Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Wuvvy had allowed for leeway with the seating arrangements at the banquet. It was a poor party planner who did not plan for something to go wrong, for a few last-moment adjustments to the seating or the courses or the entertainment. But she was beginning to become irritated with the number of requests flying in to change things. If she honoured the Seelie King and Queen’s requests, then there were others that had to follow. She could not be seen to be favouring some Faerie monarchs over others.

No Seelie could be seated next to an Unseelie by tradition. Moving Titania and Oberon meant refiguring nearly every table, especially if they did not wish to be seated together. Goblins and Tricksters, meanwhile, were too amicable with one another to be safe dinner partners. Wonder could be seated next to Seelie in a pinch, but under no circumstances should there should be Wonder at the same table as Fable and Grabalba. Tide and Wing were likely to announce a duel before the end of the night if seated in proximity to one another (though that might have to be tolerated at this rate), and Wing’s objections to being seated with the Deepwater Court (namely: “gross”) were as long-standing as ever. She loathed to disrupt the synergy between the courts of Scale and Bone, but she was going to have to spread them out and use them as a buffer between other squabbling parties. It was just as well that the Stone Court and the Court of Heavens seemed to be on friendly enough terms at the moment, despite the conflict between their respective allies. Wuvvy had worked all of this out when she first got all the RSVPs, and now she was being asked to throw out all of that work and start again.

One of her assistants fluttered into the workshop looking even more fretful than usual. Ze peeked over the edge of the worktop where the seating plan was spread out, names being moved around like pieces on a war table, and zir anxiety, somehow, increased. Ze was stammering too quickly and quietly to be understood.

“Nephilim, slow down. What’s wrong?”

Ze took a deep, sharp breath, trying with dubious success to gather zirself. Zir hair was a thicket of red autumn leaves, and several leaves shook loose from zir canopy as ze said, “The Goblins have requested a change to the seating arrangements.”

“Alright,” Wuvvy said, keeping her tone calm for the nervous fairy’s benefit even as she felt her own annoyance ticking up. It was much too late for guests to be requesting changes to the seating, and she had little patience for whatever petty squabble had caused so many discrete parties to change their preferences. In this case, it was likely just a mean joke of the Goblins and Tricksters on the staff, but it was her job to manage such whims. “Who did they ask to be seated with?”

“They asked – or um, demanded, actually – that they be grouped closer together with the fey of their own court, paired only with the Seelie.”

This kind of request was not particularly uncommon, unsociable fey wishing to keep to their kin. The Goblins’ alliance with the Seelie included them in their desired seclusion in this case, she supposed. She could practically feel the stubbornness of K.P. Hob influencing the amendment to this request. But it was against the spirit of the event, and not the kind of thing Wuvvy would work overtime to accommodate. But Nephilim knew that. Ze hesitated, still holding something back, and Wuvvy gave zir a prompting look.

“They want the Seelies’ seats removed from the tables and instead for the fey to be served on platters.”

She took a moment to process what ze had said. She blinked against the immediate distressing mental image that conjured. “They want— What?”

“They—”

Wuvvy held up a hand to quiet zir. She did not need Nephilim to stumble through an explanation. Her aeons at court had caught up with her, and she understood this request for what it was: a tacit declaration of conflict between Goblin and Seelie. The anticipated disastrous ending of the Fête for Peace and everything she had been working towards since the first moment of her appointment to the office of Master of Ceremonies. Something had happened between Seelie and Goblin. She felt her heart thumping in her ears and tried to school it back to a measured pace, thinking of the duel and the flare of anger she had seen in Rue. Could they have made a confession which gave Lady Sylmenar offence? If the fidelity of the Major was in question, perhaps the marriage contract was being dissolved, and peace between the courts with it.

If that was it, Rue seemed to be making a habit of this.

It was courteous of the Goblins to give a warning. It sounded like something Hob would do, although like as not someone had meant it as a genuine request. Wuvvy shuddered, involuntarily picturing again a horde of rabid goblins tearing the limbs off Seelie fey and biting into their flesh. Queen Titania spit-roasted with an apple in her mouth, presented to the Goblin King.

“Also,” ze said, “Major Sylmenar-Hob’s name has been withdrawn from the guest list.”

Wuvvy’s hand paused in the air as she started to resume her work. “Do you know who by?”

“No. Except— Well, I don’t think it was the Major himself.”

That was telling. What it was telling, she couldn’t yet be sure. She turned a ring on her finger thoughtfully. One question loomed, and there was no point in not asking it. “Is he dead?”

Nephilim squirmed. “I’m not sure.” From zir tone, it was clear that rumours were flying every which direction. Wuvvy could only imagine. And she was imagining.

“Find out, please. We seem to have a lot of work to do.”

Her thoughts returned to Hob continually as she went about her work. She turned over every scenario imaginable in her mind – that he had been exiled from the Goblin Court, that Lady Sylmenar had announced an intent to divorce, that he was dead, that he was dying, that he was preparing to lead an army of Goblins against the Fête. These daydreams did not yield in her any malicious glee, only morbid fantasy. The pettiness that had driven her actions at the duel had simmered off, leaving her feeling that she had been exceedingly callow. Out of what? A jealousy over Rue which she had even less right to feel than she had in aeons long past. She had thought that in Rue’s absence from the Court of Wonder, her feelings had mellowed. It seemed they had merely hibernated.

A set of familiar wind chimes broke across her thoughts, and everyone in the workshop stilled. Some of her assistants turned to look at her in poorly-concealed pity or apprehension, others pointedly stayed facing away, stock still. She smoothed her skirt and straightened up, trying to act unperturbed. It would not do to appear ruffled while being summoned to an audience with the Chorus.

“What is happening, Wuvvy?” they asked placidly.

“There seems to be some unrest between the courts. I am still attempting to ascertain how this will affect the rest of the Fête’s events. I assure you I am—”

“Should we withdraw from the festivities?”

“Well…” She tried not to cringe as her voice pitched up. “That might be hasty. Consider, my lieges, if you were to entirely withdraw due to other courts’ conflict what kind of a message that would send for the other attendees. It would be as good as surrendering Faerie to anarchy.”

It was a little much. She could tell by the prolonged silence of their fixed masks that they were quarrelling amongst themselves. At length, keeping a careful harmony, they said, “We will attend the banquet, as long as doing so will be no danger or disgrace. See to it that your event is neither.”

“Yes, of course,” Wuvvy murmured, dipping her head in a demure bow. It was clear they would hold her responsible for whatever violence broke out under her supervision.

She might get fired over this. Not out of true blame towards her, she understood, but they would not want someone associated with this disaster to be in charge of event planning going forward. No one would. She realised with a sudden vertigo that she had nowhere to take refuge from this if it all went wrong. When it all went wrong. As she walked through the venues, seeing arrangements come together in spite of all the last-minute adjustments, she began to envision the fight that would occur here. Explosions of magic and a full spectrum of fairy blood staining the tablecloths. Opportunistic assassinations equally as likely as the staff – bystanders to this conflict – being pulled into the carnage. She wondered which category she would fall into, in the end.

“Maman, why do we have to go?”

Wuvvy had only been passing the guest wing of the manor, it being outwith her priorities at this precise moment. A second ago, she would have thought it empty, with all the fey in attendance on the fairground or the drinks hall – and it may soon be, as the Lords of the Wing were standing outside their door with their birdservant, swaddled in feather coats and flanked by obscene quantities of luggage. The question had been asked by the young one, tugging at the coat of Lady Featherfowl.

The Lady crouched down to speak to the fledgeling’s face directly. “Do you feel the wind?” She exaggerated a shiver, holding its hands between hers to warm them. They were still indoors, although there was indeed a chill in the air outside. “Winter is coming to these lands. We must migrate to more… sunny climes.”

“But I like winter.”

“You shan’t like this one. Plumage like ours was not meant for the cold, my dove.”

“But we could wrap up warm, couldn’t we? and have hot chocolate, and dance, and sing, and—”

“I have already sent a partridge to let your mother know you are coming.” Lady Featherfowl adjusted the fledgeling’s hat firmly on its head.

“Have you got your Piegeron?” Lord Airavis asked.

“Yes,” the child said dejectedly, clutching a knitted plush pigeon to her chest.

“Ah, Wuvvy.”

