Probability Says

A wizard amuses himself with a hat that predicts the future.
Until it tells him something he doesn't want to hear.


Special thanks to Rowan the beta reading and support! And to JL for the feedback, encouragement, and inspiration!

Declan set the late Wizard Thorus’ hat down on his conjuring table and took a step back. It seemed to have a presence, like something that should have always been there.

He’d been aware of Thorus’ reputation for years, long before he’d been granted his own wizard’s robes last fall, but it wasn’t until the boxes from Thorus’ estate had arrived on his doorstep that he’d learned they were related.

The hat had been in Declan’s possession for over a week now, but the novelty still hadn’t worn off. Not that he ever wore it—or robes either, for that matter—but it was important to have them. And he found the hat pleasing to look at: specks of ethereal energy danced through lapis threads like starlight, a visual display of the power it contained.

It was a pity that the best an artist ever managed to capture was a blue dunce cap with a few paltry moons and stars.

“Well, hat,” Declan said. “What is the probability that I get all these boxes unpacked before Broggie returns?”

The starlight condensed into swirls, spiraling with intensity before once again dispersing, and a tinny voice said, “Probability: 19.8%.”

Declan made a face at it. “Hats are supposed to have more faith in their wizards, you know.” But he smiled as he opened the nearest box, peering down into the esoteric odds and ends.

None of which had an obvious home.

The next box consisted of exactly the same, and Declan stopped to tug his fingers through his ash-brown hair.

“I see your point, hat, I see your point. But that just makes it a challenge, and…” He grinned. "I’m going to make Broggie eat his words.”

“Probability: 0.1%.”

Declan’s grin broadened. “Your math skills may be phenomenal, but you’ve got a thing or two to learn about turns of speech.”

Declan selected one of the boxes at random and lifted it onto the table.

“You would think, that if Brogan was so concerned about arcane objects being in unsafe places—although whether or not the inside of a box counts as ‘unsafe’ is debatable—that he wouldn’t leave it up to me, not when he insists I’m a human calamity, and…”

Declan glanced back at the hat, one hand still on the edge of the box. “Hat, if I just leave these boxes here, will Brogan get over his unfounded worry about touching magical things and put them away himself?”

“Probability: 5.3%.”

Declan rolled his eyes. “Maybe he’d like to touch my magical thing.”

“Probability—”

“Shh-shh-shh!” He waved it silent. “Let’s stick to less depressing topics, such as…what good is a henchman if he won’t even do the dirty work?”

There was no response.

“You’re too much of a stickler for form.” Declan shook his head. “But, alright, what’re the odds I could find another henchman who would put away all this stuff—oh and who wouldn’t steal from me or try to use any of the objects for himself—and would be as tolerant of my experiments—and maybe the occasional mishap—as Brogan is?”

“Probability: 7.9%”

Declan whistled. “Well, that’s better than 5.3%.” Broggie better watch it.

His focus returned to the task in front of him. He still hadn’t put anything away. When the boxes had first arrived he’d skimmed through them, but hadn’t noticed anything more fun than the hat. So he’d carried it around the cottage plying it with questions and ignoring the rest—and clearly getting on Brogan’s nerves.

Alright, he would ask it one more thing and then get to work. That was a promise.

“If I let Broggie hear me call him a henchman—or Broggie for that matter—would it make him mad enough to forget about the boxes for tonight?”

“Probability: 15.4%.”

Better than no chance, but still not a win. Declan nodded thoughtfully as he began taking the items out of the box and lining them up on the table. Maybe being able to see it all at once would help him figure out what to do with it.

Unlike what Brogan thought, he did have a system. It just wasn’t one that helped him quickly find components when he needed them, or one that made the shelves look uncluttered and proper.

But it wasn’t like he could just stash things away, here and there, no, there were rules. If he went lumping the wrong things together he could end up with a fabric decay spell making tatters of his bedroom, or a wind elemental knocking everything off the shelves and smashing it all together—then Brogan would get to see what a calamity truly was…

No, things had to be just so, which was going to take awareness and thought and—

And he didn’t have time for this.

Not when a box was a perfectly acceptable place to store things. Brogan should be grateful he had them all packed up rather than strewn all over the floor.

Declan put the heavy and fragile items back in first, carefully, and then, with one un-careful motion, he swept the bundled herbs, cloth bags, and lighter items in as well.

A few thin streaks of red and yellow powder, no more than a residue really, remained on the wooden surface. He began to brush them away, but as the colors combined, there was a sudden eruption of pain and fire.

