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“I think we earned our escape, so it's time for them to do the same.” Xiubao stood near the unconscious guards, a thin metal band with keys hanging from it linked over the tip of her finger. Nevermind that she'd also taken the opportunity to lighten the other contents of the guards' pockets, which were safely tucked away inside her jacket. When exactly she'd stopped to rob the men was somewhat unclear between the antics of prisoners and former prisoners alike.
With a casual toss, the keys clattered to the ground in front of the brothers' cell. Not right to them, of course, but just out of reach. Her smile was equally teasing. “Another peep from you two and I'm taking those with me. That, or the guards will come running to see what all this fuss is about.”
She turned then, flicking her hair over her left shoulder. “Would you three kindly wait a moment? I promise to impress again, but I can't have anyone running off with swords brandished or getting us out of here is going to be more difficult than I can help you with.” With all the perky hustle of a business woman, she headed back to the cleaning closet and returned with an odd black box in one hand and a silvered cane in the other.
“Just follow after me quietly, yes? We'll take a look at what we're dealing with and I'll show you how the whole covert escape is supposed to go.” Slipping like a shadow through the door, Xiubao made her way down the alley formed form the prison and its neighbor and peeked into the awaiting marketplace. It wasn't a surprise more guards hadn't been alerted from the ruckus—they really were enjoying themselves. She saw pairs and groups scattered around the various stalls, either gorging themselves on wine and booze or trying their luck with whatever unfortunate woman happened to be running errands during their evening revelry.
Easy. Xiubao knelt and settled her case down onto the ground. After opening it up and fiddling with its hidden pockets, she popped a few small, strange cylinders into her hand and tied them together with a straw-like string. Finishing that, she abandoned her case entirely and strode into the marketplace. Her stride was easy but fast as she made her way over to a vatai and his spit.
The fellow was busy haggling with guards, and lucky for her, neither party was particularly happy with the exchange. As anyone could imagine, the guards insisted on a discount for their services and the vendor in turn insisted they were forcing extortion on a man who worked an honest living. Meanwhile, the okonomiyaki cooling on his counter next to the grill was getting cold. She really had to rectify that.
Xiubao pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeve and began stuffing as many of the flat pastries in as she could, always with her eyes on the vendor and the surrounding marketplace. With the cloth still steaming, she tied it up and set it aside—the next task she had in mind was one she wasn't too pleased with. Stealing was fine, but startling the innocent fellow quite as much as she was about to just wasn't nice on top of it.
The strange cylinders from earlier popped out of her hand. She slipped the long string into the crevice of the grill until it caught aflame, then walked away as quickly as she could without actually running. There was merely seconds for her to take cover in a crowd before the powder did its job, each cylinder firing off with a bright trail of blue sparks and whistling loud enough to hurt her ears. All eyes turned toward the food stall, the guards startled from their drunken stupor enough to brandish swords and investigate.
That was her chance. She went to a post where two horses had been tied, their former guards finally gone. It was a cinch to work their reigns loose, and with the same hurried grace of earlier, she made her way back to the alleyway. “Boys! It's now or never!”
With a casual toss, the keys clattered to the ground in front of the brothers' cell. Not right to them, of course, but just out of reach. Her smile was equally teasing. “Another peep from you two and I'm taking those with me. That, or the guards will come running to see what all this fuss is about.”
She turned then, flicking her hair over her left shoulder. “Would you three kindly wait a moment? I promise to impress again, but I can't have anyone running off with swords brandished or getting us out of here is going to be more difficult than I can help you with.” With all the perky hustle of a business woman, she headed back to the cleaning closet and returned with an odd black box in one hand and a silvered cane in the other.
“Just follow after me quietly, yes? We'll take a look at what we're dealing with and I'll show you how the whole covert escape is supposed to go.” Slipping like a shadow through the door, Xiubao made her way down the alley formed form the prison and its neighbor and peeked into the awaiting marketplace. It wasn't a surprise more guards hadn't been alerted from the ruckus—they really were enjoying themselves. She saw pairs and groups scattered around the various stalls, either gorging themselves on wine and booze or trying their luck with whatever unfortunate woman happened to be running errands during their evening revelry.
Easy. Xiubao knelt and settled her case down onto the ground. After opening it up and fiddling with its hidden pockets, she popped a few small, strange cylinders into her hand and tied them together with a straw-like string. Finishing that, she abandoned her case entirely and strode into the marketplace. Her stride was easy but fast as she made her way over to a vatai and his spit.
The fellow was busy haggling with guards, and lucky for her, neither party was particularly happy with the exchange. As anyone could imagine, the guards insisted on a discount for their services and the vendor in turn insisted they were forcing extortion on a man who worked an honest living. Meanwhile, the okonomiyaki cooling on his counter next to the grill was getting cold. She really had to rectify that.
Xiubao pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeve and began stuffing as many of the flat pastries in as she could, always with her eyes on the vendor and the surrounding marketplace. With the cloth still steaming, she tied it up and set it aside—the next task she had in mind was one she wasn't too pleased with. Stealing was fine, but startling the innocent fellow quite as much as she was about to just wasn't nice on top of it.
The strange cylinders from earlier popped out of her hand. She slipped the long string into the crevice of the grill until it caught aflame, then walked away as quickly as she could without actually running. There was merely seconds for her to take cover in a crowd before the powder did its job, each cylinder firing off with a bright trail of blue sparks and whistling loud enough to hurt her ears. All eyes turned toward the food stall, the guards startled from their drunken stupor enough to brandish swords and investigate.
That was her chance. She went to a post where two horses had been tied, their former guards finally gone. It was a cinch to work their reigns loose, and with the same hurried grace of earlier, she made her way back to the alleyway. “Boys! It's now or never!”
“Chilled juice? How fancy!” One of the pixies flitted down from the hedge leaves to land on Laila's furry back. “Everything about him is fancy, don't you think?”
“Mn.” Laila's dark eyes were distant as she finally caught a good look at the new lord. It was strange—she'd seen boys grow up into men for a very long time, but it was rare to see a child disappear and return fully grown. She felt a pang of sadness, as if she'd missed something important, but it was undeniable that the child's transformation had been one of grace and sophistication. He reminded her of the orchid, tall and dark and elegant with a proud head that carried its petals higher than the other flowers of the garden.
Beside her, Brus hummed. “It's just like when Edward arrived, except he had a lovely wife on his arm then. The servants keep trying to move furniture around and want to repaint the place, but I've kept everything just how it's supposed to be. Margaret would have wanted it that way.”
Laila smirked, gazing up and down the house as William disappeared inside it. “That's an awful lot of house guests to keep an eye on, Brus. The village has declared the place haunted for years—now they're sure to be convinced of it.”