Wuvvy cursed herself profusely, all while composing herself and saying aloud, “How may I help you, My Lord, My Lady?” It was her own fault for lingering to stare at the display. She did not have time to be strung along on a series of tedious errands below her station by the Lords of the Wing. In a harried sort of fashion, Lord Airavis began to explain that the weather forecast demanded they should take flight at the earliest opportunity, and would she mind terribly escorting their young ward to the mortal plane gate while they concluded business? She was in the process of forming a series of assurances as to the importance to Wing of staying for the finale dinner in all its chaos, when she realised…

The Lords of the Wing were about to be no longer her problem.

She looked at the child, who was gazing at her with widened, pleading eyes. Perhaps it did not recognise her from the drinks reception, or it was under some impression that Wuvvy would convince its guardians not to take it away. “I would be most pleased to,” she said. “I have access to a number of gates, which I would be happy to put to your disposal.”

“It is important that she returns to the place and time from which she left,” Lady Featherfowl said sternly.

Wuvvy plucked her pocketwatch from her waistcoat and flipped it open. The hands whirled, aligning with the child and then spinning in differing directions, until the longer pointed towards the woods at the edge of the fairground. “The watch will show the way. You have my word.”

“Maman,” whined the child, screwing up her face in an expression that looked threateningly like a tantrum.

Taking each of her shoulders, Featherfowl said, “I must stay with your uncle until we are sure everything is in order.” She indicated the chickens, comfortably secured in roosting boxes on a wheeled cart at their feet, with a tilt of her head. “You will not be lonely for long, Peep. Agnès, Jeanne, and Marguerite will be right behind you. I love you. I will see you soon.” She embraced her daughter, kissed the top of her head, then released her to Wuvvy.

The fledgeling took Wuvvy’s offered hand, biting down on her lower lip, which was apparently keeping the tears from spilling out of her eyes.

Lady Featherfowl offered a final kiss blown on her hand. As they rounded the corner out of the guest quarters, Wuvvy heard the cousins return to business. “Where are the blackbirds?”

“I sent one out calling in each cardinal direction.”

“Which cardinals?”

“No, not for cardinals, to round up the flock of ring-necked pheasants, geese, and swans.”

“Well, we have six of the geese, they were laying in the aviary.”

“The swans have not come back. I believe they wanted to swim.”

It did not take long, once they exited into the autumnal chill of the grounds, for the fledgeling to realise that her mother had been right about the weather, retreating into her coat like a turtle into its shell. It was the middle of the day, but frost was starting to glisten on the grass under the overcast sky. Wuvvy endeavoured not to be distracted by fey complaining of the sudden cold freezing the ducking pool or the shortage of warm beverages as they skirted the fairground in silence. They entered the woods, which provided some shelter from the wind, but quickly coated both of their shoes in sleet-speckled mud.

She found the mushroom circle which the watch was pointing to, and watched the second hand tick closer to the compass point. When the two aligned, the gate would be in the right position relative to the mortal world to send the fledgling home.

“How does your watch work?” Peep asked.

“By magic.”

“I know that,” she said impatiently. Wuvvy blinked at her. “I mean what can it do?”

The uses of the watch were many and varied. It was one of the many tools which the Master of Ceremonies had at their disposal. “It… helps you find things.”

“Anything?”

“As long as you know what you’re looking for,” she said. Perhaps she would have been more willing to elucidate on the sundry properties of the Watch of Wonder if the second hand were not so near to its alignment. “It is time to go, young master.”

Panic returned to her face. “But,” she said, clutching her plush toy, “I can’t go alone. What if I don’t know the way home? Won’t you come too?”

Her nerves were starting to get to Wuvvy. She could hear it in her voice when she said, “I can’t.” With a flash of desperate inspiration, she pressed the pocketwatch into Peep’s palm. If she was about to lose her position as Master of Ceremonies, she may as well. The Court of Wonder likely would not even miss one of its many trinkets. And she had promised the Lords of the Wing that their ward would be delivered home. “Take this.”

Her eyes were now wide with awe and disbelief, rather than panic. “Are you sure?”

“Think of home, and it will steer you in the right direction. Go now.” Wuvvy pushed the child, not forcefully, but firmly into the mushroom circle. She staggered slightly as she went, and motes of light floated up from the circle’s circumference.

“Thank y—” Peep’s gratitude was cut off by her disappearance into a swirl of downy feathers, leaving only the scent of ripe pears behind her.

That duty complete, Wuvvy sighed. She needed space to think without being inundated with new information. After so long away from the Court of Hoof and Claw, she no longer breathed vastly easier in the woodlands than the polished marbled gardens of Wonder. She instead felt uneasy of being watched and stalked through the wood, where ancient custom dictated that combat could resolve politics. If she was hunted without poison or snares, that was called fair game.

Hoof and Claw was her origin, and still the court she most resembled, though her temperament spoke little to it anymore. She had traded snaking forest prey trails for straight garden paths when she was apprenticed in the Court of Wonder. Once, she had been a Champion of her court. That seemed aeons ago now. There were some lingering connections there, other fey who might remember her. Being Master of Ceremonies, they would rear their heads now and then, seeking favours traded on memories which had formerly had no value to them. Once she was stripped of her title, they would return to being worthless. She still had Chooch, but he was rapidly losing what favour he had at court. Such was the fate of every Champion, eventually.

She had come to the Court of Wonder for Rue, and now she was still here and Rue was not. She was not really a part of the Court of Wonder, just a functionary of it; she still did not, and probably never would, have the presence at court that Rue had had. Maybe with time, it would have come. Or maybe she would be forgotten by history, the pale imitation of Delloso de la Rue who could not live up to the hype. She doubted very much that the Chorus would offer her a place among them as incentive to step down. She was on her own.

Her absent-minded hike into the woods took her deeper than she intended to go. She stopped, ears twitching, and heard running water and creaking wood nearby, but nothing resembling the festivities of the Fête. She was, for the first time in her life, completely lost.

The smells of home as Hob was accustomed to them generally evoked wetness, sogginess, and squelchiness. Though belonging to the dampest, gloomiest court, the library had a dry, papery smell, with only the faintly lingering scent of sealing wax and bottled ink. It was vastly more organised than anything belonging solely to the Court of Craft, which Hob chalked up to Andhera’s influence.

The Unseelie Prince, First Knight of Craft did not have the liberty to step away from his birth court, at present, except to attend the Fête’s public events, so they had requested Hob meet them in the library. They were among the stacks, Andhera scanning the shelves with their slender fingers. Ostensibly, this was to discuss the thorn-tangled mess he had made of his exit from the Goblin Court, from a political point of view. What this meant for the alliance between the Goblins and the Unseelie.

Perhaps predictably, though, what Andhera wanted to know was, “How are you feeling?”

Hob had almost put his uniform on, upon waking. It had been automatic. In the end, feeling naked with only his plain white undershirt, he had allowed Binx to upturn the tailor shop searching for something suitable to dress him in. They had come up with a huge cable-knit sweater, which was inevitably short in the arms, but otherwise something like wearing a snug blanket. Rue had helped Binx pick most of the lint out of it with magic. The kindness of the gesture almost made him forget how he had broken down in sobs clutching his pointless uniform in his claws. He hoped that sweet Lady Sy had not heard.

He thought about the time he could have saved everybody, himself included, if he had been less stubbornly blind to the truth of the Goblin Court. “I have been a wretched fool,” he said. “I only wish I could have realised the truth before I became a broken man.”

Their eyes filled with sympathy. “I don’t think you’re broken, K.P.”

“I am. I catch glimpses of it, in the eyes of my wife, and Rue. Even Binx.” His arms drew up to clasp each other without him realising it, raking his claws through the fur on his forearms slowly. “There is something I used to have, that I now do not. Some piece of the me they once knew is missing, and it was torn out by the Goblin Court.”

Andhera was quiet, and his hand came slowly up to touch the back of his own neck. “If you are broken, then I am broken too.”

Hob did not wish to diminish the impact of the Battle of Briar Falls on the young prince, but they had – thankfully – been well insulated from the worst of the Goblin-Unseelie conflict. He appreciated their attempt to relate to him, but—

They turned their back to him, pulling their curls away from the nape of his neck to reveal a pale, thick jagged scar like a bolt of fat lightning. It was like no mark any Goblin weapon had ever left on any fairy. “My mother placed an elemental shard under my skin. When I pledged myself to this court, and Binx took it out, it began to heal.” They let their hair fall back over it and faced K.P. to continue, “It left a scar. It won’t ever be like it was before it was inflicted on me. But it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. And I know that I am not any less loved by the people who matter to me simply because the court of my birth left its wounds upon me.”