Declan yelped, leaping backward, as he flailed to extinguish the flames that clung to his hand.

On the table the fire was spreading rapidly, eating into the wood as it raced toward the hat.

“No, no, no!” Declan swatted the hat out of the way. He needed water. There was no water, not unless he went all the way to the well. A water spell. No, that took too much time. He could—

He yanked off his jacket and used it to smother the flames, which thankfully responded in the way of ordinary fire and went out.

Damn it, he knew better—had just been thinking about this very problem—and then he’d gone and done it anyway.

He growled, shoving his fingers into his hair, only to yank them back out again when it hurt. He looked down at his palm, at the blisters already beginning to rise. He didn’t have the ability to heal that. It would be sore for days. He’d have to do everything one-handed.

He closed his eyes and took a breath. He had to keep focused.

When he opened his eyes, he moved to stand beside the charred table top. It wouldn’t be too hard to remedy. He had several protective spells in place to make it more suitable for use in conjuring. After a few murmured words and careful touches from his hand, it was well into its rebound process.

Like the table, Declan’s jacket also had a restoration spell cast upon it. In fact, it had been imbued with just about every sort of protection spell he knew. It was like wearing not only the most lightweight, comfortable suit of armor, but one that repelled insects and water and other nuisances as well.

But this wasn’t Declan’s jacket.

He grimaced as he lifted it up. Brogan had specifically asked him not to wear it while spellcasting. Not that this had been intentional spellcasting, but still.

It wasn’t his fault that Brogan’s jacket was warmer than his, or that Declan’s own lean frame didn’t handle the cold seeping into the cottage very well. A big brute like Brogan didn’t actually need a jacket like that.

Except that he was the one who was more likely to go out into the elements and fetch whatever Declan needed. That was what he was hired for.

But beyond the extra warmth, Declan liked the way the bigger size hung on his frame, like a blanket with arms, and as long as he rolled the sleeves up it was perfectly out of the way of his work. Usually.

His hand was really starting to throb. Ignoring the jacket for now, Declan went to find a salve and bandage his hand.

With the pain dulled and his hand wrapped, he returned to where the hat was still lying on the floor.

“Sorry about that, hat,” Declan said, as he gingerly dusted it off and returned it to the table. “But I figured it was more important that you remain intact.”

The box was still sitting on the ground, only now it looked less tedious and more hazardous.

“Hat, what are the odds if I try to move that the whole thing explodes?”

“23.2%.”

Declan glanced at the hat. “What happened to ‘probability’? Dropping the formalities after I smacked you, eh?”

The hat remained silent.

“Well, that was for your own safety. You’d have been more upset if I’d let you burn.” He picked up the jacket, poking a finger through one of the blackened holes. “Besides, when Brogan sees this, I’m probably going to get a good smacking as well.”

“Probability 99.9%.”

Declan stopped and turned back toward the hat. “What?”

The hat did not repeat itself.

Declan shook his head to clear it. “I think this is another one of your issues with idioms. See what I meant by smacked was…” What else could smack mean? A kiss? Brogan certainly wasn’t going to kiss him—although he wouldn’t have any complaints. No, a smack could be a…a…

He could figure this out. All he had to do was go through the definitions, try a synonym or three and he’d have his answer. Or maybe the hat had been referring to another part of the conversation.

“Would you have been more upset if I’d let you burn?” That easily deserved a 99.9%.

The stars remained stubbornly unswirled.

It took Declan a second, but then he let out a huff of frustration. Of course it didn’t feel anything. The hat was bespelled, not sentient.

Well, at least that meant there was no one here to hear him say anything embarrassing if he cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“Is Brogan going to give me a good smacking tonight?”

“Probability 99.9%.”

Well, that settled that. “Just for the sake of clarity: Brogan is going to slap me across the face?”

“Probability 0.1%.”

Of course not. “Brogan is going to spank me?”

“Probability 99.9.%

Declan was still for a long moment.

“What do you know, you’re just a hat.” He let out a short laugh. “And I’m the idiot that’s standing here talking to one.”

Declan took the hat and put it in the broom closet. He decided to leave the boxes where they were, he would just have to warn Brogan not to tamper with them until he could set up a containment field. It was going to be so much work to go through it now that powders had been spilled.

It was ridiculous to think that Brogan would spank him, of all things. Declan was a grown man—and Brogan’s employer and a wizard. No one would do something like that to a wizard, because a wizard might do something back, something much worse, and—

And it was just a jacket. It wasn’t even the first one that Declan had destroyed. Brogan had to be used to this kind of thing by now.