“All the better!” Brus tugged at the lapels of his ragged coat as he strode toward the house. “Respecting the old ways is the only way to keep the resting spirits happy. These English ladies don't have a clue about how to do such things, but Brus has done his job there. I wrote up the best application for Mrs. Campell and left it on top of the others in his studies. That blasted Thomas won't like it, but she's the old head servant of the place. A touch old now, but wise and wary of the fae. She could use a comfortable position again.”
Laila canted her head, leaping forward to follow alongside Brus in the tall grass. “I remember you were very fond of her.”
“Aye.” Brus's face sobered, but he smiled. “She hasn't been the same since she returned to her empty house. Her irresponsible husband went and left her too soon, and now she needs company to keep her from collecting dust.”
“She's fortunate to have you looking after her.”
Brus shook his head. “We made a good team, she and I. I'll never forget all the years the Campbells have made me happy.”
Unfortunately, Laila had to part with Brus at the door. Invisible to human eyes, he turned the knob and strode in—something a confused servant in the hallway convinced herself was a wayward breeze and not a ghost.
“Mn.” Laila's dark eyes were distant as she finally caught a good look at the new lord. It was strange—she'd seen boys grow up into men for a very long time, but it was rare to see a child disappear and return fully grown. She felt a pang of sadness, as if she'd missed something important, but it was undeniable that the child's transformation had been one of grace and sophistication. He reminded her of the orchid, tall and dark and elegant with a proud head that carried its petals higher than the other flowers of the garden.
Beside her, Brus hummed. “It's just like when Edward arrived, except he had a lovely wife on his arm then. The servants keep trying to move furniture around and want to repaint the place, but I've kept everything just how it's supposed to be. Margaret would have wanted it that way.”
Laila smirked, gazing up and down the house as William disappeared inside it. “That's an awful lot of house guests to keep an eye on, Brus. The village has declared the place haunted for years—now they're sure to be convinced of it.”
“All the better!” Brus tugged at the lapels of his ragged coat as he strode toward the house. “Respecting the old ways is the only way to keep the resting spirits happy. These English ladies don't have a clue about how to do such things, but Brus has done his job there. I wrote up the best application for Mrs. Campell and left it on top of the others in his studies. That blasted Thomas won't like it, but she's the old head servant of the place. A touch old now, but wise and wary of the fae. She could use a comfortable position again.”
Laila canted her head, leaping forward to follow alongside Brus in the tall grass. “I remember you were very fond of her.”
“Aye.” Brus's face sobered, but he smiled. “She hasn't been the same since she returned to her empty house. Her irresponsible husband went and left her too soon, and now she needs company to keep her from collecting dust.”
“She's fortunate to have you looking after her.”
Brus shook his head. “We made a good team, she and I. I'll never forget all the years the Campbells have made me happy.”
Unfortunately, Laila had to part with Brus at the door. Invisible to human eyes, he turned the knob and strode in—something a confused servant in the hallway convinced herself was a wayward breeze and not a ghost.
Well, she hadn't been expecting a friendly reception, but the unfolding of events was equally perplexing. The gorilla man was intent on talking to the raging adolescent behind her (brave, considering the kid might tear out someone's throat be it guard or prison-fellow), so she slid out of the way, hands on her hips. That they seemed eager to escape and even had a plan to do so would have been terribly convenient if she hadn't already had means of her own.
But why interfere? Three bare-chested men in a cage had so much potential—or would have, if their bare skin didn't smell like rotten onions and old cheese. Seriously, the stench was so potent it made her eyes burn. Thank all the stars above she'd wouldn't be there long enough to adjust to it, or worse yet, join in on it.
Xiubao shuddered at the thought, rubbing at her arms as she stood and watched the men. Well, at least two of them were men, as the third had a delicate and finely boned frame that went beyond gauntness brought on by too little food. Without a name provided, she figured she'd go with Mousey. Yes, Mousey at least seemed to have it together more than the others, calm and not entirely insane as he... or she tied the shirts together. It had to be a boy, though, right? She couldn't see a great deal, but that chest sure did seem flat...
Focus, Xiubao. While the men played tug-of-war with the loosened bar of the cell, she stepped closer to the door and kept watch. There wasn't really a need to, given that there weren't any guards about and likely wouldn't be for a while, but the whole business of escaping had her on edge. If the guards were alerted, where could they run? If they made it outside, wouldn't the guards have horses, too? Neglectful as the prison keepers seemed to be, they did have some reason not to worry overly much.
As the bar and mortar gave way, however, the whole stealthy escape thing fell to pieces. She stepped out after the others just as their fellow prisoners started shouting. A thought went through her head; couldn't she just sit back and watch them fight, get beaten, and jailed again? Their chances really didn't seem great, and if she sat it out, she'd at least avoid getting her ass kicked. Then she could make a stealthier escape later—dammit, why hadn't she stopped their little plan earlier?
But it was too late and four pairs of hands were better than three. If they got some weapons, too, it'd raise their fighting chances against a larger group of drunkards. Xiubao figured it was reason enough to help out, which she did by jogging over to Mousey.
“You're kind of cute when you're all worked up.” She canted her head with a smile as she reached behind her ear and plucked out two small hairpins. “What you need, though, is a more delicate touch.”
It didn't take any effort to shoo him off the door, so she got straight to work. It was simpler and yet more complex than it looked, and the fact that there was noise and impending guards didn't help. But! Was she not a professional? Did she not trick dozens of eyes with a few flicks of her fingers? All she needed was focus, the acute kind that steadied her hands and drowned out everything but her object of focus.
The first hairpin she practically bent in half and used to slip into the lock to turn it. The second was bent open, then delicately twisted on one end. What followed was a process of carefully feeling each pin in the lock, finding the most resistant one, pushing it upward to the perfect position, and then torquing the lock so the pin couldn't fall back into place. There were five pins to go and hardly any time to work them...
She did it in less than ten seconds—not that anyone was counting. Standing up from where she'd been kneeling in front of the door, she turned the knob and opened the closet with a little bow. “All yours. And see if you can't find something for the rest of us!”
But why interfere? Three bare-chested men in a cage had so much potential—or would have, if their bare skin didn't smell like rotten onions and old cheese. Seriously, the stench was so potent it made her eyes burn. Thank all the stars above she'd wouldn't be there long enough to adjust to it, or worse yet, join in on it.
Xiubao shuddered at the thought, rubbing at her arms as she stood and watched the men. Well, at least two of them were men, as the third had a delicate and finely boned frame that went beyond gauntness brought on by too little food. Without a name provided, she figured she'd go with Mousey. Yes, Mousey at least seemed to have it together more than the others, calm and not entirely insane as he... or she tied the shirts together. It had to be a boy, though, right? She couldn't see a great deal, but that chest sure did seem flat...