Andhera took his hands. They were like cool stone worn smooth, but there was still a hint of warmth to them, the last dying rays of sunlight leaving the beach with its memory. “K.P., please believe me when I tell you that you are not loved any less for the hurt you have endured. You have made it to the Court of Craft, the home of lost and broken things, found and mended things, and now you can begin to heal.”

“I do not know that I will be worth the effort to fix me.”

Andhera gave him an incredulous look that made him look tremendously old; it reminded Hob strikingly of his Advisor. “Let us decide what our own effort is worth,” they said. Hob had to admit it was awfully presumptuous of him to weigh the value the Prince placed on his time. “Now, then. Let me find what we came for.”

Hob was glad to have the Prince’s focus taken off him. He tried to continue his own perusal, but the words in front of him kept unfocusing, and several times he had to dab his eyes dry. It called to mind the goblins’ limerick about him again. Major Sob. It was not the sort of thing one wished to be immortalised in poetry, he knew, but standing among the stacks in the vast memory-halls of the Unseelie, all he could think was that there were so many stories unrecorded. The Goblin King did not have a library like this, as far as he knew, and even if he did, it was surely intended for the ignoble history of great Goblin Monarchs past. An unflattering limerick, at least, was passed through voice and ear into the memory of the court itself. What of the dutiful Gorebladders? Who was left to tell their stories, now? All the brave enlisted goblins and their steeds who had served under him in his time commanding the First Goblin Cavalry. Their deaths, perhaps, noted in a log of casualties, if the clerk defied the code of Goblin Chivalry enough to perform their duties regularly.

The goblins who survived mandatory service rarely fared better when it came to making history. Rue had said enough times that he was not getting what he was due, but it was only starting to sink in now. He had not been able to abide the thought that he was due more than Gorebladder, Blash, or any other goblin soldier. But they were all due more than they were given. He could see that now. He could not help but wonder how the common goblin would fare if service was optional, if the Goblin nobility did not feast on the flesh of conscientious objectors. Most goblins would fall in line under threat of death, so it was the only way to ensure the ranks of the military were filled, so Colonel Pinker had always said during basic training.

For the first time, he was starting to wonder, But filled to what end? No other court, his friends said, made military service mandatory. The Court of Craft, even at its height, had had no military at all.

“Here it is!” Andhera cried.

They produced a large spool of black ribbon from a shelf of identical spools. Only a small fraction of the library’s collection, Hob had learned very recently, was parchment scrolls, and an even smaller fraction was leather-bound books. Many of the Unseelie’s records were held in other forms, echoes trapped in labelled jars or metallic staves engraved with the clauses of contracts. All these were alien to Hob, as the majority of Goblins made no use of the written word. Messages over long distances were traditionally conveyed by the memory of a courier, or sung through the reverberating mountain halls. Contracts were kept in blood vessels. At first, he could see nothing remarkable about the ribbon, but as Andhera unspooled a length of it, he saw that it was woven with a golden thread spelling the words of a document.

“This is what you were looking for?”

“It is. This spool clearly states that any Seelie acting in the interest of the Unseelie Court must be offered refuge by the latter in the event of exile from the former. It was meant to encourage Seelie fey to become spies for my mother, really, but it works for our purposes.”

“I am not a Seelie fairy.”

“You took a Seelie name when you married your wife, K.P. Sylmenar-Hob,” he pointed out with a grin. “You may not have left Goblin, but you became Seelie.”

Another objection had already arisen in his mind. “And I am sorry to say it but I do not think it was in the interest of the Unseelie Court that I acted, Your Highness. I acted in the interest of my wife, who is, as you said, a Seelie.”

They waved their hand. “Semantics. If I claim that your life, and the life of your wife, was important to some agenda of mine, and so you were defending the interests of the Unseelie by defending yourselves, who would disagree? No one else need know that the interest in question is our friendship. I have all the authority I need to grant you formal refuge in the Court of Craft, as an ally to the Unseelie.”

He continued to eye the spool suspiciously. “It is very kind of you,” he said, “but the Goblin King cares little for semantics and formality when they inconvenience him. I fear it will not be enough to keep my troubles from harming the Court of Craft.”

Andhera shook his head. “Binx is still the bearer of the Crystal Heart as far as Faerie is concerned. Semantics or no semantics, that will give anyone pause. It’s going to be okay, K.P.”

Still not quite believing it, he forced himself to nod and cease his arguing. His nerves were not much settled, but he did not wish to burden the Prince any further with his worries of what-ifs and somedays. He had made this quagmire, and he would lie in it, and try to drag as few of his friends into it as possible.

The fog sat low against the ground, around about the tailor shop. It was a sleepy, half-lit scene, with shadows resting gently in all the windows, and no smoke yet in the chimney. The brightest part of the whole scene was the frost glistening on the grass and the roof tiles, just barely sheltered from the sun by the nearly-leafless trees. Hob was afraid to make a noise, not for fear of disturbing the inhabitants, but for waking the cottage itself.

“Who’s that?”

Hob followed Andhera’s gaze, and he felt a drop in his stomach even before the figure turned her face enough to be seen in profile – he recognised her snow-white curls and the branches of her antlers. She seemed to be stepping inquisitively around the tailor shop, as if searching for signs of life, though she had not yet made use of the moth knocker on the front door, judging from the undisturbed frost on the porch.

Hob felt a tug on his arm, and Andhera drew him further back into shadow, pressing a finger to his lips. Together, they began to skirt around the tailor shop unseen, away from Wuvvy and towards the water-wheel. He was not entirely sure what they were doing, until the Prince began scrambling up the wheel on their hands and feet, towards a small window near to its apex. When he had successfully wriggled through, doing a commendable impression of a suffocating fish, he beckoned for Hob to do the same – to which he blinked at him askance.

“I am not so nimble as you, Your Highness. I have not your lithe frame,” he hissed.

“Nonsense,” they whispered. “Come along now, I shall help you up.”

When they tumbled together to the floor of the tailor shop in a heap, they were promptly met by the incredulous stare of Rue, appearing in the door of the mill-room. They seemed at once confused and resigned to find the First Knight and himself entering the abode with amateur gymnastics. “What are you doing?” they asked.

“Wuvvy is outside.”

“What?” Rue wheeled to a window in the corridor, and when hastily urged by Hob and Andhera to show discretion, gently lifted the curtain aside to peer out. “What is she doing here?”

“You would know far better than I, Mistrex,” he said, joining them. The workings of Wuvvy had always been a mystery to him. The most obvious answer was that she was here for Rue, though of course that likely meant it was not the case, as Hob had never correctly predicted Wuvvy’s next course of action. He remembered the snarling of carnivorous teeth in her cervine skull as they circled each other. The wild look in her eyes that said she would tear his throat out if only they were not in polite company.

Three raps sounded out from the knocker on the front door.

They all three stared at each other, not moving.

“Is that my mother calling me? Dear me, I had better, um… yep.” Andhera began to back away, then remembered something, took the length of black and gold ribbon from inside his robe, and pressed it into the pad of Hob’s paw. “Remember to tie this to the knocker on the front door,” he whispered. With that, Andhera stepped into a shadow made by a bookshelf and vanished back to his other court.

“Where is Binx?” he asked, keeping his voice low. He had realised suddenly that it was uncharacteristic for them not to jump at the chance to greet anybody, member of the household or no. Although the leader of a court would not usually be expected to answer the door, the humility of the Court of Craft had made this expected. Besides which, Hob still felt himself a guest in the home, and so surely did not have the authority to interface with new arrivals.

“They went with Lady Sylmenar-Hob to retrieve her belongings from the camp grounds,” Rue whispered, though it was as if deflecting an accusation. Perhaps they had intuited his immediate thought: that in Binx’s absence, the next most senior household member should answer the door. And with Andhera having absconded just now, that would be Rue. They evidently did not want to answer the door either.

All the same, K.P. was strongly convicted that someone should. He made to move for the door, and almost had his fingers run over by Rue, interposing themself.

“What are you doing?”

“I am inviting her in from the cold. It is what the house is here for.”

They were already talking over him. “You can’t do that, she’s of the Court of Wonder! She’s probably here at the Chorus’ behest, or…”

Hob frowned. “Do you really think so?” he asked. He did not believe it. He had no doubt that the Chorus wanted to find the Court of Craft, of course, but the very nature of its magic would surely protect it from such incursions. Craft’s presence in forgotten and broken things made it next to impossible to destroy utterly, an ingenious defensive tactic born out of desperation and necessity. Even if Wuvvy was charged with a destructive mission, Hob was not sure that she would go through with such a thing when it endangered her dear friend. “I expect she came here the way we all did. She is lost.”