He would buy Brogan a coat. A better coat. And one for himself too so he wouldn’t be as tempted to borrow it. Although if he were honest with himself, he didn’t wear Brogan’s jacket because it was warmer, it was because, well…

Replacing it had nothing to do with trying to get out of some ridiculous punishment that would never happen, not in the next five millennia. No, it was simply the right thing to do.

But what if he had pushed Brogan too far?

Declan wasn’t exactly the best about respecting Brogan’s boundaries. He took his stuff when he asked him not to, he didn’t always have all the safety perimeters in place when he worked, and the results had been mess after inconvenience after minor injury and humiliation after—really it was remarkable that the hat thought he had any chance of replacing Brogan at all.

Declan stuffed the jacket into a pillowcase and hid it under the eaves in the barn. Afterward, he opened the cottage’s windows to let the breeze take care of the burnt smell. He would wait to close them until just before Brogan was due home. Declan was going to freeze, but it would be worth it if he could wait a day or so before discussing what had happened. The boxes would be enough for this evening.

Of course, there was one way to take the guess work out of the situation. While it was important to never cast a spell on a human unless it was absolutely necessary, this wouldn’t be so much of casting a spell on Brogan as it would be facilitating communication.

Brogan was even the one who said he ought to be more direct in expressing his feelings, less hiding behind evasive snips and snarks. If he could get Brogan to speak openly about everything that was bothering him, well, Declan could began to make little changes to keep him happy, before things got out of hand. And he could find out, hypothetically, just how he would react to the destruction of another one of his things.

Declan took the dried mayroot leaf down from its shelf. One pinch and Brogan would be as candid as he could want.

#

Declan turned away from the stove when the door to the cottage opened. Brogan was carrying the supplies he’d taken the mule to town for and wearing his old jacket, the one with the holes in the elbows. Really, if he’d insisted that Declan give his back when he left, there never would have been a problem. Although Declan had been pleased that he’d let him keep it at the time.

“Did you burn something?” Brogan asked, sniffing the air.

“Is that the kind of greeting I get? Here when I’ve made us dinner?” Declan gestured theatrically at the stove. “See if I repeat the mistake.”

"Is that food?" One side of Brogan’s face lifted into a grin. “It’s not an experiment? Nothing weird is going to happen to me if I eat it?”

Declan’s smile nearly faltered. “What do you take me for?”

“A wizard.”

Declan shrugged, although he was secretly pleased. Brogan knew he was young to have achieved that title, and it wasn’t always as well accepted by his peers.

“What happened to your hand?” Brogan approached and gently lifted Declan’s wrist to inspect it.

“Just a minor burn.” Declan tilted his head toward the stove, which wasn’t technically a lie. It was a gesture. “I already put the salve on it. I was a good boy.” Now that was a lie.

Brogan snorted, but he let the matter—and Declan’s hand—drop.

He began to put away the supplies from the store, while Declan set the table.

“Where’s the hat?” Brogan asked as he took a seat. “Is it not joining us tonight?”

“It’s in the broom closet.”

Brogan raised an eyebrow at that, and then his posture was braced for action, as if he suspected some sort of disaster must be responsible for that, and at any second haddock were going to start raining from the loft, or hornets crawling out of the floorboards.

Declan resented that. Not that it wasn’t true, but he resented it anyway.

“I confess to having an ulterior motive,” Declan said.

He was surprised to see Brogan relax at his words. His behavior seemed oddly backwards. Unless he always assumed Declan had ulterior motives and it was a relief to know what they were?

“I wanted to talk about the boxes,” Declan continued. “They’re going to be a bit more trouble than I expected, and I thought we could discuss containment measures ahead of time, rather than just springing it on you like usual.”

“Sounds like a good plan.” Brogan took a seat at the table and nodded his head toward the pitcher of tea in appreciation.

Declan sat down across form him and hid his nervousness by taking a sip of his wine. Brogan might never drink, but Declan was going to need it.

“This is good,” Brogan said. He hummed contentedly as he dug into the meal.

Declan tilted his glass toward him before taking another, and very long, sip.

It had been several minutes. It was time.

“So…in the past,” Declan said, trying to sound casual. “You’ve not always been happy with how I handled my spells. Particularly in regards to safety.”

Brogan made a sound of agreement, but his focus remained on his plate.