Focus, Xiubao. While the men played tug-of-war with the loosened bar of the cell, she stepped closer to the door and kept watch. There wasn't really a need to, given that there weren't any guards about and likely wouldn't be for a while, but the whole business of escaping had her on edge. If the guards were alerted, where could they run? If they made it outside, wouldn't the guards have horses, too? Neglectful as the prison keepers seemed to be, they did have some reason not to worry overly much.
As the bar and mortar gave way, however, the whole stealthy escape thing fell to pieces. She stepped out after the others just as their fellow prisoners started shouting. A thought went through her head; couldn't she just sit back and watch them fight, get beaten, and jailed again? Their chances really didn't seem great, and if she sat it out, she'd at least avoid getting her ass kicked. Then she could make a stealthier escape later—dammit, why hadn't she stopped their little plan earlier?
But it was too late and four pairs of hands were better than three. If they got some weapons, too, it'd raise their fighting chances against a larger group of drunkards. Xiubao figured it was reason enough to help out, which she did by jogging over to Mousey.
“You're kind of cute when you're all worked up.” She canted her head with a smile as she reached behind her ear and plucked out two small hairpins. “What you need, though, is a more delicate touch.”
It didn't take any effort to shoo him off the door, so she got straight to work. It was simpler and yet more complex than it looked, and the fact that there was noise and impending guards didn't help. But! Was she not a professional? Did she not trick dozens of eyes with a few flicks of her fingers? All she needed was focus, the acute kind that steadied her hands and drowned out everything but her object of focus.
The first hairpin she practically bent in half and used to slip into the lock to turn it. The second was bent open, then delicately twisted on one end. What followed was a process of carefully feeling each pin in the lock, finding the most resistant one, pushing it upward to the perfect position, and then torquing the lock so the pin couldn't fall back into place. There were five pins to go and hardly any time to work them...
She did it in less than ten seconds—not that anyone was counting. Standing up from where she'd been kneeling in front of the door, she turned the knob and opened the closet with a little bow. “All yours. And see if you can't find something for the rest of us!”
“What’s all this?” She strode into one of many clearings in her wood, the hem of her gown ghosting over the grass like spider silk. Being a fae of power, she was tall as a human, her wings a bright azure shadow that fell over the creatures present. It appeared to be a gathering of brownies—house sprites who had a goblin-like appearance with their wrinkled skin, pointed ears, and devastating height that would leave them no taller than a dwarf. Humans would call these creatures shy, yet they were among the most attached to humankind or perhaps more accurately, their houses.
Brus, a wide faced and gentle-looking brownie, jumped up to his feet and removed his brown cap with a bow. “Laila, guardian fair! I am hosting a house party.”
Her expression warmed into a proper smile, and she curtseyed. “Then I am fortunate to have wandered into your merrymaking. The rumors of Lord Arrington returning are true?”
A chorus of assent rumbled through the dozens of brownies present. Brus beamed. “Yes! I—that is, the manor and me—are freed of our lonely charge at last. Sadness piled up like dust and stuck to all the dark and desolate places the humans left behind. Grief has that sort of power, you know. Now that the humans have returned to sweep out the wretched cobwebs, I can return to work. Work… and home.”
Home indeed. What was a brownie without a house to clean and humans to tease? The others gathered would have an even greater sense of empathy, as they had also made their homes among the village’s families. Utterly unseen they were, doing their cleaning and mending at night. The humans in turn had learned to leave out little favors—cream and milk and honey—but always as favors. Brownies considered themselves as part of the same household, so the mere idea of payment was an insult.
But that wasn’t to say they never got up to mischief. One of the village wives had always made a point of keeping her kitchen table spotless and clean. When her daughter started keeping a vase of pink-petaled water avens there, the house’s brownie had been so annoyed by the smell he’d tossed them out and replaced them with weeds every morning. Oh, the scolding the younger children had received! They’d insisted it was the brownie, of course, but no one believed that.
She glanced over to the small pile of housewarming gifts at Brus’s side. His fellow brownies had provided quite the assortment—rags of every texture and color, half-used tins of polish, wooden brushes with woolen bristles, golden bars of soap made from honey and beeswax, and bottles of every sort of homemade cleaning remedy the brownies had concocted themselves. The hope and well wishes there brought her joy and yet a strange sort of melancholy. How long would this new lord last?
Ah well, she’d try to hope like the others.
“I’m afraid I neglected to bring a gift despite inviting myself. Let’s see…” She cupped her hand out in front of her, eyes squinting as she focused. There in the open meadow she could feel the sun soaking into her skin. As the brownies watched in wonder, she caught that warmth and began to concentrate it in her hand. A flash of golden light sparked from her fingers, then a butterfly fluttered up from them. The thing appeared to be made entirely of light, its delicate, petal-shaped wings glowing as they glided to Bru’s shoulder.
“A light so your nights need never be dark or lonely.” She chuckled as Brus blushed and gave a low bow. “This Lord Arrington is fortunate to—”
“He comes, he comes!” Not one, but many small voices tinkled through the surrounding leaves. A moment later, a smattering of fae broke through, all heading for the other side of the clearing. Pixies with wings like gossamer, sprites riding leaves like birds, little elves on squirrels, rock-like trolls rolling across the ground—it was a stampede so light and furious a human, oblivious to the fae world as they were, would have mistaken it all for a sudden breeze.
Even the brownies stumbled to their feet to follow the fray. A strange sensation came over Laila, too, her heart picking up a fast and unsteady beat. Though she never said his name, she knew who this new lord was. How had the boy grown? Was he anything like his aunt? What had happened to him in that strange land beyond the sea?
She wanted to see him, needed to see him. In a flash, she transformed, her body shrinking and twisting in a blur of color that turned to black. With paws and legs like unfettered springs, she leapt from the ground and joined the chase. There was something unnatural about her movements, the lightness of her body that carried her like an arrow and the precision with which she bounded off and above rocks and stumps. She barely made a sound as the grass whistled past her, the speed and the strain making her heart sing.
They came to the edge of the village in less than a minute. One of the pixies caught sight of a handsome black carriage bobbing past the cottages and their speed somehow increased. Like children running toward a mail carrier, they flew and bounded until they finally reached the great manor—and before the carriage, too! The prim and proper hedge was not happy to let them through, but they dug and twisted their way in like dainty cannonballs. From that leafy seat, they poked their heads out and watched with eager eyes. Here he was, an Arrington back at last!
Brus, a wide faced and gentle-looking brownie, jumped up to his feet and removed his brown cap with a bow. “Laila, guardian fair! I am hosting a house party.”