He made another attempt, but was stopped again. “It’s not safe.”

“If you think that Binx would not offer her safe harbour here—”

“No, of course they would.”

“Then, in her absence, we should do the same.”

“Why do you want her here? You, of all people?”

He was quiet a moment, looking at the back of the door. Was Rue’s question fair? Wuvvy had, from early in their acquaintance, showed open hostility towards him which he had little means of understanding. If he had offended her during the Hart Hunt, he should have been pleased to apologise, but if it were something so simple as that, he felt sure he would have received an answer when he asked for the charge against him. However, that game had not only been his first acquaintance with Ms. Satyrane, but with Delloso de la Rue. He had, of course, only been intending to investigate their involvement in Grabalba and Apollo’s cancelled engagement at first, but found instead a well of sympathy, a reflection of himself. A feather. A flutter of the heart. And that, he thought, went a long way to explaining everything. Everything Wuvvy had done, he was sure, was in service of Rue, whether or not Rue had ever asked that of her. He did not know the particulars. He would like to ask.

Finally, he answered, “Because I would speak with her, if she wishes to have the conversation I think we are both owed. Because I believe you are objecting to her presence on my behalf, and I would ask that you do not do so. Perhaps you think me spineless for not choosing my company so carefully as you. If it makes me a coward to give Wuvvy a chance to explain herself to me, letters and go-betweens be damned, then I am a coward.”

“I do not think you are a coward, Knickolas,” they said wearily. “Very well.”

Before they could discuss it any further, Rue rose from their chair, went to the front door and opened it. Haloed by the earliest flakes of snow, frozen, wide-eyed, was Wuvvy. Sighing, Rue stepped aside and let her in.

She stepped across the threshold only tentatively, as if worried doing such a thing might harm or curse her. As she shook and stomped the snow from her person on the welcome mat, Hob felt the clumsiness of this reception. For all his words to Rue, he now felt himself at a loss. There were a thousand things which he ought to ask Wuvvy, to say to her. What have I done to offend you so profoundly? What heart most steadfastly holds your loyalty? What did you mean by your wish at my wedding? Why are you here- for Rue, or for me?

“Tea or hot chocolate?”

Sy tried not to be judgemental, but the Court of Wonder was home to some of the strangest fey she had ever encountered. She knew Wonder did not proliferate in the same way as Seelie; there were no vast flower gardens planted and pollinated by spouses, no nymphs emerging from pupa in the hearts of flowers, born with the blooming. Wonder fey were crafted more intentionally, sculpted from wood or bronze, shaped like clay and painted like porcelain. The vast majority of Wonder fey were adopted into the court, of course, like Delloso de la Rue, like Ms. Satyrane, but true-born Wonder fairies like Prince Apollo were custom-made to order. She supposed every new addition to the court had to be shaped to suit the harmony of the Court. A rebellious note would spoil the symphony. Perhaps that was why Rue had departed from the court’s composition so suddenly.

Sy had only seen Miss Gwyndolin Thistle-hop from a distance at the last Bloom. She was petite despite standing on her pointes at all times, and without staring intently at her mouth Sy could not be sure if she was deliberately pursing her lips into that small, tight shape or if she was simply made that way. Her eyes had an odd, flat quality, like they were painted onto her face, but her long lashes were most definitely three-dimensional, fluttering often. When Sy took her proffered hand, she noticed that her limbs were jointed like a doll’s, though her skin was not hard or cool as porcelain or wood.

Why Miss Thistle-hop was required for this excursion, Sy was still not entirely sure. Though Rue agreed that some effort should be made to retrieve Sy’s belongings, rather than rely solely on the charity of the Court of Craft, they had insisted to Binx that Miss Thistle-hop was a far superior liaison than any other fairy at their disposal. That Rue did not want to go themselves into the court they had parted from, Sy understood, and even their argument that Binx, as the Weaver of Fate, should avoid unnecessary scrutiny. But why a Wonder fairy of little import should be the most appropriate chaperone into the Seelie camp…?

Besides which, all of a sudden she had become terribly concerned with what she would wear to meet Miss Gwyndolin. This was precisely the problem that the excursion to Seelie was attempting to solve – all of Sy’s clothes were in K.P.’s tent in the Goblin camp, inaccessible. Binx had been generous with the wardrobe of Craft, but the clothes were in all mismatching styles and sizes, some in need of extensive repair. Despite Binx’s reassurances that Miss Gwyndolin would pass no judgement, Sy felt an insatiable need to make a good first impression, if not to salvage some scrap of reputation from her own – former – court.

She had tried on what felt like every garment in Faerie before settling half-satisfied on the ensemble. In the end, despite her agonies over the dress – the one that was slightly too short in the leg, or the one with the uglier pattern – she donned a pelisse which totally hid it from view. It was fairly plain, and perhaps a little faded from the vibrant colour it had once held, but it covered a multitude of sins. The torn lining would be seen by no-one, and it was perfectly appropriate for an afternoon engagement to tea.

“Are you not cold, Miss Gwyndolin?” she asked, because the Wonder fairy was decidedly wearing a summer dress, and the air had become biting overnight. The dress was powder blue and floral, very similar to something that Sy had seen her wear at the Bloom, albeit at a distance.

“Oh! Of course,” she said, as though she had only just noticed, and waved her hand, producing a shower of sparkles. Her attire transformed into an elegant wool coat, complete with white gloves and a scarf that looked far more decorative than warm. All the same, she seemed content, and they began the walk to the Seelie encampment.

Sy snuck as many glances at Gwyndolin on the way as she felt she was able to without being thought rude. She was, she thought, very well-painted. She moved as daintily as a dandelion seed on the wind. Despite her sister’s reputation, Gwyndolin did not appear to have any of the marks of a painter or sculptor herself; she was a thing made, not a thing-maker. She danced the steps already choreographed, sang the notes already composed. It was an awfully rude thought, and she tried to dismiss it. K.P. would not like her if she was not a kind person, at least.

It was a convoluted task they had set out to do. To retrieve whatever belongings she could from the Goblin Court, she would need to request the aid of the Seelie Court, who no longer had any obligation to help her. She had chosen not only to recede from court, but to abscond entirely with her Goblin husband – that he was, by the same act, no longer a Goblin likely would not have much sway. Fractured as the Seelie-Goblin alliance now was, it was a risk to venture into Goblin territory, even to reclaim things that rightfully belonged to the Seelie. It was then entirely at the discretion of the Seelie Court to release Sy’s belongings back to her. All things considered, there was really only one fairy in the world who Sy could ask for help.

She had, as tactfully as she was able, asked for an invitation to take tea with Damson that morning. To her immense relief, Damson had assented immediately. Although she seemed momentarily startled to be greeted with not only her friend, but a Wonder stranger, it would not be easy to tell for anyone but Sy. She composed herself and offered tea to them both. When Sy started to explain the favour she intended to ask, Damson interrupted to say of course she had already done it.

“You have my belongings?”

“Of course, I sent for them as soon as I heard. You didn’t expect me to leave your finery in the squalor of that Goblin encampment, did you?”

She was flooded with gratitude for her initiative, even though she was a little taken aback. “I thank you, Lady Clay, you are an unparalleled friend. Miss Gwyndolin and I should be pleased to convey everything from your care presently.”

“My dear, you have no need to move anything. Of course you will stay with me.”

Her heart sank. “That is very kind, but I… I have accommodation. Please do not trouble yourself.”

Damson frowned at the refusal and, no doubt, at the formal address. Lifting her face to a cheery expression, she told Gwyndolin, “Please, Miss, feel at ease to avail yourself of my powder room.”

“Oh, I’m alright, thank you,” they answered, politely oblivious.

Sy gave her a pointed look.

“Oh! You know, I just remembered, I do need to use the powder room.”

As soon as she was gone, Damson said, “What is this?”

“I have come to collect my things.”

“What is this?” she repeated, gesturing emphatically to Sy’s person and in the vague direction of the powder room. “The alliance with Goblin is over, you get to come home.”

“It isn’t that simple,” she bristled. “Some peace may still be salvaged, but if we take refuge with the Seelie—”

“We?” she interrupted. Aghast, she said, “You don’t mean him?”