Declan frowned. He hadn’t mixed up the herbs for gluttony and honesty, had he? No, he’d been careful.

“I’ve made messes, destroyed your personal effects, been the cause of a few minor scrapes here and there.”

“Not always minor.”

While that wasn’t anything Brogan wouldn’t have said under normal circumstances, it was, most certainly, honest.

“And this has upset you.”

“Yes.” Brogan paused to look at Declan before he took another bite. He shrugged. “But it comes with the territory.”

There was both good and bad to that response. Bad that Brogan thought he was innately difficult, but good that he seemed to accept it.

Declan was silent for a moment.

“The job can be challenging,” Brogan said, “but I like working for you.” He took another bite of his potatoes, as if that was all there was to the matter.

“Have you ever thought that I got away with too much?” Declan’s voice was quieter than he intended. He forced himself to sound more casual, like he was merely curious, and not too serious. “That I manage to avoid consequences that maybe I shouldn’t?”

Brogan frowned and set down his fork. “Are you feeling guilty about something?”

“What?” Declan felt his heart pump harder, flooding his body with all this useless adrenaline. This was a harmless hypothetical conversation, he didn’t need to panic. “I mean, why?”

Declan forced himself to drink more of his wine.

“Because you’re acting like you think you deserve to be punished.”

Declan choked, then coughed, blasting the alcohol up into his nasal cavities as he inhaled, and holy hell did that burn. He closed his eyes, shoving away from the table, reaching out for a napkin only to feel it pressed into his hands. He wiped at his eyes, blew his nose, but it was still incapacitating.

“Here, drink this,” he heard, and he felt a cool glass pressed to his lips. He took several soothing swigs of tea, cleared his nose a second time on the napkin, and his vision began to clear.

“Sorry,” Brogan said. “I should have timed that better.”

“You think?” Declan said, but he dulled the bite of his words with a slight smile, even if the pain hadn’t completely abated. He could only blame others for so much.

But any attempt at humor faded when he saw which glass Brogan was refilling. “You gave me your tea.”

“Wine wasn’t going to help.”

Declan stared at the cup. It wasn’t fair—he’d gone out of his way to put it in the one thing that they wouldn’t share, and then Brogan had to go and be helpful and ruin the whole damn thing.

He took a calming breath. This didn’t have to mean anything. There was a possibility that the truth potion had failed. Brogan wasn’t talking much differently than he normally did—unless he actually was this honest all the time.

No, it was better to be safe. Declan finished his wine and stood up, his plate hardly touched.

“I’m going to bed early tonight,” Declan said.

Brogan’s brows drew together in confusion. “I thought you wanted to talk about the boxes.”

“We can talk about that tomorrow.”

“But wasn’t the whole point of the dinner was to discuss setting up a containment field?”

“It was, but I don’t want to risk saying something I’ll regret while under the influence of a truth potion.” Declan’s hand flew up to cover his mouth, too late.

“A what? How did you get a…?” Brogan looked down at the table. His eyes scanned Declan’s plate, his wine, the tea pitcher, the serving bowls—and then back to the tea.

Declan looked down in shame, but he could still feel Brogan’s gaze boring into him.

“Why?” His tone was no longer tolerant.

“It’s not what you think.”

“I don’t know what to think.” There was a moment of tense silence. “You put a spell on me?”

Declan shook his head. “I gave you a potion. It’s not the same as—”

“You drugged me?” Brogan leaned forward as if he was about to reach out and grab him, but he didn’t, his hands only balling into fists on the tabletop.

“It’s temporary.” Declan’s voice was less steady than he wanted it to be.

Brogan took a deep breath, but instead of releasing it slowly, one step closer to calming down, it came out in one forceful huff.

“Is this what you felt guilty about?”

“Partly.”

“Did you do this because you wanted to be punished?”

“That was only half of it.” Declan froze. What had just come out of his mouth? That wasn’t true—what the hell was wrong with this potion?

Brogan was staring at him.

Declan dropped his gaze to his lap.

“Why don’t you tell me the rest of it?”

Declan grimaced. “I don’t want to.”

He heard the sound of Brogan leaning back, his hands withdrawing into his own lap.

“At this point,” Brogan said. “I don’t see what more harm it could do."

That hurt, more than Declan expected. He excelled at messing things up, and he didn’t want to think he’d reached the threshold for what Brogan would tolerate, because he knew it was always possible that he would sink lower.

