A few weeks after Maggie had stormed out of his house, and out of his life, Rob came home and kicked off his shoes. His feet ached, he missed Maggie, and the last thing he wanted was his cousin asking him—

“Yo, Rob-O, whatcha doing right now?” Zev said through a mouthful of cooked grains. He was eating standing up, a wooden bowl perched just beneath his lips.

Rob unslung his leather doctor’s bag and looked around for his leather slip-ons he’d bought from the Shoemaker. Though his feet remained too delicate to wear the thin-soled shoes outside, he enjoyed having something besides his light hikers to wear around the house.

“What am I doing?” Rob knew what was coming, because he’d been hearing it all day long. “This is the day I set aside to work on my Star Trek fan fiction. So I’m really busy, okay?”

“Classic or Next Gen? Forget it—both answers are wrong. Tonight’s the Harvest Ball, dude. Time to spiff up.”

“Zev, I’m going to tell you what I’ve been telling everyone else: Not going to the ball.”

Zev scraped the bottom of his bowl with the spoon, sucking down the last bits of his meal. “That’s crazy talk. Come on, let’s get you fed and dressed. Did you snag a date?”

“No date.”

“Rob-o, that was your one job today.”

“Not going.”

“Dude.” Zev refilled the bowl from the pot on the hearth, wiped the spoon on his tunic, and handed them over to Rob. “I thought we agreed. You gotta take someone to the ball so the Godmother doesn’t run you out of town on a motherfucking rail. You don’t have to get married, just a little engaged-like.”

“It’s not right, toying with someone like that.” Rob forced himself to eat a few bites. Since Maggie had gone, his appetite was a shadow of its former self. “Do you know where my slippers went?”

“Yeah, I’m wearing them,” Zev said. “I think I’m stretching ‘em out for you.”

“Dammit, I don’t want them stretched out!”

“Dude, you left them right out in the open, what was I supposed to do?”

Hans walked in the back door, took one look at Rob, then turned to Zev. “Why isn’t he ready?”

“He just got back, little dude. I’m working on it.”

Hans marched up to Rob. “Robert, I deliberately gave you a light schedule today so you could prepare for the Harvest Ball. How is it, then, that you’re only now returning home?”

“Not going,” Rob repeated, mechanically chewing his food.

“He couldn’t get a date,” Zev explained.

Hans looked incredulous. “You couldn’t get a date?”

Rob choked down his mouthful of dinner. “Of course I could get a date! Girls are throwing themselves at me every time I go outside. I have to pull my cap down over my face just to cross the road!”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re living your worst life, that’s all we’ve been hearing out of you lately,” Zev said. “But today’s the day you need to shit or get off the pot.”

Hans took a step forward. “In this case, and against all odds, I agree with your cousin. We’re running out of time, Robert. The Fair Godmother’s deadline is tonight. And mingling with the town’s well-off tonight will help us develop a customer base with money to pay its bills.”

“Will you forget about the money, please? Let’s talk about the Godmother. Can she really do this? Can she really cut me off if I refuse to marry somebody?”

Hans nodded. “The Fair Godmother runs the guilds. At her word, nobody will buy from you, and nobody will sell to you. And consider this: If you’re out of a job, then I’m out of a job. So is Frog. And so is your cousin.”

“Wait a minute,” Zev said. “I have a job again? Any chance you owe me some back pay?”

Hans continued. “Recently, you’ve talked about improving the Abbey’s hospital, which costs money. Is that to be abandoned?”

“Damn it, Hans!”

“Damn it indeed, Robert, but the facts remain while our time grows short.”

“This is crazy,” Rob said, running his fingers through his increasingly shaggy hair. “I need to talk to Godmother. There’s got to be a way around this.”

“Hey cuz,” Zev said, leaning over to steal the last bite of Rob’s dinner. “You want to go all three cups of tea on that lady, be my guest. But like Hans said, there’s seconds left on the shot clock and you’ve got the ball. You gotta decide what to do, man.”

Hans wrinkled his brow. “I’m not sure that’s what I said.”

“Close enough, little dude,” Zev said, patting Hans on the head. “Close enough.”

Rob sat on a three-legged stool outside in the courtyard, idly watching as bits of his hair rained onto the ground.

“Where did you learn to cut hair?” he asked Frog. “You’re pretty good at it.”