Her expression warmed into a proper smile, and she curtseyed. “Then I am fortunate to have wandered into your merrymaking. The rumors of Lord Arrington returning are true?”
A chorus of assent rumbled through the dozens of brownies present. Brus beamed. “Yes! I—that is, the manor and me—are freed of our lonely charge at last. Sadness piled up like dust and stuck to all the dark and desolate places the humans left behind. Grief has that sort of power, you know. Now that the humans have returned to sweep out the wretched cobwebs, I can return to work. Work… and home.”
Home indeed. What was a brownie without a house to clean and humans to tease? The others gathered would have an even greater sense of empathy, as they had also made their homes among the village’s families. Utterly unseen they were, doing their cleaning and mending at night. The humans in turn had learned to leave out little favors—cream and milk and honey—but always as favors. Brownies considered themselves as part of the same household, so the mere idea of payment was an insult.
But that wasn’t to say they never got up to mischief. One of the village wives had always made a point of keeping her kitchen table spotless and clean. When her daughter started keeping a vase of pink-petaled water avens there, the house’s brownie had been so annoyed by the smell he’d tossed them out and replaced them with weeds every morning. Oh, the scolding the younger children had received! They’d insisted it was the brownie, of course, but no one believed that.
She glanced over to the small pile of housewarming gifts at Brus’s side. His fellow brownies had provided quite the assortment—rags of every texture and color, half-used tins of polish, wooden brushes with woolen bristles, golden bars of soap made from honey and beeswax, and bottles of every sort of homemade cleaning remedy the brownies had concocted themselves. The hope and well wishes there brought her joy and yet a strange sort of melancholy. How long would this new lord last?
Ah well, she’d try to hope like the others.
“I’m afraid I neglected to bring a gift despite inviting myself. Let’s see…” She cupped her hand out in front of her, eyes squinting as she focused. There in the open meadow she could feel the sun soaking into her skin. As the brownies watched in wonder, she caught that warmth and began to concentrate it in her hand. A flash of golden light sparked from her fingers, then a butterfly fluttered up from them. The thing appeared to be made entirely of light, its delicate, petal-shaped wings glowing as they glided to Bru’s shoulder.
“A light so your nights need never be dark or lonely.” She chuckled as Brus blushed and gave a low bow. “This Lord Arrington is fortunate to—”
“He comes, he comes!” Not one, but many small voices tinkled through the surrounding leaves. A moment later, a smattering of fae broke through, all heading for the other side of the clearing. Pixies with wings like gossamer, sprites riding leaves like birds, little elves on squirrels, rock-like trolls rolling across the ground—it was a stampede so light and furious a human, oblivious to the fae world as they were, would have mistaken it all for a sudden breeze.
Even the brownies stumbled to their feet to follow the fray. A strange sensation came over Laila, too, her heart picking up a fast and unsteady beat. Though she never said his name, she knew who this new lord was. How had the boy grown? Was he anything like his aunt? What had happened to him in that strange land beyond the sea?
She wanted to see him, needed to see him. In a flash, she transformed, her body shrinking and twisting in a blur of color that turned to black. With paws and legs like unfettered springs, she leapt from the ground and joined the chase. There was something unnatural about her movements, the lightness of her body that carried her like an arrow and the precision with which she bounded off and above rocks and stumps. She barely made a sound as the grass whistled past her, the speed and the strain making her heart sing.
They came to the edge of the village in less than a minute. One of the pixies caught sight of a handsome black carriage bobbing past the cottages and their speed somehow increased. Like children running toward a mail carrier, they flew and bounded until they finally reached the great manor—and before the carriage, too! The prim and proper hedge was not happy to let them through, but they dug and twisted their way in like dainty cannonballs. From that leafy seat, they poked their heads out and watched with eager eyes. Here he was, an Arrington back at last!
“Keep it moving, Gaijin.”
A rough shove from behind sent Xiubao’s arms flailing forward in a huff of flared black silk. As she regained her balance, she groaned and clasped her hands together—pretty white things delicate as a dove and utterly foreign to the mere idea of prison. “Oh, rush, rush it is! All I want is a breath of air before you tie me up in another cesspit.”
The look of her eyes then, so deep and dark and blue with the innocence of a lamb, almost made the guard hesitate. A second later and he corrected himself by giving her a rougher shove than before, nearly taking her to her knees as she skittered forward.
“The humanity!” Xiubao clapped a hand over her nose as the shadow of the prison’s walls fell over her. The dim stoniness of it struck her almost as heavily as the stench did, all the ungodly horrors of rotting men washing over her like a sickly miasma. She felt it as much as smelled it, sweat and B.O. matting over the fine hairs of her scalp and imposing the sense of dread she’d been trying to fend off since being carted away by her glowering guards. She hadn’t fallen from great heights to end up in such a place, but it certainly was a humbling reminder of why she needed to take her work a mite bit more seriously.
Ah, that classic metal creak of a cage opening! She was shoved inside with all the care of a man flicking off a flea, the force of the gesture making her do a full spin as she half-fell backwards. She managed to catch herself at the last moment, fully bent forward with one leg crossed over the other. It was like a ridiculous curtsey, her white hair brushing the filthy floor as she glanced up and realized she wasn’t alone.
She snapped up at once, touching a finger to her bottom lip as she took in the odd fellow eating his mat. The first comparison that came to mind was a slightly less hairy gorilla, what with that thick frame of his body and the wild hair sticking up from his head. There was another figure in the room—something she caught only a periphery glance at before realizing another prisoner was getting jammed in behind her.
A rough shove from behind sent Xiubao’s arms flailing forward in a huff of flared black silk. As she regained her balance, she groaned and clasped her hands together—pretty white things delicate as a dove and utterly foreign to the mere idea of prison. “Oh, rush, rush it is! All I want is a breath of air before you tie me up in another cesspit.”
The look of her eyes then, so deep and dark and blue with the innocence of a lamb, almost made the guard hesitate. A second later and he corrected himself by giving her a rougher shove than before, nearly taking her to her knees as she skittered forward.
“The humanity!” Xiubao clapped a hand over her nose as the shadow of the prison’s walls fell over her. The dim stoniness of it struck her almost as heavily as the stench did, all the ungodly horrors of rotting men washing over her like a sickly miasma. She felt it as much as smelled it, sweat and B.O. matting over the fine hairs of her scalp and imposing the sense of dread she’d been trying to fend off since being carted away by her glowering guards. She hadn’t fallen from great heights to end up in such a place, but it certainly was a humbling reminder of why she needed to take her work a mite bit more seriously.