“K.P. is my husband,” she said.

“Not since his king tried to roast you on a spit!”

Sy dreaded to think how much the story had changed in the retelling before it got to the Seelie residences. No doubt the savagery of the goblins was exaggerated at every turn. “He forfeited his station to save my life.”

“As would anyone worth half a fairy, though I suppose he must be commended among goblins for the achievement,” she retorted hotly.

“You are too unkind!” she protested. Few fairies she knew of would defy their monarch for any other, least of all a fairy of another court. K.P.’s defence of her was all the more touching knowing as she did of his devotion to his court. Damson herself would certainly never dare such a slight against Queen Titania, not even for her oldest friend. She was given no chance to express this, however, because Damson continued.

“No one expects you to pretend you married him because you love him.”

Though she had been agitated already, Sy felt her cheeks and the tips of her ears get hot at this remark. The idea that this was some sort of act she was putting on made her head spin. How could she think such a thing? How could she dare to suggest it to her as if explaining something blindingly obvious to a nymph?

When Sy, dumbfounded, made no reply, she pressed on, “You can't leave your court for him after the marriage retired you as Lady in Waiting, what kind of message does that send?”

There was a time when whispers at court would have bothered her very much. She would have fretted as much as any one fairy could that she would be seen as caring more for her own marriage than her Queen, her Lady, who she had sworn her service to. She had ceased worrying about such things, at least from petty courtiers, long before her engagement. Damson was no different. They had laughed together at how much Lady Bitterleaf cared for the court’s opinion, many a-time. Low, she said, “You know better than anyone that a marriage was the only way I could leave the Queen's service to look after my father.”

“And what is your father to do now?” She said this as if she had caught her in a fallacy, like this was a rhetoric lesson from their girlhood. It was too much.

“My father is dying, Damson! He is fading away so fast and I do not know that my presence has slowed it one iota.” The tears she had been suppressing since she left Mulberry Hall – for what, she now realised, might be the final time – began to spring up in her eyes. She tried to hold them back instinctually, but she had nothing to hide from Damson now. Not with this admission. She took a shaky breath. “…My parents were soldiers. I have watched the injuries they earned in service of their monarchs destroy them, and the best the Queen can do for her most esteemed Generals is arrange their daughter into a politically useful marriage to give her time enough to say goodbye. I will not let my husband meet such a fate.”

“But, Sy…”

“Do not ask me to stay. That is not fair.” She had only meant to think it.

“You asked me once before.”

Silence hung in the air between them. Though she could not look at Damson’s face directly, she could tell that they had both averted their gazes. She had never expected they would talk about it, and not after so long. She reminded her, “You refused.”

This was the point, she realised after a moment, that she ought to get up and leave. Instead she remained rooted to the chair. Her eyes were swimming with tears, and she did not trust herself to stay steady on her feet. Perhaps she would end up staying with Damson after all, if neither of them could bring themselves to speak again or move.

She heard a delicate clearing of the throat from behind her, and could vaguely make out the pastel shape of Miss Gwyndolin, half-concealed by the doorframe. “Excuse me,” she squeaked. With petite steps, she joined Sy’s side and offered her a handkerchief. After she took it she curtsied to Damson. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Clay, but Lady Sylmenar-Hob and I have another engagement to attend. Please allow us to unburden you, and we will be on our way.”

Damson put up no further resistance, and Sy almost began to sob. She composed herself as best she could and summoned a small troop of giant ants to haul her trunk back to the Court of Craft.

She turned to Gwyndolin to convey that the luggage was ready and was transfixed by the maw of her yawning mouth, and her rows of small white teeth which were all sharpened into snaptrap points. It was the very opposite of demure, and the first time Sy thought she might understand what K.P. saw in her.

Following the ants from the Seelie grounds to the woods, Sy let her conversation with Damson sink in. She had said nothing but the truth, but she had let her emotions dictate her speech, and she could practically hear her grandmother’s schooling in her mind. What is your father to do now? It was not the unfair question she had taken it for. Her father, her grandmother, little Hazel, they were all of them back at Mulberry Hall, ignorant of the obliteration of her social standing. Their means were not dependent on her place in court, she knew, but it would have done Hazel no favours when it came to finding a spouse. Soon, Father would fade away and she would be left alone, in charge of that big house by herself, doubtlessly encroached on by Jessamin and her nephlings to no end. Sy’s refusal to lose K.P. had doomed Hazel to a lonely existence.

Tears bubbled up again, and despite her best efforts, she could not conceal them from Gwyndolin.

“Oh dear. Here, have one of these,” Gwyndolin offered her a pale, perfectly round crumbly biscuit.

Somewhat baffled, she nonetheless accepted it and took a bite. It was sugary and buttery and melted in her mouth. Shortbread. “Thank you. Where did you get these?” Gwyndolin had no visible pockets in her ensemble.

“I took them from your friend’s kitchen,” she whispered, linking arms with her. “I know you like sweet things.” This was very thoughtful, if a little spooky. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“I am… I am worried about my sister. I fear I have ruined her chances at court before she could begin. Miss Sylmenar is not a name that will carry her far, after all this, within the Seelie Court or outwith it. And because I am not there, she will be left to manage the House by herself… It is all very sudden. I do not even think she understands fully that Father will be gone soon.”

“That’s tough,” Gwyndolin nodded somberly. “I’m sure we can figure it out. My hope is that Craft can support people in all the courts, you know, without fey having to leave. Being a part of Craft should mean you always have somewhere to go. I think that’s why my sister took the form she did, back on the mortal plane. I mean, what is a haunted house if not a home longing to find the people who belong in it?”

Sy was rendered sufficiently lost by this response that she began to hear the water-wheel turning on the Cottage of Craft. The Blue Fairy, as far as she knew, had never taken the form of any house, haunted or otherwise. Gwyndolin’s cadence in speaking had also become markedly more casual in a way that felt familiar, and when Sy looked into her surprisingly depthful plum-coloured eyes head-on, everything clicked into place at once.

“Binx?”

She blinked at her with those wide, painted eyes. “Shit!” she cursed, this time distinctly in Binx’s deeper register.

“Have you been disguised as Gwyndolin Thistle-hop this whole time?” She was reeling a little at the revelation. But that meant…

“Yes,” they sighed.

“And at the Bloom?”

“Then, too.”

“What have you done with the real Gwyndolin Thistle-hop?”

They threw up her hands, dispelling the illusion as they did so. “Nothing! She’s fine!”

She eyed her incredulously.

“She’s fine!” they repeated emphatically. “She asked me to take her place at the Bloom. Well, her sister’s place. It doesn’t matter. It was a mutual favour. I needed to attend the Bloom for the good of my Court, and she wanted to stay… where she is.”

“Where is that?”

“It’s private. She doesn’t want to be disturbed. You understand,” they pleaded. They sighed again. “I should have told you anyway. The others know.”

K.P. knows. She had not quite had the nerve to ask. So, those times they had been seen walking together unchaperoned, he had been with Binx. It was Binx who he had been separated from by the machinations of his Lord and Lady Blemish and Boil. Binx who he ran to in a crisis. Binx who he described as a dear friend. Binx who was kind, and hospitable, clever and clumsy with people all at once. Of course that was who K.P. Hob lent his affections to.

Before she could control the fluttering of her heart, K.P. appeared on the porch of the tailor shop, ready to relieve the giant ants from their charge and take her belongings inside. He had already picked up her trunk when he caught sight of her face and asked, “Are you well, My Lady?”

“Yes,” she said too quickly. “Merely the chill. Let us get everything inside.”

“Please, I will manage your bags. Go inside and warm yourself,” he insisted. “Oh— I must warn you.” He looked between her and Binx, apparently unsure where to direct this information first. He settled on Binx, which gave Sy an unjust pang of something. “Ms. Satyrane is here. She seemed to be lost, and I thought it best to extend your hospitality.”

Binx bustled inside with what seemed to be something like giddiness, whether nervous or excited, Sy was not sure.

Once they were safely in their bedroom, trunk set down, she closed the door softly behind them and said, “Knickolas, I wish to talk to you.”

“If you do not think it appropriate for me to invite Wuvvy—”

“It is not about that,” she cut him off. She had no more right to exclude people from this house than he did. Her problems with Wuvvy seemed entirely irrelevant at the moment. She would not allow herself to be distracted; if she did not have this conversation with K.P. now, she feared she never would. He had gone silent in expectation, frowning. To steady herself, she took in a breath and began, “What I said before, that I will stay with you as long as you will have me.”