“I was apprenticed to a sheep shearer for a time,” the misshapen young man answered. “It was a favor to my mother’s family after she died giving birth to me. I liked it well enough, and my master seemed a fair man. But he had to release my contract.” The clipping stopped for a moment, and then resumed. “He was trying to start a family, and I frightened his wife. She worried if I remained, their children might turn out like . . . well, like me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I couldn’t have stayed with the sheep forever. One day, I’ll find a way to break this spell that keeps me the way I am, and then I’ll be a prince.” Frog began brushing the hairs from Rob’s neck. “It won’t be easy. I expect there’ll be challenges. Maybe even a quest.”

“A quest,” Rob echoed.

“It’ll happen.” His confidence unshaken, Frog wiped clean his shears. “Now. Shall we move onto trimming your beard, m’lord, or would you rather a clean shave?”

“Shave him,” Zev called out through an upstairs window. “Lose that fucking bird’s nest.”

“Will you let me handle my own grooming for Christ’s sake?” Rob shouted back. Then taking a calming breath, he said to Frog, “Just a trim, please.”

Frog had finished by the time Zev stomped down the stairs. “Two things left,” Zev said. “Clothes and a date.”

Rob brushed more hair from his sleeves. “I don’t even know if I’m going yet.”

“Yo, put your misery on hold for minute. The Tailor’s here, and it’s time to suit up. You may be up the creek with Big Red, but that doesn’t mean we can’t keep up appearances.”

“The Tailor? Isn’t it too late—”

“No worries, Rob-o, I had him whip up a little something for us both,” Zev said. “Hey, tailor guy, we’re out back!”

The little Tailor pushed through the door carrying two bundles. “M’lords, I come bearin’ party clothes.”

Zev opened one of the bundles to reveal a bright green tunic with a round neck and billowy sleeves; a light yellow undershirt that tied at the neck; and a mustardy-yellow pair of hose that reminded Rob of 80s-era leg warmers.

“Them’s the colors you wanted, aye?” the Tailor asked with an uncharacteristic lack of confidence in his voice.

“The colors are awesome,” Zev said, holding up the thick hose. “But tell me again how I keep these guys from falling down?”

“Easy, m’lord. Each ties onto your breeches, nice and neat.”

“Like thigh-high panty hose,” Rob said.

“Shut up,” Zev said. “This is what everyone here wears. Dude, when in Rome, you know?”

“I’m pretty sure the men in Rome didn’t wear thigh highs.”

Zev flipped Rob the bird. “I’m going upstairs to change. You going to be ready soon? With the King still away, Cyn’s hosting the ball, and whatever you think of that chick, she sure knows how to party.”

“You’re not still sleeping with her, right?”

“Absolutely not. It’s impossible to get any sleep with all our banging going on.”

“Zev!” Rob shouted as his cousin ducked through his townhouse’s back door. He slowly turned to face the Tailor, who waited patiently with his second bundle. “Can we pretend you didn’t hear any of that?”

“Soul of discretion, m’lord.”

“I’m not really a lord, you know.”

The Tailor winked at Rob. “Course not. But lately I been callin’ all me customers that. They seem to like it.”

“Business is good?”

The Tailor shrugged. “Anyone with one good eye and two left hands can make a go of it leadin’ up a big ball. Will you be likin’ to see your new suit now?”

Without waiting for an answer, the Tailor laid out a deep blue tunic with a raised collar and shallow V-neck; a full-sleeved undershirt that, while about 50 percent longer than Rob would have preferred, beat his current tee in the cleanliness departments by a medieval mile; and a pair of light-brown pants—pants!—with a plain front and drawstring waist.

“I didn’t make any of those pocket thingees,” the Tailor said. “I’m not sure why you’d have them hidin’ under your tunic ‘stead of a sturdy bag tied to your belt.”

Rob held the light woolen pants up to himself. “That’s okay. Hey, I think they’re going to fit. How did you—”

The Tailor gave the side of his nose a knowing touch. “A good tailor never forgets.”

“This is great,” Rob said. “Will you be at the ball tonight?”

“Not likely,” the Tailor said as he gathered his things. “Some of me former in-laws might be there, and that wouldn’t make for much of a party. You enjoy yourself, though, and drop by later to tell me all about it.”

After the Tailor left, Hans slipped back into the courtyard to join Rob.

“Where'd you disappear to?” Rob asked as he ran his palm over his soft new tunic.

“I went to see my sister. She’s agreed to accompany you to this evening’s ball.”

“What, you mean Greta? No! That’s how I got into this trouble in the first place.”