Ah, that classic metal creak of a cage opening! She was shoved inside with all the care of a man flicking off a flea, the force of the gesture making her do a full spin as she half-fell backwards. She managed to catch herself at the last moment, fully bent forward with one leg crossed over the other. It was like a ridiculous curtsey, her white hair brushing the filthy floor as she glanced up and realized she wasn’t alone.
She snapped up at once, touching a finger to her bottom lip as she took in the odd fellow eating his mat. The first comparison that came to mind was a slightly less hairy gorilla, what with that thick frame of his body and the wild hair sticking up from his head. There was another figure in the room—something she caught only a periphery glance at before realizing another prisoner was getting jammed in behind her.
@DeadBeatWalking
Thanks for letting Xiubao in! I'll make my best writin' for this excellent storyverse!
Thanks for letting Xiubao in! I'll make my best writin' for this excellent storyverse!
Here's a character for you!
The fairies have never a penny to spend,
They haven’t a thing put by,
But theirs is the dower of bird and flower
And theirs are the earth and the sky.
And though you should live in a palace of gold
Or sleep in a dried-up ditch,
You could never be poor as the fairies are,
And never as rich.
Since ever and ever the world began
They have danced like a ribbon of flame,
They have sung their song through the centuries long
And yet it is never the same.
And though you be foolish or though you be wise,
With hair of silver or gold,
You could never be young as the fairies are,
And never as old.
-By Rose Flyeman
Her world was not as complete as she had once thought. She had always known it was small, much like how every star existed in its own place in an endless sky. There was no need to travel beyond the trees and into the wide, loamy hills, nor to follow a stream as it seeped down to an eventual lake. Those places beyond her woods were undoubtedly beautiful in their own way, but they did not need her. No, the great elms of her forest were the ones that called to her. Guardians, they were, and mothers, who not only provided shelter for the creatures of the forest but watched over their spirits when they passed.
Time did not exist—such was a construct of man, not the fae, whose world was much different. The fae saw the hidden things of the earth, fellow sprites and the stories written on fallen leaves. There was no death, no end of things as humans said. No, the world was just full of transformations; youth became wizened age and age left the mortal body behind, only to start a new journey in a new place. Her forest, too, could not avoid transformation forever.
The humans had been intrusive at first, loud and frightening with their axes and hooved creatures. Her beautiful trees were hewn down and bent into strange shapes, the hills and valleys upturned and carved with deep, furrowed lines that went on and on. She had worried they would ruin her whole forest but was utterly perplexed as to how she’d go about stopping them. Like lumbering bears, they were too strong to confront directly. She’d have to find a weakness and use that instead.
So she watched them. Choosing the form of a non-threatening and easily overlooked creature, she hid beneath ferns and behind the odd structures they’d plastered into the ground and listened. They had strange, thick voices that almost resembled the melodies of birds. Their society was more relatable to the fae she knew, acting as neighbors to help one another and to squabble when something went wrong. They had celebrations, too, and dances held around a great elm at the center of the village. Slowly, she began to understand them.
Some of their habits even touched her. From the felled wood of her elms, they chose to embrace their dead and to bury them with that ancient bark into the ground. They gathered up the elm leaves to feed their livestock and carved the fallen branches into sleek and beautiful bows. At night, the darkness was made light by candles within houses and lanterns without. Stories and songs she had never heard before echoed through the wood day and night, told through the lips of mothers, lovers, hunters, and children. Even the broken meadows they had carved into her forest sprung back as they never had before, sprouting endless groves of bluebells. Those delicate blossoms matched the vibrant cheer of the children who went to play among them, weaving crowns and bracelets to wear like fine jewelry.
Her heart grew with a sensation she had not known before, and that was when she realized that her life had been a lonely one. These mothers and fathers and children lived happily together, and she was now connected with them, though they knew it not. Like the elm, she would watch over and shelter them, but she could never wander too close. As the saying went, “The elm hateth man and waiteth,” for its heavy branches were prone to fall without warning. Who knew what these people would do, frightened of magic and the fey as they were, if she crashed into their lives like a great branch from above?
She was not, however, entirely unnoticed. When crops grew sick and she healed them with her touch, the farmers would spot a black hare bounding through their fields. When fever and illness took the village at the turn of the season and miraculously faded the night afterward, her footprints could be found in the dust littering their floorboards. Tongues wagged and wives gossiped, but the local preacher quieted them. He called these things miracles of God, not the workings of pagan legends, and though the adults assented, all eyes were keen to find the creature. She didn’t mind such words, for what did it matter whether gods meddled directly with the world or through the actions of their creations? It was her forest, and she would protect it as she had been created to.
Seasons waxed and waned, and she saw that humans, too, followed the cycle of death and rebirth. She felt a balance returning to her forest and was satisfied, but as all things with nature, it was not to be so forever. The village began to talk of strange things called “factories,” sending sons and daughters away into the unfamiliar places of the world to find new lives and wealth there. The Arringtons, a great family said to own all the land around her forest (she would never concede to the idea of a man owning her forest itself because it was hers and how could one unable to read the stories of leaves even try?) had decided to build a great estate near the village.
She did not think yet another human coming to live with the village would change much at all, but how wrong she was! These newcomers were the same species, certainly, but turned out to be so different. It was not a cottage surrounded with livestock and farmland that they built, but a great mansion. The thing was built from brick after brick of grey stone until it was three whole stories tall and towered above even the highest elm of the woods. Multiple chimneys stuck up from its L-shaped roof and large, rectangular windows invaded the stone to reflect the sky. A thick green hedge surrounded the whole property and its gardens—a wall between itself and the forest behind the house.
Stranger yet were the grandiose strangers who came to inhabit the place. The men wore somber suits, mostly black, with fancy cufflinks and ties. Their women were even stranger—absurdly so—with their hips thrown back and busts puffed out forward, strutting like pigeons with colorful ribbons, bows, and ruffles trailing out behind them. For the most part, these strangers seemed to keep to themselves, though they kept many visitors. The men were more prone to leave the estate for business and pleasure, sometimes discussing matters with the villagers and at others simply riding about the woods and nearby lakes on their horses. And yes, even their horses were different! Graceful, delicate creatures they were, with shiny manes and unmarred coats.
She didn’t dare go near them as she had the villagers. The hedge stood between her and them like a wall of stone, all sorts of dangerous and beautiful wonders hidden away from view. Curiosity, however, had the strangest way of shrinking fear, and soon enough, she found herself sneaking into the garden to see what she was missing. The garden turned out to be more modest than the house itself, with small, rectangular patches of shrubs and flowers set like islands against the grass. When the house had guests, they were prone to wandering the tamed wilderness and even to sit down for tea, but only one creature seemed attached to the area. She was a young woman with a shock of red hair well concealed beneath a large feathered hat. Unlike the other ladies, who merely commented on the flowers being lovely, she was prone to stop and stoop to catch the scent of a blossom.