“…Yes?”

“It occurs to me that it may have been selfish of me.”

His shoulders had hunched in slightly, looking down. “If you do not wish to stay…”

“I do,” she interrupted. “I do. Though I am worried for Hazel, I have been assured we shall make every provision possible for her. But that is not what this is about, either. I mean to address your happiness, not my own peace of mind. I know that there was someone you loved before you married me, I think you love them still. If I am not mistaken, I believe we share a court with them now.”

“My Lady—”

He seemed like he was going to object to his deserving happiness, so she pushed on without allowing him to speak. “The barriers you once spoke of separate from our marriage cannot be of any object now, with your departure from the Goblin Court. If your loyalty to me would prevent you from seeking true love, I cannot be content with it.”

He sighed at length. “You and Rue both are damned concerned with my happiness.”

“And what should Rue have to say about it?” she frowned. They were altogether too presumptuous, in her opinion, but she was curious what they had expressed to him, she had to admit.

“Chiefly that I should think of myself more. That pursuing love is the best, perhaps the only, route to happiness, although they have recanted that now, I think. They see the mess that can be made of love, that it cannot be extricated from politics quite so easily as they once thought. I have wished that my love for them could overcome any obstacle if only I felt it truly enough, as they believed. But it cannot. I do not believe love alone can produce happiness.”

For the second time that afternoon, she felt all her notions flip on their heads. She feared she was going to become motion sick. She could not have heard him correctly. “Rue?” she echoed in disbelief. “I thought… No, never mind.”

He blinked. “Who did you think?”

Her cheeks heated. “Miss Gwyndolin— Binx. You were seen together at the Bloom. And— You said…”

He shook his head, and let out something between a chuckle and a sigh. “Rumours have been unkind to me, My Lady. My alleged affair with Miss Gwyndolin Thistle-hop was merely some gossip seized on by the Lords of the Wing in the early turns of the Bloom, I am afraid. As for Binx, we are friends. I do not have the privilege of their heart in that sense, though we are often, I think, of one mind.”

She had, by the end of this explanation, quelled her mortification enough to glean what was both true and novel. She asked, “But Rue’s heart?”

His levity at the misunderstanding drained from him. “Rue’s heart and mine are the cause of all the strife between us, I fear.”

She felt foolish for not seeing it in retrospect. The difficulty of his speaking about what the duel pertained to was the most obvious clue, but at the time, all she had seen was a Wonder fey – absconded as they may have been – making a feud out of petty frivolities. She had imagined, she supposed, that Rue had thought K.P. to have snubbed themself or the Bloom in some way. She had not given it a great deal of thought, in all honestly. She had had no inkling of their having a romance at the Bloom. “I have behaved so coldly to them. They must think me a jealous hag.”

“You have done nothing but what could be expected of the most dutiful wife. Please do not lament your conduct. The fault was mine. It shames me to admit, My Lady, but they do hold a part of my heart, and I theirs.”

“Why this shame?”

His ears were drooping. “I am your husband. Without my court, and my King, my heart – what functions of it – should belong totally to you.”

“No.” She took his hands. “If the love you have shown to me is only owed to a portion of your heart, then you must have boundless meadows to give. I have seen it, in fact. Your love for Binx and Sir Andhera. And yes, your court, your king.”

“Not all worthy recipients of my love,” he mumbled. It was still difficult for him to admit, she could see. But she did not think him foolish for loving his court. K.P. Sylmenar-Hob was unique among goblins, but he was not the only one worth loving, she was sure. He had loved his soldiers, he had loved his Viscountess, and that was no poor thing.

A discussion for another time. Now, she asked, “Is Rue worthy?”

His pupils were dark and rounded, tender and afraid. At last, he said, “They are.”

“Then indulge your heart, my love. I am happy with a claim to a portion of your heart, if you are with a portion of mine.”

The business of making a home, Rue found, was more difficult than they had expected. They were attempting to be a helpful resident, dusting the high shelves that Binx couldn’t reach and tightening doorknobs and darning and patching the swathes of holey clothes. A number of times now, though, they had found themself in a room of the building that they had never seen before. Invariably these rooms were covered in cobwebs and full of storage boxes or furniture covered in sheets, and as soon as they left one, it ceased to be behind the door they had just walked through. At first, they thought they were just getting lost, and tried to draw a map. This quickly proved to be impossible.

They shook the dust out of their feathers on the stoop for the umpteenth time. Their resolve hardened, and they went once more unto the breach, with dustpan, mop and bucket loaded onto their wheelchair, so that when they were once again ambushed by a secret room, under the stairs or behind a trapdoor or in the back of a wardrobe, they were ready. The first room they were prepared for seemed to be a spare room, used for storage. They could barely fit into the narrow passages created by teetering stacks of boxes, picture frames, and a disturbing quantity of dolls and dummies. It seemed that the strange accessories of the original tailor shop had been relocated here, which explained why the living room was not decorated with ventriloquism puppets and headless mannequins anymore.

Rue organised the room. Puppets were packed in boxes and trunks, the floors were swept and mopped, everything was stacked neatly and labelled. They noted, with some concern, the mouse droppings scattered along the skirting boards and the edges of the old box stacks.

The house must have approved of the job Rue did on cleaning the spare room, because it promptly showed them another room, this one even messier than the last. There was a bed, but it had no sheets or bedding, and instead there seemed to be some kind of person-sized nest on the floor. It was made of rough jute sacks and raggedy scraps of fabric, and coated in a thick layer of dust. The soot-caked chimney flue had been stuffed with rags to keep out a draft. And there were more mouse droppings. This room required a lot more scouring than the spare room, and more and more as they moved furniture around, uncovering mold and an infestation of moths in the rug. They only left the room once it was sparkling.

“There you are,” Binx said.

They had just emerged, sore and exhausted but brimming with achievement, back into the hallway of the tailor shop. “I was just cleaning one of the spare rooms.”

“One of the spare…? Oh, you mean one of Jinx’s rooms?”

“Jinx?” they asked. “Who is Jinx?” They thought they would have noticed if there was another resident in the cottage, even if it had secret moving rooms.

“My sister,” she said, and the smile was a little bit too big and bright, trying to distract from the sparkle of tears that had sprung suddenly into her eyes.

Rue recalled that Binx had said her sister became a haunted house when Court of Craft lost its magic. They flushed and stammered, “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry, I did not mean to start washing your sister without your permission—“

“Oh, it’s alright, I’m sure she would be gratef—”

“Hang on, did you not say that your sister was stuck on the mortal plane?” they asked.

“Well, yes. Houses in Faerie don’t tend to be haunted from what I’ve heard, I mean spirits moving objects around and changing the temperature is quite normal here. She’s the greathouse in a village called Choppley on the mortal plane. I think the land is named Far Rune? The people who have disappeared in the house came to Faerie, I think, although I haven’t found any of them. I’m hoping that they’ll come through the cottage from now on—”

“Do you mean to say you have gateways to the mortal plane in the tailor shop?”

“I don’t know about multiple. There’s one, really, and it moves around. I’m always misplacing it,” she said. “Thank you for looking after Jinx. Hey, so Lady Sylmenar has asked me to come with her to the Seelie Court to see if we can ask about getting her things back. Do you think I need to change, or am I good?”

Rue appraised Binx’s outfit. Their punctuating silence was not for the difficulty of the verdict – she absolutely needed to change – but the difficulty of finding a tactful way of answering the question. Binx was wearing a shapeless sweater that was fraying horribly at the cuffs and had some kind of stain on the clavicle, not prominent but certainly noticeable at close distance. Even if the clothes were not damaged and worn, they were poorly fitted and plain. This was not the outfit that the leader of the Court of Craft should be wearing out of doors. Or possibly even indoors, although Rue was not about to tell Binx how to dress in their own home. Come to think of it, the Court of Craft had no presence at the Fête for Peace, and for Binx to arrive unannounced would also be in poor form, perhaps especially in service of an errand for Lady Sylmenar-Hob, who was not yet known to be an affiliate of Craft.

“Do you think perhaps,” they asked in a low voice, “Miss Gwyndolin could be persuaded to escort the Lady in your place?”

“What for?”

“I know she was Wonder, but she would be a little less conspicuous than yourself. The lower the status, the less attention drawn. If your powers as Weaver become needed, you can always reveal yourself.”

Binx visibly cringed at the insinuation that they were high status in relation to Gwyndolin. “Are you sure I need to…?” they asked hopefully.

