Ambrosio fretted at the anxiety flooding his husband's handsome features and waited for the barrage of insults common from the pixies in their company. They all fell silent however as the two men walked in and turned on the lights.
The pixies stood still in their positions.
Ambrosio almost laughed when he saw the shocked looks on their tiny faces.
He'd never met a pixie before he'd fallen in love with Wolfie and learned that he worked with these underground creatures because they had the most perfect, delicate hand stitching.
That was the good side of pixies. Well, one of them. There were three. No, four. They did work hard and could lift very heavy objects without any apparent effort. They were admittedly loyal and were willing to work for accommodations and unlimited supplies of maple syrup. Pure maple syrup harvested in the spring, that is. Not imitation crap.
Ambrosio couldn't think of a single other positive thing about this motley crew of magical misfits.
They were all androgynous-looking and very similar in appearance. Pale blond hair, sometimes light red. Big green eyes. They all had prickly temperaments and breath like skunk spray. They also preferred to work in the nude. In fact it was damned hard to make pixies keep their clothes on. There was another thing, too. They could punch each other like heavyweight prize fighters over ridiculous things and their regular feuds could be impossible, not to mention painful, to break up.
Wolfie exuded a presence though. He didn't need to yell or threaten physical harm. They all cowered under the glare of his disapproval and began to silently put their clothes on. A few even began to cry. The truth was, pixies, like so many other magical creatures had been displaced over the centuries.
They had few real friends and uncertain futures thanks to lawn mowers, dogs, cats, and snail repellant, which was highly toxic to garden pixies.
Few people in the magical world gave work to the pixies. They didn't have the cache or charm of fairies, nor the allure of angels. They lived only twenty years, reaching sexual maturity at two. They fucked one another indiscriminately and with such frequency it was the usual cause of fights.
The only remedy to keep them happy and productive was maple syrup.
They were, in short, a bit of a nightmare really.
"Sorry, Wolfie," said Adorabelle, the leader of the bunch. She was twenty-two and had already outlived her life expectancy but was the most immature of them all. She tended to pick on her three daughters, Nyx, Sable, and Dolly the most.
"We're sorry," the others all said in turn.
Ambrosio resisted the strong urge to roll his eyes. Pixies were sensitive, plus they had wicked, sharp bites. He'd learned that from experience.
"What started it?" Wolfie asked.
The pixies all swiveled their gazes at Adorabelle, but nobody said a word.
"Oh, for corn's sake," said Frosty, a rare Welsh fir darrig. His pixie people had been known through the centuries to be practical jokers. Poor Frosty, who couldn't hold his morning dew on the occasions he was allowed to imbibe, often found the joke to be on him. When snockered, he had the unfortunate habit of trying to eat other's people's shoes. Humans, as well as pixie folk.
"It's her wot started it." Frosty pointed to an indignant-looking Adorabelle.
"Why did you start it, Belle?" Wolfie was so kind and patient, hunkering down to the floor to get closer to the pesky pixie.
She responded the way she always did when her temper had gotten the better of her and she had no good response for her bad behavior; she started to cry.
"There, there." Wolfie hated to see anybody cry. He might have been further swayed by her pathetic attempts at gaining his pity had he not caught a glimpse of a shredded gown tossed along the floor.
"Who did this?"
Ambrosio had never known Wolfie's tone to be so cold and fearsome.
"She did!" Frosty hopped up and down on one foot now, trying to get his shoes back on his feet. "Adorabelle just had to try it on."
"You will work late tonight fixing it," Wolfie said. "Lucky for you I know your work is flawless."
"Yes, Mr. Wolfe." She glared at Frosty. "Tattletale!"
"You're such a diva." From out of the pack of fluttering pixies came a high, thin voice. Ambrose knew it was Cypress, an Irish forest pixie who would have been an ideal leader except that Adorabelle would have made everybody else's life miserable.
Cypress began organizing the pixies as Adorabelle kept up her flame-throwing stares at Frosty.
Ambrosio adored the fir darrig, but didn't quite understand Wolfie's attachment to Adorabelle. He suspected it didn't go much deeper than long-standing loyalty and a deep request for her superb craftmanship. Loyalty was a dying quality these days, in love, and in business. Ambrosio felt a fresh stab of affection for the man he'd married. It would take a lot for Wolfie to turn his back on a friend or colleague.
"That's enough." Wolfie's voice cut through the storm of twittering arguments.
His cell phone rang. "Yes, Virginia," he said, pulling a face when he saw her name on the readout.
Ambrosio heard the crew members pull up in their vehicles.
"Get back to your mirror," Ambrosio hissed to the scurrying pixies. He ran around picking up the fragments of torn garment. He badly wanted to kiss his agitated husband but knew better. He shoved the ripped dress into one of the desk drawers and flicked a switch on his remote control, reactivating the security cameras. He'd deactivated them remotely once he'd heard from the Swiss pixie, Shae, that a dress was about to be destroyed.
"Anybody home?" Miguel called from out front.
Ambrosio took one last look around as Wolfie dealt with Virginia on the phone. The pixies were all back on the mirror, silent and steady, gazing with self-love at their own reflections.
That was another thing about pixies that Ambrosio couldn't stand.
They were vainest creatures he had ever met.
* * * *
As the morning wore on, Virginia's calls kept coming
