Since the night on the bridge, Pocket found it troubling to look at the goblin, afraid that he might find himself entranced. The prospect of laughing at anything he said filled Pocket with a dread that made his stomach turn sour. He had spent his life in constant fear of what harmful intentions lay under the surface of people’s every word, every deed, every gesture and expression. The boy who smiled at you was often the first to slap mud in your face, and the man who seemed the most unaware of your presence was watching you closer than any other with violent thoughts in his head. Pocket knew this for truth, and yet he had been drawn in by Muckle, trusting him despite his obvious madness. He had been so confident, so amiable and quick to laugh at others as well as himself. They had eaten so many sweets that first day in the city, all of them gifts from hawkers who genuinely seemed to like the goblin with the fish in his breeches. But Pocket could still see the entrails spilling out of the burst flesh of the men on the bridge, their blue faces and black lips. His appetite fled at the slightest thought of that sight.

Still, he was grateful he knew. Maybe if he had seen Muckle’s true nature sooner he would not have trusted the woman with the bucket, even for a moment. Pocket had avoided asking Sir Corc about the gruagach, fearing his questions would only lead to a sound reprimand for sneaking away. He deserved one, he knew, but that did not make him want to face it any more. But he had to know! Sir Corc probably would not tell him anything anyway, and better to get his punishment out of the way. It might even take his mind off the blisters on his feet.

“Sir?” he asked quietly. “Would you tell me, please, why those gruagach wanted to take me?”

“Because they were given a chance,” the knight replied without looking at him.

“Thirty lashes for desertion!” Muckle trumpeted, getting a look of warning from Sir Corc in the process. “Sorry.”

Sir Corc looked back to Pocket and considered a long moment. “They see you as one of them, Pocket,” he said at last.

“But I am only half gruagach.” Pocket was confused and it must have shown on his face.

“The Fae-folk,” the knight continued, “have always been fascinated by the mortal races. The elves raised my own people out of savagery. The fomori were even granted immortality as a gift, but humans…humans intrigued the Fae most of all.”

“Can you blame us?” Muckle muttered. “Ever seen a goblin woman?”

Sir Corc’s frown deepened and he turned. “Muckle. I have no tongue for stories. Since you seem so keen on wagging yours, please…take over.”

“Oh!” Muckle seemed genuinely surprised. “Oh! Alright…um, lemme see. In the beginning…No! That is an awful start…erm…”