“It is only my advice. Which you asked for.”

They did feel bad, though, for suggesting that Binx return to the glamour which was so clearly outside of their comfort zone. After she had departed with Lady Sylmenar-Hob, they started making a batch of cookies as an apology. Or a bribe? Maybe it was a bribe. It was to make her feel better, at any rate. It look some time to scrounge through the unlabeled, crammed pantry for the ingredients. While the cookies were baking, they decided they would begin reorganising it. However, when they opened the pantry door, they found themself in a different kitchen.

The kitchen in the greathouse of Choppley, Far Rune was run-down, coated in soot and dust and rust, and peppered with mouse droppings. With a sigh, they got to work wiping down the countertops, sweeping and mopping the floor, cleaning out the oven. It was very cold in the house, and the layer of grime on the windows stopped much light getting in, so they searched around for some candles, and when the wood stove was clean enough, they lit a fire in it.

It was tough work, but they were gratified by every surface made new. Truth be told, they were glad to have some time away from the others. Away from Hob. They were glad to see him, glad he had left the Goblin Court, but they were not quite sure how to be around him. It was hard for it not to feel illicit to talk to him alone, when he was a married man. There was nothing untoward about a conversation between friends, but… well, were they just friends, exactly?

They were pleased to be distracted from these musings by the work. Very abruptly they realised they had been cleaning for hours, and the cookies were only supposed to be in the oven for a stone’s skip, and they rushed back to the cottage, dreading finding everything in flames or already reduced to char and ash. Instead, there was a pleasant buttery sugary baking smell exuding from the oven, not yet even burnt. Fortunately, the time between the two realms was not perfectly synchronised.

In their haste, they had left the door between the houses open, and they were horrified to see a dark shape flit into the cottage’s kitchen, staying close to the walls. It was one of the mice. Their owlish eyes narrowed in on the creature.

“Oh, no you don’t,” they growled, lunging after it. They would be damned if they had to start worrying about mouse droppings in both houses.

It evaded Rue’s talons and squeezed into one of the lower kitchen cupboards that housed the pots and pans. They flung the cabinet door open, prepared to snatch the mouse once and for all, but when they did, they had to blink rapidly to readjust their vision, as what they saw did not immediately make sense to them. Cowering in the cabinet, fenced in by baking trays and pans, there was a mouse standing on its hind legs. He was wearing tiny rounded spectacles and a neatly-made red waistcoat.

“Oh! Goodness me. Hello.” They felt all of a sudden terribly uncivilised, lunging for mice like a common predator. They offered him their wrist to step on so that he could stand on the countertop. “I’m terribly sorry, I’m...” They trailed off as they squinted at the fairy’s mousy face. There was something familiar about him. “Do I know you?”

He adjusted his waistcoat. “Hardly. I just got here.”

“Yes, but…” They placed it as they summoned their wheelchair to sit down. “Cranberry? Aren’t you Cranberry?” One of the many assistants of the Master of Ceremonies, a mouse fairy with the aspirations of a master tailor and a debilitating nervous temperament. This mouse looked just like xem. Had the Court of Wonder sent xem to search out the Court of Craft?

“Cranberry? I’m Nook,” he corrected decisively. Rue was not quite ready to believe him, until his posture shifted and he asked urgently, “Are you talking about Cranny? Is xe alright?”

“Xe’s fine, last I saw,” Rue said. “Xe works in the retinue of the Master of Ceremonies. How do you know each other?”

“Xe is my sibling. And Cubby, do you know her? What about Alcove?”

Neither of the other names rang any bells. “I don’t think so. What are you doing here?”

“I live here!” he seemed offended by the question. “Well, sort of. I’m from the Court of Craft. We all are. I’ve been stuck in the mortal world with Jinx for a very long time. But none of my siblings were with me, and Jinx can’t talk. It’s been awfully lonely. Gimcrack and Tchotchke are alright, but it’s hard to hold a conversation with them.”

“Who are Gimcrack and—”

This line of questioning was abruptly cut off by a loud thump in the mill, followed by urgent whispering and the continued scuffling of two bodies attempting to untangle themselves. If Rue were feeling prone to gossip, they might choose to believe they were being burgled, or even more scandalous, that a secret tryst in the mill had gone awry, but they were too quick to recognise the voices. Knickolas and Andhera had arrived home, and for reasons best known to themselves, they had chosen to climb in a window.

Wuvvy’s arrival quite ruined the peace that Rue had been cultivating all day. Hob’s insistence on inviting her inside on Binx’s behalf was made all the more infuriating by the fact that it was, indeed, what Binx would do, and Rue felt themself a rotten sort for being so taciturn about it. They wanted to object, when Hob said they were trying to protect him by excluding Wuvvy. They wanted to say that it was based on their own feelings – but then, why were they being so hard on Wuvvy? They had not turned up their beak at sharing her quarters for the Fête until the duel. Her transgression there was against the Sylmenar-Hobs, not Rue. It occurred to them all at once, and in a crashing wave of grief, that extending grace to Wuvvy was not something they had ever been asked to do before. They had never needed to. Until very recently, she had never done anything to hurt them, and by the time her actions at the Bloom had come to light, all their chances of being with Knickolas had seemingly evaporated. Holding the grudge had felt futile and exhausting, so they had let it go, in a manner of speaking. But they hadn’t really resolved it. They hadn’t really let themself feel it.

This revelation came to them as they were sitting in the Court of Craft’s cosy living room in uncomfortable silence with Wuvvy and Hob, triangulating a plate of the cookies that Rue had baked.

I never really forgave you. The words did not want to come out. Not with Knickolas sitting right there. They were too worried that the conversation would turn to Rue’s love for him, a love Rue could not deny but could not bear to admit in the light of day. At the Bloom, their reticence had been due to fear of rejection. Now they were afraid that Knickolas would reciprocate all too much, that it would hurt Wuvvy, that it would damage his relationship with Lady Sylmenar. Hob had said that he wanted to speak with Wuvvy, but he was just as silent, staring at the cookies and casting furtive glances at her and Rue. Whenever any of their eyes met, their gazes danced around the room at the eclectic décor of the Court of Craft, crammed onto mantelpieces and hanging from ceiling hooks and stacked on bookshelves.

“How goes the Fête for Peace?” Hob asked eventually, breaking the silence so suddenly and unexpectedly that it made even Rue jump, let alone Wuvvy.

Once the question had been understood instead of merely reacted to, Wuvvy took a long sip of her chocolate. Rue saw her trying to regulate her breathing behind her cup. “The finale banquet is due to start in a nightingale song’s time. When I left it, it was set to turn into an all-out brawl. Certain courts threatening to eat others, et cetera. At this rate, it will be a Feast for War.”

Rue knew Wuvvy well enough to see that she was insinuating that Hob was to blame for his former court’s threats of gourmandisation. Surely his exit from the Goblin Court had not affected the mood of the entire festivity so profoundly. And besides, he might not have needed to resign his post so abruptly if Wuvvy had not sabotaged the duel, which might not even have happened if she had not—

They stopped themself before following that line of logic any further, and said, “Was peace in Faerie truly so fragile as that all along?” It might – they hoped – fly over Hob’s head, but it was a shot back at Wuvvy on his behalf. If the ceasefire across courts and the entire Fête fell apart thanks to the events of a single duel, then either the war was not as close to ending as everyone had hoped, or it was an incredibly poorly managed Fête.

Wuvvy met their eyes in a way that told them she knew exactly what they were implying. She said nothing, and they lapsed back into silence.

Regardless of if it was Wuvvy’s fault or not, this was historically disastrous. Nearly as bad as Wonderbringer’s final Bloom before Rue took over as Master of Ceremonies. Her décor had been gauche and her games had been trite long before she was forced to step down, but she might never have given up the post willingly. Rue might never have risen above a prized headliner and seneschal in Apollo’s greathouse.

The tension was only broken by Binx and Lady Sylmenar-Hob returning from the Seelie Court. Lady Sylmenar-Hob broke away to talk to her husband, so Rue was left to explain to Binx what had happened. They seemed confused, but altogether pleased to have another guest in the house, and made all of Hob’s offers of hospitality a second time. When it became clear there were things that needed to be said out of Wuvvy’s earshot, they called a meeting in the other house. Rue had made Jinx’s living room liveable, so with a bit of elementary magic to start a fire in the hearth, it was cosier than it could have been.

