The door burst open and a woman bustled out. She was clearly old, though she moved quickly. Her crinkling, worn cheeks had all the rosy plumpness and warmth of a full teapot. Long white lashes framed sparkling eyes, with irises a blue so pale it verged on white, and dark, rectangular pupils that stretched nearly the entire length of her eye. Her hair was a fluffy cloud, brushed back and away from the large, thick-glassed spectacles that sat atop a genial little nose, as smooth and as well-formed as an acorn. She wore a pale yellow blouse topped with a dusty rose pinafore, the lace-trimmed skirt skimming the tops of her—

Those weren’t knees.

“Oh dear, oh dear.” She scurried up to James with remarkable speed, tutting over his prone body. “Oh dear. Gogo, fetch me the blanket.”

“Yes, Nana,” the door knocker replied. How he was meant to fetch anything Scratch had no idea, but in a moment a roll of fabric zoomed out of the door and unfurled next to James.

“There, there,” the woman cooed as the blanket gently edged its way under James. “Good job. Almost got him now. Drop him in the rose room and then come back for the other. He’ll go in the daisy.”

The blanket rose and carried James into the cottage. It returned in a moment, a touch blood-stained, and repeated the process with the sputtering Gultin.

“What’s going on?” he slurred, floating through the cottage door. “What is this? What’s going on?”

The woman turned, giving Scratch a clear view of her full form. Two reddish-brown furred appendages jutted from the bottom of her skirt, knees bent backward. At the ends, where there should have been feet, the woman had hooves.

“Now,” the goat-woman declared, a serene smile beaming from her wizened face. “Why don’t you children come in for some tea? We have much to discuss.”

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Scratch entered the cottage in a daze. She had never been in the home of a fae before. Was there some sort of etiquette she had to follow? Did she need to bring a gift? All she had on her were weapons: Gultin’s sword, her kitchen knife, and a Pokie. Perhaps Nana would enjoy a slightly used, bespoke silk knife sheath. Unless—did the fair folk even have knives?

She could have slapped herself. Of course they had knives. They certainly had cottages, and fairly regular-looking cottages at that. The room she entered was wood-paneled, with a pair of well-worn couches occupying most of the space. Before them squatted a low table laid with a small dining set: one plate, one spoon, and one cup, all done in mismatched, colorful ceramic work. Low beams latticed the ceiling like the top of a pie, bundles of dried herbs hanging at all four corners. At the center of the ceiling an upside-down dangling bouquet of flowers emitted a soft, yellow light, like an unblinking flame.