Declan forced himself to speak. “I decided to unpack the boxes before you got home. To, you know, show you I wasn’t going to let them sit there until the boxes disintegrated, like you said I would.”

Brogan didn’t say anything, and Declan didn’t look up to check his reaction.

Declan continued, “Some of the powders became mixed together and a fire started on the conjuring table. I was able to put it out and repair the table.” Relief washed through him as he realized he hadn’t been required to say how he’d put it out. Apparently lies by omission were perfectly acceptable.

“I knew I smelled something burning.”

Declan was careful not to respond to that, lest he verify what.

“After that, I jokingly told the hat—” Declan paused to look at Brogan. “Thorus’ probability hat? The one I’ve been carrying—”

"I remember the hat."

He was hedging. He took a quick breath. “I jokingly told the hat that you would give me a good smacking when you got home. But then it, well, it answered.”

He looked up and saw Brogan’s puzzled expression. “What did it say?”

“99.9%.”

Brogan didn’t laugh, although Declan almost wished he would have for it would’ve put that threat to rest right then and there, but he did look stunned, which was better than some alternatives.

“Are you sure you didn’t have that backwards?” Brogan asked. “That it actually meant there was a 99.9% chance that I wouldn’t smack you?”

“No, I clarified. I even checked its definition of the word ‘smack’ in case it meant you were going to kiss me, because I would enjoy that.” Declan froze, and as soon as he saw the flicker of surprise, and worse, understanding, on Brogan’s face, he  buried his face in the palms of his hands.

“I take it that wasn’t it?” Brogan’s voice wasn’t unkind.

“No, it specifically meant a spanking,” he said through fingers and bandages.

After a long moment Brogan said, “The thought has crossed my mind.”

Declan moaned his unhappiness. Much better than opening his mouth and letting god knows what come out.

“But even if I were to do something like that—which I wouldn’t just do, for your information—it wouldn’t be because you accidentally started a small fire that you quickly contained. Especially since you repaired the damage.”

“If I had been less careless there never would have been a fire.”

Brogan shook his head as if to say, still no.

There was no point in hiding the last part after everything else he’d said. “I used your jacket to put it out. It’s ruined. I hid it in the barn.”

“My good jacket?” Brogan groaned at Declan's nod. But then he shook his head. “Still wouldn’t have spanked you.”

Declan sighed his relief. So the hat had been wrong. Maybe it was the one in need of a dose of truth potion.

“I am sorry about the jacket,” Declan said. “I’ll miss it too. Next time I can cast protection spell ahead of time to…” Declan stopped, noticing Brogan’s expression.

“No, I’ve gotten used to you destroying my stuff, but giving me a truth potion was something else entirely.” Brogan tapped his fingers on the table. “Finding out about that made me want to pull you out of that chair and turn you over my knee right then and there.”

Declan felt a flush move down his neck at the threat, and it was only partially from embarrassment. Hearing Brogan say he deserved a spanked was a lot more intriguing than when it came from the hat.

“I wanted to find out if you would actually do something like that before I told you about your jacket.” Declan gave a small shrug. “I was aiming for that 0.1%.”

“So now what?”

“It was stupid and I won’t do it again.”

“That doesn’t undo what you did,” Brogan said.

The worst part was that Declan couldn’t pretend it wasn’t true.

“In hindsight, I can see how that was a violation of your trust. I’m sorry, Broggie, I really am.”

“’Broggie?’”

Damn. “It’s what I call you when I’m talking to the hat. Or myself.”

“Oh.”

Brogan didn’t seem bothered by the nickname, so at least Declan had managed to beat those odds.

“Alright then,” Brogan said.

“’Alright then’ what?”

Brogan reached across the table and grabbed Declan’s uninjured arm, and before Declan could process what was happening, he found himself being dragged out of his seat and around to where Brogan was sitting.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Declan tried to pull away, but Brogan only tugged him onto—and not over—his lap, and then any further protests were halted when Brogan kissed him.

Brogan’s arm was tight around his back, as if there was any possibility Declan would try to leave, as if Declan hadn’t been fantasizing about this since the day he’d told Brogan he was hired. Declan pressed into the embrace, sliding a hand around the back of Brogan’s head and deepening the kiss.

After a while Brogan pulled away, but he made no move to remove Declan from his lap. “I thought you should know.”

“Know?” Declan echoed, the meaning of the word lost.

“That I’d enjoy kissing you too.” He smoothed a stray back from Declan’s forehead.