Hans glared up at Rob. “You’re out of time. Greta’s willing to join you, but if she isn’t acceptable, I’m certain we can find another young lady to whom you might pledge yourself.”

“This stinks!”

“You don’t have to like it.”

Rob shifted his gaze away from Hans and toward his bundle of new clothes. He fingered the materials; the fabrics were thin but strong, and the dyes weren’t rubbing off on his hands. The pant legs appeared to be a bit narrow, especially by the ankles, but they were a definite improvement over close-fitting hose. The Tailor made quality garments, and the only fly in the ointment was the occasion for which he had to wear them.

Could he really go through with this? Even if his engagement with Greta wasn’t real, Maggie would never forgive him. But what else was he supposed to do? For the life of him, Rob had no idea.

Hans finally turned on his heel and left. “Greta will be here shortly. You should dress before she arrives.”

Rob flinched as the door slammed, and then he heard an uneven shuffling of feet behind him.

“Are you all right, m’lord?” Frog asked.

Rob sighed. “I keep saying, you don’t have to call me that.”

A ripple of uncertainty cascaded through Frog’s hump. “Doctor, then?”

“Or Rob, even. Whatever you like.”

Frog nodded for several moments before speaking again. “It’s very unusual, m’lord, the way you talk to people.”

“I get that a lot.” Rob began unfolding his new clothes. Something hard but flexible had been wrapped in the middle: a thin leather belt meant to cinch his tunic. It was plain except for the embroidery on the back, which reminded him of the Tailor’s belt with its worn, semi-indecipherable lettering. Primum Non Nocere, the light thread spelled out in blocky stitches. While it wasn’t a direct quote from the Hippocratic Oath, it was the ancient Greek physician Hippocrates boiled down to fit on a bumper sticker.

Primum Non Nocere. First, do no harm.

Those were heavy words to live by, even on a good day, and this sure as hell wasn’t one of them. Rob thought back to some advice a senior doc had given him during a rough surgical rotation, where Rob vacillated between worrying he’d gone too far in removing tumors and worrying he hadn’t gone far enough. Small steps, the doctor had said. Focus on the present. And first, do no harm.

If Rob’s experience as a resident had taught him anything, it was that the wrong action could sometimes be worse than no action at all. People lived their whole lives with slow-growing cancers that never did them a lick of injury, while surgery followed by radiation and chemo could kill a patient quicker than the tumor those blunt instruments were trying to treat. Not even the finest surgeon could always predict a disease’s outcome with perfect certainty.

Primum Non Nocere. First, do no harm.

Would the Godmother really ostracize the town’s only working doctor? The more Rob thought about it, the more he believed there must be some wiggle room. True, he was causing some bordering-on-hysterical behavior among the young and the restlessly unmarried. But getting ‘engaged’ to Greta or some rando wasn’t the only solution. It couldn’t be.

He’d messed things up with Maggie, that was clear. And he was in danger of messing things up for Hans and Frog, who’d become economically intertwined with his medical practice. No more. Rob committed himself to taking small steps to untangle this mess he’d helped create. He’d stop worrying so much about consequences that were impossible to foresee. And most importantly, he’d strive to do no harm.

“Hans!” he bellowed. “Hans!”

Hans poked his perturbed face through the courtyard window. “Yes, Robert?”

“Go with your sister to the ball. I’m not taking her.”

Hans shook his head in resignation. “Fine. Who will you be taking, then?”

“Nobody. I’m not taking anybody.”

“Robert—”

“Don’t ‘Robert’ me right now,” he snapped. “I’ve made up my mind. Now get out of here.”

Hans appeared startled, but he withdrew into the townhouse without another word. For his part, Rob felt as if a sack full of hammers had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt relived. He felt taller.

He turned to Frog, who was brushing the donkey’s gray coat while the dog, cat and rooster made animal noises together. “What are your plans tonight?”

Frog looked down at the ground, and Rob realized too late that he was probably thinking how he wouldn’t be attending the Harvest Ball. He felt terrible for asking.

“No plans, m’lord,” Frog said.

“Good,” Rob said. He’d had an idea, and the idea made him happy for the first time in weeks. “Because I’ve got an important job for you.”

“A quest, m’lord?” Frog raised his head slightly, enough so Rob could read the excitement in his face.

“Yeah,” Rob said. “A quest. Pack up your hair-cutting tools. It’s a bit of a walk, but there’s a girl living all alone in the forest who could really use your skills.”