When the weather was fair, it wasn’t uncommon to catch the young lady out with pen and notebook in hand. She liked to sketch things—especially the birds and flowers, and would frequently bring the gardener along to ask questions. Eventually, however, the garden could not contain her interest, and her walks took her outside it and into the paths of the forest.
She remembered the day well—that day when the young lady first laid eyes on her. The lady’s clothes hadn’t been as fancy nor the shape of her corset quite as demanding, no, it was a simple brown skirt with a frilled white blouse. The sleeves were loose and puffy like clouds, a stark contrast to the weight her face carried. There had been a child with her, a little boy whose hand was clasped tightly in hers. The woman had to hold him tightly, she’d realized, because he would have bounded off otherwise. While she had walked, he had skipped and bounded, pointing excitedly to butterflies and other insects.
“Auntie! Look, look!” The boy leaned out so far he would have fallen had the woman not been grasping his hand. He was trying to grab one of the bluebells resting away from the path, his chubby little fingers straining.
The woman chuckled in return, crouching down and gently taking his cheek in her hand. “William, darling, I know you want to play. I can’t let you run off too far, though. You can play here, but don’t leave my sight, understand?”
“Yes, yes!” The boy replied too quickly, bounding off as soon as he was let go. His clumsy little feet made him trip several times on the uneven forest floor, but to her amusement, he never cried. He simply shot right back up again, touching the branches and flowers as if it were the first time he’d ever seen such things before.
His companion was much less excited, but no less happy as she settled herself on a fallen tree at the edge of the grove her nephew had found. It was a place where the magic resting throughout the woods was more visible, the bowed branches of leaves gleaming like dark emeralds as the dew resting on them caught the light. Long, vibrant blades of grass peeked through the many bluebells gathered about the clearing. The delicate blossoms looked like they could be the skirts of fairies, their blue-purple edges flared up like a baby’s curls. As their name implied, they seemed like bells on the stalk of the plant, which bowed over several or more blossoms hanging down from it.
The hare was more interested in the wild dewberries growing at the edge of the clearing. The small, tender berries popped with delicious sweetness in her mouth, and she was so busy enjoying the treat she didn’t hear the boy’s romping grow unusually quiet. Not until it was too late.
He seemed small, but his hands were strong and stubborn as they grabbed a hold of her fur. While she struggled wildly, he crushed her to his chest and called out for his aunt. It surely looked amusing—the hare’s big feet swinging and thumping against the air, an ancient, magical creature trapped in the arms of a child. Never had she been so much as touched by a human, the sensation as bizarre as having been caught in the first place.
“Auntie! Auntie! A rabbit!”
The woman looked up from her notebook then stared, gawking at the sight. Imagine, a child not six years old catching a wild hare! No one would believe it. She set down her things and jogged toward the boy. “William! Let it go, child, unless you want some nasty scratches!”
The boy merely pouted, holding his quarry tighter as it wriggled against his chest and tried to get under one arm and escape. “Why is it scared?”
“Most animals of the forest are afraid of humans, run at the sight of us. Except the big ones—and those you watch out for because they just might eat you. Come on now, you’ll crush it dead like that.”
The boy dropped her at once, eyes wide. Her paws slid against his shirt as she fell, collapsing to the ground in a furry heap. Dazed as she was, she still heard him cry out—such a strange sound, delicate and pitchy and mortified at the same time.
Her long ears twitched, but rather than bolt toward the safety of the trees as she’d planned, she found herself hesitating. The boy was crouched over her, but all she saw of him was his muddy brown shoes and dark trousers. He poked her, sucking in a quick breath when she flinched. Above them, she heard his aunt tutting.
“He’s black as night, isn’t he? Pretty thing, but a terrible pest.”
The boy’s returning voice was a whine. “Is he alright?”
“Well, let’s have a look.” His aunt reached for the hare before she blurred into motion. There was only the rustle of grass as she shifted and hopped, suddenly behind the boy. To the hare’s embarrassment, both boy and aunt chuckled.
“Seems right as rain. I’ve never seen a wild creature act like this before. Try not to provoke it into biting.” His aunt remained stooped over them both, a smile in her voice despite the stern tone.
The boy tipped over on his side, stretching out in the grass as he watched the hare. She was hesitant at first, merely watching back. Then, in a brave move, she hopped forward, sniffing at his boots. They smelled strange, loamy but with the musk of leather. He had on a loose white shirt that drooped around his arms, almost as white as the clouds themselves. She wanted to touch it and she did, the silky smooth fabric rubbing pleasantly against her face. It had a strange smell, something she decided was uniquely human, like freshly washed cotton.
But that wasn’t nearly soft as the boy’s fingers. She almost panicked again when he touched her, but this time he knew to be gentle. The pad of his finger found her pink nose, and he giggled as she sneezed. His touch wasn’t quite so unpleasant as he traced the base of her ears, flicking the flappy things up with his fingers.
“Seems like the small creatures aren’t quite so shy as I thought.” His aunt’s shadow left them as she returned to her trunk of a seat and picked up her sketching tools. ”The both of you keep still now.”
As if! With a milder side to the boy discovered, the hare seemed content to explore him in the same way he’d explored her forest. She hopped right up to his face and pawed at his nose, delighted when he laughed and covered it up with his hand. His eyes were so big and bright up close and she realized it was the first time she’d looked a human in the eye. They’d always been such intimidating creatures, but this? This was soft and innocent, not even like the other boys that liked to throw pebbles at stray cats.
But again, the moment couldn’t last forever. The humans had to return to their great mansion and she was too frightened to follow. They would come back again—the boy and his aunt, but they would not see her again. Something deep inside her had been touched and she was afraid of the sensation, the longing and the urges that came with it, always wanting to come closer, to learn more. No, she learned instead to be content watching and listening. Eventually, the boy went to a different home, some place far away and across the sea.
The aunt had a different fate. Though she stayed through many seasons, her time came earlier than most. A dreadful fever overtook her in the night and the whole of the great house fell into a deep sorrow. Like those who came before her, the village built a cocoon of elm wood around her still youthful form and buried her with their ancestors. Weeks later, the smoke from the house’s chimneys went out and the lord of the house left his estate for another.
He never returned.
And all became as it once was. No more carriages bearing fancy pigeons, no more lights towering over the forest like a flickering sun. The house merely stood as an empty shell, and though the property had been trusted into the care of one of the farmers, he was but one man and could not do the upkeep of dozens of servants. The hedge grew wild and ivy intruded upon the walls of the house. Spiders and butterflies found their way into the high rafters of the attics and hibernated there for winter. The lady’s beloved garden became choked with weeds and baked until the flowers died.