Declan caught Brogan’s wrist and pressed a kiss into his palm. “Well, that makes things a tad less awkward.”

“I think the potion’s wearing off, because that makes things more than just a tad less—”

“I didn’t have as much as you. It’s dose related. You’ve probably got another hour.” Declan nodded once, as if coming to a decision. “So I guess I’ve got to say this next part on my own.”

“What part?”

“I think we ought to get it over with. You turning me over your knee and all that.”

He expected Brogan to put up some sort of argument, or maybe laugh and write the whole thing off as a joke, but he didn’t.

“Ok.” He shifted, and before Declan had time to debate who would move what where, Brogan solved that for him and Declan found himself face down over his lap, his palms flat on the floor.

Brogan made no move to pull down his pants, and for that Declan was grateful. Not that the thin material was going to offer much protection, but he wanted the first time Brogan saw him naked to be under more cheerful circumstances.

“Ready?” Brogan asked. Which was polite of him.

“I think that term is going to be relative, in this case.”

Brogan snorted. He tightened his grip on Declan’s waist before bringing his hand down in a heavy smack.

Declan jerked. “Ow.” He was surprised to find that the pain didn’t stop, but kept going, blossoming out across his flesh.

“You ok?” Brogan asked as if somehow, even after everything Declan had done, he still thought he needed special handling.

Declan shook his head. “You can’t be so sensitive about this, you just got to—ow!”

“Get it over with.” The hesitation was gone from Brogan’s voice, and Declan missed it almost immediately. “Right.”

Brogan began swatting him faster and soon it wasn’t just painful, but hot, unbearable, and absently Declan thought that was fitting, as fire seemed to be the element of the day.

“Ok, ok,” Declan gasped, finally, and if he hadn’t needed his hands to hold him off the ground—he really was too big for this position—he would have already tried to block the swats or grab Brogan’s hand or—or do anything to stop this. As it was, he was writhing in his lap, rocking his hips, and only Brogan’s firm grip kept him in place.

“Almost done,” Brogan said, the note of reassurance back in his words.

Declan wanted to be done now, but it was a punishment, and he guessed Brogan did deserve to decide when he’d had enough.

But his eyes were watering, and he was going to make even more of a fool out of himself if that didn’t happen soon.

Declan heard himself sniff, and then again, and the next one turned into a sob. Damn it. He was crying.

Brogan stopped. He stroked a hand down Declan’s back. After a moment, Declan felt himself being carefully lifted up and stood on his feet. An instant later, Brogan was standing beside him, and Declan felt himself enveloped in warm arms.

“I’m sorry,” Declan said, his voice wet, unsteady.

“It’s ok.” Brogan massaged circles along Declan’s back. He must have felt the dampness on Declan’s face, but he didn’t mention it.

“Did you still want to lie down?” Brogan asked after a while, once Declan was calm, his breathing even.

“Only if you come with me. You can read or something.” He glanced up at Brogan. “Or read something to me.”

Brogan gave him a disbelieving look. “You want me to read to you?”

“It’s better than you talking freely and saying something you don’t want.” Declan smirked. “Something like—”

“Don’t finish that.”

“What? I was only going to—”

Brogan clamped a hand over Declan’s mouth. “I don’t think either one of us should be talking now.”

Declan rolled his eyes, but he was grinning as Brogan made a show of marching him to the bedroom, keeping him muffled the entire way. By the time they collapsed onto his bed, they were both laughing, and then…then Declan decided that maybe not talking wasn’t so bad after all.

#

Sometime after midnight, when Brogan was deep asleep, Declan crept into the main room and removed the hat from the broom closet.

“So, hat, I’ve been doing some thinking, and I believe that you’re responsible for this.”

He waited, but nothing was said in return.

“I’m going to take your silence as an admission of guilt, because we both know that Brogan never would have done anything to me if I hadn’t tried to prevent it, which I only did because of your statistic. So this is all on you.”

The hat said nothing in its defense.

“So what I should do is cut a pair ear-holes in you and stick you on the mule.”

“Probability—”

“Shh. Let’s leave that up to my imagination.”

Declan set the hat down on the conjuring table. In the darkness it appeared to be no more than any ordinary hat.

“But because of what you did, well…” Declan shrugged. “I don’t think Broggie’s going to be sleeping in the loft anymore.”

It was probably just a hole in a cloud allowing more moonlight into the room, but the stars on the hat seemed to glow.

“So, I guess I forgive you. Goodnight, hat,” Declan said as he returned to his bed and Brogan.