this be true to How do I act upon this truth, from How can I live my life as a unicorn to How can I not live my true life. Clarity, he considered, carries the high cost of knowing that you are in charge of yourself. It also bestows the power to know what it is that you truly want, to make decisions to make it happen.

“Not everyone can see the horn, dear one,” Elouan murmured softly. “Those few who do are not likely to comment on it; they are more likely to wonder why they had an impression of a ghostlike image of a horn on your forehead. They will appreciate you for your kindness, your openness.”

“Openness is so uncommon anymore.”

“There is a great deal of duplicity in the world, yes, and of dissembling. So many seem to take privacy to the level of secrecy, to make openness and even honesty things to be avoided.”

Quixos felt a smile growing on his face. “My openness is more likely to mark me as unusual than having a horn.”

“In some ways, it already has done, has it not?”

The zebra nodded a little before focusing on the warm golden eyes before him. He reached his forepaw to cup the white stallion’s cheek, then leaned in slowly to bestow a kiss, closed lips, open heart, and he felt himself filling and being filled, and he understood one last thing about clarity: It takes strength, like one’s own energies, given and taken, shared, synergized.

When they parted from the kiss, both males seemed a little winded, and both smiled softly because of it. “I hope you don’t mind my saying,” Elouan whispered, “that I would enjoy sharing a lot more of that sort of thing.”

“So would I,” Quixos replied. “When will I…” He cut himself off with a chuckle. “That sounds so trite.”

“Clichés exist for a reason.” The stallion’s smile increased. “Here’s another one for you: Sooner than you might think.”

“The next party?”

Elouan leaned in for another kiss, more brief but with no less fire and depth of feeling. This time, when they separated, the stallion brushed his horn playfully against Quixos’, giving the zebra a sensation usually associated with another type of touch in another location entirely.

“Much sooner than that, dear one. We have a lot more to talk about.”

The quiet surrounding them emphasized the point that this particular gathering had come to a close. Quixos let Elouan go to the portal alone, as he didn’t trust himself not to jump through it after him. The desire was tempered by his knowledge that he had many more things to do here, including his responsibilities to the coffee-home, and his trust (newfound, or merely newly revealed?) in the words and emotions that he had shared with the stallion.

“I have heard a saying,” said the Chinese alligator at his elbow. “Merry meet, merry part…”

“…merry meet again,” the zebra finished, a little smile on his lips. He gathered himself, sat back in the booth. “Thank you, Shumu. I look forward to seeing everyone again. Please let them all know how much I enjoyed having them; I’m afraid that I was a little distracted tonight.”

“They all were very happy with your distraction. They have longed to see it.” She paused, the better for him to hear her next words. “So have you.”

It was easy for him to nod his agreement. “I didn’t know it until now, at least not consciously.” He smiled. “Thank you for introducing us.”

With a little bow, the muddy dragon said, “My pleasure. You are ready?”

“Yes.”

Quixos closed his eyes and opened them again ten minutes later. He felt as if he’d had a full night of wonderfully restful sleep, yet he retained a complete recall of all that he’d experienced since last night’s closing. Not like a dream; he’d been awake for it all. He was just well-rested now. There were many other Monday mornings when he wished that he could accomplish this trick on his own.

Rising from the corner table’s bench seat, he cast a quick look around, seeing exactly what he had expected: The entire place was clean, orderly, and ready for business. He moved to the bar, glimpsed the time on the digital clock under the counter, then made his way into the back. Checking the stores, he found everything replenished to the levels of closing time last night (magic wasn’t subject to tax reporting, like cash or missing inventory would be). He was still chuckling softly when Vincent let himself in. They exchanged greetings and a few well-worn jokes about Mondays. Before long, Cavenaugh also padded in, and the trio had themselves apron-bedecked and ready to unlock the front doors, right on time.

The morning went about as he had expected. No one saw his horn, although his usual cheeriness seemed slightly amplified, and many of his regular clientele were happy to see his mood, so refreshing to find on a Monday. Both the zebra’s brews and his uplifting sensibilities were food for their spirits.

Ultimately, the brisk business of early morning gave way to the calmer flow of those who had time to linger, enjoy some breakfast, perhaps conversation. Grigio appeared; the old wolf had his laptop with him, so the staff knew that he intended to stay and work for a little while. He made the slightest double-take when he saw Quixos, after which he gave the zebra what appeared to be a salute, although it was more like a single index finger touching his forehead, followed by a smile as he took his coffee back to the corner table that he frequented. He knew things, that old wolf; the zebra wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find the coffee-home mentioned in another story.

Somewhere after ten o’clock, as Quixos was setting some crockery inside the commercial dishwasher, Cavanaugh padded into the back to say that someone was asking for him. He had no idea who it could be… well, not until he felt a twitching sensation on his forehead.

Rounding the doorway that led to the back of the serving bar, the zebra smiled when he saw the tall white stallion, casually clad in denim shirt and jeans, the strange sensation of a ghostlike horn in the middle of his forehead. Smiling, the stallion asked, “I had a rather wonderful concoction here once before, but I neglected to learn its name. Was it perhaps you who had made it for me? Do you remember what it’s called?”

“I do,” Quixos smiled back. “I call it Unicorn Dreams.” He set to making one, as the first of many in his future.