A heavy pounding startled Trixie out of both slumber and hammock. She tumbled facefirst and cursing to her wagon’s floor.
“It’s open,” she mumbled.
In burst Pinkie, panting, eyes and nostrils blazing like the dawn.
“All sales are final,” Trixie said automatically.
“Forget about the disappearing ink—I’m here about that dirty cheat Fernando!”
“Fer… who?”
“FERNANDO!” Pinkie whipped a fuzz-caked bendy-straw out from her mane. “And Sir Lintsalot! I caught them in flagrante delicto!”
Trixie blinked. “That’s a straw with some lint stuck on.”
“Verily!” Pinkie swooned backwards onto a crate of fireworks. “And now Fernando’s erstwhile lover Madame LeFlour demands fiery vengeance for her slighted ardor!”
“The Great and Powerful Trixie isn’t licensed to sell pyrotechnics.”
Pinkie deflated. “Oh. Well… I suppose… the girls did warn me about getting overimaginative while they were out of town this weekend…”
“Sane advice,” Trixie grumbled.
Pinkie pronked away, humming.
Trixie’s grumbling intensified.