It was like having a giant ghost lurking around the village, and she avoided it more than ever. She felt a bitterness she had never experienced before when she thought of the lady of the house that was no more. Something had gone from her heart and it hurt when she gazed up at the hollow mansion, of the things she would never see again. The seasons kept flowing, and so did the lives of the villagers, raising crops and selling their livestock as they ever had.
They haven’t a thing put by,
But theirs is the dower of bird and flower
And theirs are the earth and the sky.
And though you should live in a palace of gold
Or sleep in a dried-up ditch,
You could never be poor as the fairies are,
And never as rich.
Since ever and ever the world began
They have danced like a ribbon of flame,
They have sung their song through the centuries long
And yet it is never the same.
And though you be foolish or though you be wise,
With hair of silver or gold,
You could never be young as the fairies are,
And never as old.
-By Rose Flyeman
Her world was not as complete as she had once thought. She had always known it was small, much like how every star existed in its own place in an endless sky. There was no need to travel beyond the trees and into the wide, loamy hills, nor to follow a stream as it seeped down to an eventual lake. Those places beyond her woods were undoubtedly beautiful in their own way, but they did not need her. No, the great elms of her forest were the ones that called to her. Guardians, they were, and mothers, who not only provided shelter for the creatures of the forest but watched over their spirits when they passed.
Time did not exist—such was a construct of man, not the fae, whose world was much different. The fae saw the hidden things of the earth, fellow sprites and the stories written on fallen leaves. There was no death, no end of things as humans said. No, the world was just full of transformations; youth became wizened age and age left the mortal body behind, only to start a new journey in a new place. Her forest, too, could not avoid transformation forever.
The humans had been intrusive at first, loud and frightening with their axes and hooved creatures. Her beautiful trees were hewn down and bent into strange shapes, the hills and valleys upturned and carved with deep, furrowed lines that went on and on. She had worried they would ruin her whole forest but was utterly perplexed as to how she’d go about stopping them. Like lumbering bears, they were too strong to confront directly. She’d have to find a weakness and use that instead.
So she watched them. Choosing the form of a non-threatening and easily overlooked creature, she hid beneath ferns and behind the odd structures they’d plastered into the ground and listened. They had strange, thick voices that almost resembled the melodies of birds. Their society was more relatable to the fae she knew, acting as neighbors to help one another and to squabble when something went wrong. They had celebrations, too, and dances held around a great elm at the center of the village. Slowly, she began to understand them.
Some of their habits even touched her. From the felled wood of her elms, they chose to embrace their dead and to bury them with that ancient bark into the ground. They gathered up the elm leaves to feed their livestock and carved the fallen branches into sleek and beautiful bows. At night, the darkness was made light by candles within houses and lanterns without. Stories and songs she had never heard before echoed through the wood day and night, told through the lips of mothers, lovers, hunters, and children. Even the broken meadows they had carved into her forest sprung back as they never had before, sprouting endless groves of bluebells. Those delicate blossoms matched the vibrant cheer of the children who went to play among them, weaving crowns and bracelets to wear like fine jewelry.
Her heart grew with a sensation she had not known before, and that was when she realized that her life had been a lonely one. These mothers and fathers and children lived happily together, and she was now connected with them, though they knew it not. Like the elm, she would watch over and shelter them, but she could never wander too close. As the saying went, “The elm hateth man and waiteth,” for its heavy branches were prone to fall without warning. Who knew what these people would do, frightened of magic and the fey as they were, if she crashed into their lives like a great branch from above?
She was not, however, entirely unnoticed. When crops grew sick and she healed them with her touch, the farmers would spot a black hare bounding through their fields. When fever and illness took the village at the turn of the season and miraculously faded the night afterward, her footprints could be found in the dust littering their floorboards. Tongues wagged and wives gossiped, but the local preacher quieted them. He called these things miracles of God, not the workings of pagan legends, and though the adults assented, all eyes were keen to find the creature. She didn’t mind such words, for what did it matter whether gods meddled directly with the world or through the actions of their creations? It was her forest, and she would protect it as she had been created to.
Seasons waxed and waned, and she saw that humans, too, followed the cycle of death and rebirth. She felt a balance returning to her forest and was satisfied, but as all things with nature, it was not to be so forever. The village began to talk of strange things called “factories,” sending sons and daughters away into the unfamiliar places of the world to find new lives and wealth there. The Arringtons, a great family said to own all the land around her forest (she would never concede to the idea of a man owning her forest itself because it was hers and how could one unable to read the stories of leaves even try?) had decided to build a great estate near the village.
She did not think yet another human coming to live with the village would change much at all, but how wrong she was! These newcomers were the same species, certainly, but turned out to be so different. It was not a cottage surrounded with livestock and farmland that they built, but a great mansion. The thing was built from brick after brick of grey stone until it was three whole stories tall and towered above even the highest elm of the woods. Multiple chimneys stuck up from its L-shaped roof and large, rectangular windows invaded the stone to reflect the sky. A thick green hedge surrounded the whole property and its gardens—a wall between itself and the forest behind the house.
Stranger yet were the grandiose strangers who came to inhabit the place. The men wore somber suits, mostly black, with fancy cufflinks and ties. Their women were even stranger—absurdly so—with their hips thrown back and busts puffed out forward, strutting like pigeons with colorful ribbons, bows, and ruffles trailing out behind them. For the most part, these strangers seemed to keep to themselves, though they kept many visitors. The men were more prone to leave the estate for business and pleasure, sometimes discussing matters with the villagers and at others simply riding about the woods and nearby lakes on their horses. And yes, even their horses were different! Graceful, delicate creatures they were, with shiny manes and unmarred coats.
She didn’t dare go near them as she had the villagers. The hedge stood between her and them like a wall of stone, all sorts of dangerous and beautiful wonders hidden away from view. Curiosity, however, had the strangest way of shrinking fear, and soon enough, she found herself sneaking into the garden to see what she was missing. The garden turned out to be more modest than the house itself, with small, rectangular patches of shrubs and flowers set like islands against the grass. When the house had guests, they were prone to wandering the tamed wilderness and even to sit down for tea, but only one creature seemed attached to the area. She was a young woman with a shock of red hair well concealed beneath a large feathered hat. Unlike the other ladies, who merely commented on the flowers being lovely, she was prone to stop and stoop to catch the scent of a blossom.
When the weather was fair, it wasn’t uncommon to catch the young lady out with pen and notebook in hand. She liked to sketch things—especially the birds and flowers, and would frequently bring the gardener along to ask questions. Eventually, however, the garden could not contain her interest, and her walks took her outside it and into the paths of the forest.
