“Generally, I expect a ‘good morning,’” said the newcomer. “I shall give you another chance to provide one.”

“G-good morning,” Scratch stammered.

He beamed. “And a good morning to you, young traveler. I am Uncle.”

Scratch did not have any uncles, but if she did, she doubted they would have shared even a passing resemblance with this new fae.

Uncle was, for lack of a better word, a bug. A very large, extremely well-dressed bug wearing wire spectacles and tails. His antennae twitched merrily above his large, oblong head. His yellow, protruding eyes peered from behind two small, round lenses, and a burgundy waistcoat stretched across his sternum, testing the resilience of the golden buttons that held it closed. His velvet tailcoat was immaculate, and what appeared to be a large leaf fluttered behind him like a cape.

“It would be my pleasure to serve as your escort this morning.” He bowed low, offering a feeler for Scratch to shake. She did, despite her apprehension. The appendage was surprisingly firm, with tiny strands of something coarse on the surface. “It’s a dreadful shame that we should meet like this, but, needs must.” He peered around. “Shall we head back? Your Brella is rather distraught.”

“Sh-she wants me back?” Scratch asked, disbelieving.

“Of course she does! Do you think Umbrella would let a friend traipse off into the forest alone, especially one with whom she has shared a blood connection?”

“What does the blood bond have to do with it?”

His yellowy eyes warmed. “She wouldn’t bond with someone she didn’t care for. Now, let’s get a move on. I assume she told you about me.” He held himself, if possible, even taller. Scratch shook her head. “She must have. I assume you’ve forgotten.” He straightened his lapels. “Off we go then.”

They walked side by side through the dark forest. Dawn began its daily crest behind them, illuminating the thorny trees in smoky cool light. Perhaps Scratch had lost her nerve, because the trees were just as terrifying as they had been in complete darkness. The bark was gnarled, the slashes and knots forming the vague shapes of leering faces, with shifting eyes that followed her as she plodded back to the glen.

Uncle didn’t seem to mind being observed by the trees. He whistled a happy little tune, his spindly legs carrying him jauntily along.

“Brella called for our help as soon as you fled,” he told her. “Very bad form, by the way, you scurrying off. I believe you were warned about the tests. You could have very easily been killed.”

She shuddered. “What was that thing?”

“Oh that? That was Peek. We have her over for tea on occasion.”

Scratch’s stomach was in knots by the time they approached the familiar clearing. She wasn’t sure how to feel. The dream had punctured her, and she was wounded, but running hadn’t been a bandage. It was avoidance.