The kitten opens one green eye and stares at him.

‘You said she came out of Winterspell.’ Peg’s brow furrows. ‘Who knows what she might be.’

‘She’s a cat, and I’m keeping her. She can be my familiar – like Peg is yours, Nan.’

They huff together.

‘How do you know it’s a she?’ Peg demands. ‘Something magical? I mean, if it’s going to be a familiar, it needs to be a bit magical. Can’t just have any old cat being a familiar.’

‘You just said that she was probably a monster! Now she’s any old cat?’

‘She is an unknown, to be treated with caution,’ says Nan.

‘Fine. I won’t tell her all our secrets. Yet. But she is staying.’

‘Well aren’t you growing up quickly with all your new attitudes?’ she says drily. ‘What are you going to call this pet of yours, then?’

‘Teacake!’ I blurt.

Peg puts his horned head in his hands, and Nan opens her mouth and snaps it shut again. Teacake’s purr rumbles through me.

‘Really?’ Peg asks, raising his head and staring at me. ‘You do know that a familiar is an important creature? That if it’s true, your bond will be unassailable, that she will be by your side until the day you die – or even after.’ He gives Nan a look. ‘That she will be your champion when you need one, your adviser, your closest ally, your most magical weapon in times of need? That she will sacrifice everything to be with you, that your care for her must be foremost in your mind, no matter what comes your way?’

‘Yes, Peg.’ I meet his eye. ‘I know what a familiar is. It’s one of the only things I really do know for sure. Do you think you haven’t taught me that?’

‘She’s probably just a lost kitty, and she’ll be gone back home within a week,’ Nan says. ‘For all your melodrama, the pair of you, let’s not get carried away. She looks fairly ordinary to me.’

I bury my fingers in Teacake’s thick fur and tickle her neck. She rolls over in my lap, showing us all her pale belly, and gives a little chirrup, staring at Peg and flexing her claws. The flames roar in the fireplace, and Peg’s tail makes sparks as it swishes, and Nan settles back into her chair, her eyes dancing as she watches.

I think she likes Teacake, really.

The Sprite

Ahh, lucky is the soul blessed by the sprite. They are few and far between, and their power is vast, for it is the power of trees, and rivers, and mountains, and of the moon itself. Nimble, stalk-limbed, they might even pass for human, were it not for the verdant hues of their hair and the tiny horns that sometimes grow from their upper brow.

Peaceful, they may be – but ware, fisherman, to ask for permission before you plunder a water sprite’s river. And ware, woodcutters, for the wood sprite’s rage is as vast as all of Winterspell, if harm should come to its dearest. A wood sprite who has lost its tree is a terrible, howling creature. A monster made, indeed.