Suddenly, he was no longer just the changeling’s get, an unwanted reminder of the foul couplings of mortal and Fae. He was the skulking doom of the entire castle, death in the shadows, misfortune made flesh. All of the castle servants knew he answered to the Mumbler, and when the old man was laid low by his mysterious ailment, their accusations turned towards Pocket. As the other incidents stacked up, their suspicion increased. The blacksmith sent him fleeing the leech’s quarters, his tear streaked face swollen with red fury, his weathered hands leaving his daughter’s limp fingers and curling into tight promises of pain. The big man knocked over half the leech’s stock of unguents in his attempt to reach Pocket, his violence fueling the mad ranting of the two unfortunates lying in their cots. Fortunately, the blacksmith was blind with despair, clumsy with grief and Pocket escaped amidst the breaking of pottery, the splintering of wood and the cries of the stricken. He had only tried to bring the girl some flowers.

He fled to the safety of his tower hideaway and remained there, but he was quickly facing the need to return. His meager food stock was gone and the empty rolling in his guts was usurping the fears in his head. Were he a proper changeling, he could become one of the castle children and roam free, never hiding, never starving, never fearing, but the ability to hold a human’s form was as elusive as their trust. So he stayed and hid and slept. He looked at his map, played with his wooden horse and with Napper when the cat was around. He envied the little ratter’s freedom, wishing he could fill his belly on a whim, but as yet, the notion of dining on rodents was unappealing. But in a day or two more, who could say?

“You will have to teach me how to hunt soon, little sir.”

But Napper was not listening. He was staring, intently and unmoving, ears pushed forward, hunched and watching, watching the dark tunnel that led into the abandoned tower.

Someone was approaching!

Pocket pushed forward off the landing, spinning about to catch hold of the lower cross-brace where he dangled for half a heartbeat before dropping noiselessly to the ground. He dashed forward, scooping Napper up into a bundle then turned on his heel and fled underneath the stairs. Keeping Napper close, he squatted in the shadows of the scaffolding, facing the tunnel mouth.

The light came first, a creeping glow infecting the secure blackness. Pocket had borne countless torches and candles down that very passage, the flames a welcome companion, but in the hands of the unknown, that same light was a dreadful threat. No one ever came down here! Not in years! Pocket drew further back into the stairs, struggling to keep Napper still.