She remembered the day well—that day when the young lady first laid eyes on her. The lady’s clothes hadn’t been as fancy nor the shape of her corset quite as demanding, no, it was a simple brown skirt with a frilled white blouse. The sleeves were loose and puffy like clouds, a stark contrast to the weight her face carried. There had been a child with her, a little boy whose hand was clasped tightly in hers. The woman had to hold him tightly, she’d realized, because he would have bounded off otherwise. While she had walked, he had skipped and bounded, pointing excitedly to butterflies and other insects.
“Auntie! Look, look!” The boy leaned out so far he would have fallen had the woman not been grasping his hand. He was trying to grab one of the bluebells resting away from the path, his chubby little fingers straining.
The woman chuckled in return, crouching down and gently taking his cheek in her hand. “William, darling, I know you want to play. I can’t let you run off too far, though. You can play here, but don’t leave my sight, understand?”
“Yes, yes!” The boy replied too quickly, bounding off as soon as he was let go. His clumsy little feet made him trip several times on the uneven forest floor, but to her amusement, he never cried. He simply shot right back up again, touching the branches and flowers as if it were the first time he’d ever seen such things before.
His companion was much less excited, but no less happy as she settled herself on a fallen tree at the edge of the grove her nephew had found. It was a place where the magic resting throughout the woods was more visible, the bowed branches of leaves gleaming like dark emeralds as the dew resting on them caught the light. Long, vibrant blades of grass peeked through the many bluebells gathered about the clearing. The delicate blossoms looked like they could be the skirts of fairies, their blue-purple edges flared up like a baby’s curls. As their name implied, they seemed like bells on the stalk of the plant, which bowed over several or more blossoms hanging down from it.
The hare was more interested in the wild dewberries growing at the edge of the clearing. The small, tender berries popped with delicious sweetness in her mouth, and she was so busy enjoying the treat she didn’t hear the boy’s romping grow unusually quiet. Not until it was too late.
He seemed small, but his hands were strong and stubborn as they grabbed a hold of her fur. While she struggled wildly, he crushed her to his chest and called out for his aunt. It surely looked amusing—the hare’s big feet swinging and thumping against the air, an ancient, magical creature trapped in the arms of a child. Never had she been so much as touched by a human, the sensation as bizarre as having been caught in the first place.
“Auntie! Auntie! A rabbit!”
The woman looked up from her notebook then stared, gawking at the sight. Imagine, a child not six years old catching a wild hare! No one would believe it. She set down her things and jogged toward the boy. “William! Let it go, child, unless you want some nasty scratches!”
The boy merely pouted, holding his quarry tighter as it wriggled against his chest and tried to get under one arm and escape. “Why is it scared?”
“Most animals of the forest are afraid of humans, run at the sight of us. Except the big ones—and those you watch out for because they just might eat you. Come on now, you’ll crush it dead like that.”
The boy dropped her at once, eyes wide. Her paws slid against his shirt as she fell, collapsing to the ground in a furry heap. Dazed as she was, she still heard him cry out—such a strange sound, delicate and pitchy and mortified at the same time.
Her long ears twitched, but rather than bolt toward the safety of the trees as she’d planned, she found herself hesitating. The boy was crouched over her, but all she saw of him was his muddy brown shoes and dark trousers. He poked her, sucking in a quick breath when she flinched. Above them, she heard his aunt tutting.
“He’s black as night, isn’t he? Pretty thing, but a terrible pest.”
The boy’s returning voice was a whine. “Is he alright?”
“Well, let’s have a look.” His aunt reached for the hare before she blurred into motion. There was only the rustle of grass as she shifted and hopped, suddenly behind the boy. To the hare’s embarrassment, both boy and aunt chuckled.
“Seems right as rain. I’ve never seen a wild creature act like this before. Try not to provoke it into biting.” His aunt remained stooped over them both, a smile in her voice despite the stern tone.
The boy tipped over on his side, stretching out in the grass as he watched the hare. She was hesitant at first, merely watching back. Then, in a brave move, she hopped forward, sniffing at his boots. They smelled strange, loamy but with the musk of leather. He had on a loose white shirt that drooped around his arms, almost as white as the clouds themselves. She wanted to touch it and she did, the silky smooth fabric rubbing pleasantly against her face. It had a strange smell, something she decided was uniquely human, like freshly washed cotton.
But that wasn’t nearly soft as the boy’s fingers. She almost panicked again when he touched her, but this time he knew to be gentle. The pad of his finger found her pink nose, and he giggled as she sneezed. His touch wasn’t quite so unpleasant as he traced the base of her ears, flicking the flappy things up with his fingers.
“Seems like the small creatures aren’t quite so shy as I thought.” His aunt’s shadow left them as she returned to her trunk of a seat and picked up her sketching tools. ”The both of you keep still now.”
As if! With a milder side to the boy discovered, the hare seemed content to explore him in the same way he’d explored her forest. She hopped right up to his face and pawed at his nose, delighted when he laughed and covered it up with his hand. His eyes were so big and bright up close and she realized it was the first time she’d looked a human in the eye. They’d always been such intimidating creatures, but this? This was soft and innocent, not even like the other boys that liked to throw pebbles at stray cats.
But again, the moment couldn’t last forever. The humans had to return to their great mansion and she was too frightened to follow. They would come back again—the boy and his aunt, but they would not see her again. Something deep inside her had been touched and she was afraid of the sensation, the longing and the urges that came with it, always wanting to come closer, to learn more. No, she learned instead to be content watching and listening. Eventually, the boy went to a different home, some place far away and across the sea.
The aunt had a different fate. Though she stayed through many seasons, her time came earlier than most. A dreadful fever overtook her in the night and the whole of the great house fell into a deep sorrow. Like those who came before her, the village built a cocoon of elm wood around her still youthful form and buried her with their ancestors. Weeks later, the smoke from the house’s chimneys went out and the lord of the house left his estate for another.
He never returned.
And all became as it once was. No more carriages bearing fancy pigeons, no more lights towering over the forest like a flickering sun. The house merely stood as an empty shell, and though the property had been trusted into the care of one of the farmers, he was but one man and could not do the upkeep of dozens of servants. The hedge grew wild and ivy intruded upon the walls of the house. Spiders and butterflies found their way into the high rafters of the attics and hibernated there for winter. The lady’s beloved garden became choked with weeds and baked until the flowers died.
It was like having a giant ghost lurking around the village, and she avoided it more than ever. She felt a bitterness she had never experienced before when she thought of the lady of the house that was no more. Something had gone from her heart and it hurt when she gazed up at the hollow mansion, of the things she would never see again. The seasons kept flowing, and so did the lives of the villagers, raising crops and selling their livestock as they ever had.
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