The entire Court of Craft was present – including Nook, who was happily nibbling on a cookie that was bigger than his little mouse body. He and Binx were old friends, judging from their teary reunion, but he did not seem much concerned with the happenings of Faerie at large, even if they did pertain to the immediate population of his court. Apparently, Tchotchke and Gimcrack were bats who lived in the attic, but they were currently asleep. Meanwhile, although Andhera had fled from the dilemma earlier, he now sat quietly, absorbing the words of everyone else.

“I just think that until – if – Wuvvy leaves the Court of Wonder officially, it is not safe for us to offer shelter to her.” This basic concept, that they could not blindly accept people from parties directly in favour of the Court of Craft’s destruction, seemed to be lost on everyone but Rue.

“Everyone should have a right to help when they need it,” Binx objected. “This is not a club, where you are in it or you aren’t. That’s the kind of court I don’t want us to be. This should be more like… like… a big quilt. Everyone sews a piece together, and it adds up to something warm.”

“You are the Weaver of Fate and Wuvvy is the Weaver of Fête,” Andhera said abruptly. After a substantial pause, they added, “That joke works better written down. Sorry. Anyway, has anyone actually asked Wuvvy if she wants to join the Court of Craft? I fear we may be getting ahead of ourselves. She could just be lost.”

“K.P.?” Lady Sylmenar-Hob said. “You have been quiet.”

He kept his silence a moment longer. “I wish to speak with her. None of this scheming behind her back.”

“I do not think you should talk to her alone,” Rue warned.

“Respectfully, Mistrex,” he said, not unkindly, but firmly. “I must.”

Despite his insistence, Rue did watch from a distance while they strode along the shore of the river. When Knickolas had gone to speak with Wuvvy, the rest of the Court of Craft, even Lady Sylmenar-Hob, had quickly become absorbed in some kind of conversation about the imploding Fête for Peace, which Rue could not imagine was a priority. They did not know what possible purpose Andhera could have to solicit the gossiping skills of Lord Airavis and Lady Featherfowl at a time like this, but they were sure they wanted no part of it. They had thought Binx was adverse to politics. If Rue was going to be the only one to check on Knickolas’ welfare, then so be it.

Admittedly, though, Wuvvy showed no interest in harming him. If anything, her interest seemed to be piqued by his desire to talk. And talk they did. As they walked, the sky darkened and they were gradually lit more and more by ribbons of vibrant light amongst the stars, aquamarine and phlox. Rue wondered if Wuvvy had scheduled the aurora for the end of the Fête, wondered if the banquet had yet descended into chaos, if Faerie was at war. They had passed the last war in the mortal realm. Perhaps they could do the same for this one, move in with Jinx and do more than haunt the house.

Even as they fantasised, they realised that Knickolas would never accept it. He might not march to the Goblin King’s tune, but he would not sit idly by while other fey did.

By the time they began walking back to the cottage, twilight had passed quietly into night – though, it occurred to Rue that with the rapid onset of winter to Faerie, perhaps it was not quite as late as it looked. Reaching the stoop, they paused close to where Rue was sitting. Wuvvy extended a hand for him to shake. Knickolas took her hand and bowed over it, pressing a gentle kiss to its back. “The honour was mine,” he murmured sincerely. When he turned around to go inside, his eyes passed over Rue, and he gave them a nod.

Wuvvy and Rue blinked at each other with their wide, reflective eyes while they heard the door open and shut behind him. She seemed just as surprised as them, and might almost have been blushing, though it was hard to tell with only the ambient light from the cottage’s windows and the starry, aurora-streaked sky to see by. “What did you two talk about?” Rue asked with a half-joking note of scandal in their voice. Curiosity burned within them, like acid through the heart.

She took the kissed hand in her other, as if to cradle or hide it. Then she said, softly, “Love.”

They did not know why, but something about that made their chest ache even more acutely. They could think of nothing sincere to say in return, so as they patted the empty space on the bench beside them, they joked, “Well, I only wanted to talk to you about the design the napkins should be folded into.”

Wuvvy laughed politely, although they both knew the joke was not very good.

When she sat down, the night itself seemed to sigh. Their breaths fogged in front of them, creating tiny clouds to evaporate into an otherwise cloudless night.

“None of this was meant to happen.”

Rue had thought it themself more than once. That there ought to be some provenance, some homecoming, a feeling of… of everything being as it should be. They were no longer certain that such a feeling even existed. If the stars were indeed maligned then… well, they were no less beautiful for it, were they? A little hard to interpret, perhaps. But maybe the stars were never supposed to be a perfect map, anyway. Maybe they were supposed to be a quilt.

“I’m sorry,” Rue said.

Wuvvy looked startled. She had every right to be. Rue was just realising how rare it was for them to apologise.

“I’m sorry for taking your love for granted, Wuvvy. I’m sorry for not recognising it for what it was, even though you told me every day. You deserve better than that.”

She was quiet for a long moment, looking down at her hands in her lap. She said, small, “Yeah.”

They sat like that for a stretch of time that was impossible to measure. It ended when Binx came outside to pass warm drinks into both of their hands. They said, “I hope the river doesn’t freeze over. I was just getting the hang of using the water-wheel to grind flour, and I have a lot of plans about cakes.”

Silence broken, a question leapt to the front of Rue’s mouth and was out before they could think to stop it: “What are you going to do now?"

It was a stupid question. Wuvvy shook her head at the impossibility of answering it.

“You could join us at the Court of Craft,” they suggested.

Wuvvy flinched. It stung, but they could not pretend they didn’t understand.

Binx chimed in, “You wouldn’t have to be here. The Court of Craft is not a place. It isn’t a court, really. It’s a shared idea. A home for everyone that needs one.”

“You can’t just give an open invitation to all fey in the realm,” she scoffed. “You don’t have the resources or the infrastructure – it’s too disorganised.” She nodded at the tailor shop, already bursting at the seams with its few inhabitants. Even accounting for Jinx, even assuming every room could be cleaned up to accommodate lost and drifting fey, it was a finite space. Rue did not say it, but they shared Wuvvy’s scepticism.

“I’m not trying to make a court. I’m trying to create a safety net. The courts persist in the way they do because nobody has any other options. But if fey have a way to get the help they need without enduring the harm and humiliation their monarchs demand, they have the power to stand up for themselves. A place to sleep, and eat, and be loved, without expectation of service or tithe. People who can offer help, they help, with the understanding that they will be helped when they need it. That’s what I want.”

Wuvvy looked off into the woods, towards the Fête for Peace she had laboured over that was falling now to ruin. “It is ruthlessly idealistic.”

“You don’t have to commit to anything right now,” Binx smiled. “As long as you remember we’re here, when you need us.”

She nodded. A beat only, and then, “I should go.”

“You don’t have to," Rue blurted.

Wuvvy looked them in the eyes. “I want to.”

That was that, then. They made their goodbyes, Binx saying some parting words to Wuvvy in private, and Rue retreated inside. They were immediately hit with the warmth of the fireplace and the sound of laughter in the drawing room. The others were engaged in a game of cards, and Knickolas, having only recently joined the circle, had apparently volunteered to hold Nook’s cards for him. He was being accused, lightheartedly, of helping Nook to cheat, and he puffed up his chest and denied all charges of wrongdoing. When his grin flashed, it was wickedly sharp, and Rue felt their heart flutter. They were overcome with a powerful longing and had to hurriedly turn away when his eyes found theirs across the room.

“Rue, join us, join us,” Andhera urged. “We’ll deal you in for the next round. I’m about to win this one anyway.”

Lady Sylmenar-Hob scoffed at his cockiness. In the end, it was in fact her who had the winning hand. When that time came, Binx and Knickolas were also being dealt in – Knickolas insisted he was content to be a card stand for Nook, but Rue used a flourish of magic to create a less sentient card stand for him instead.

At the end of half a dozen more rounds of cards – Lady Sy was far and away the superior card player – and most of a cheese board, there was a knock at the door. Despite everything, a part of Rue hoped that it was Wuvvy coming back, but that was not who Binx brought through. Cranberry – Cranny, as Nook had called xem – was cupped in the hands of another fairy who Rue did not recognise, and xe looked nervous, eyes flitting around the drawing room. As soon as xe saw Nook waiting for xem, though, xe leapt from xir perch and scampered across the floorboards to embrace him. Xir deliverer was promptly hugged by Binx. Rue thought they must have been old friends, until they introduced themselves to each other.

“My name is Hopscotch,” the fairy curtsied.

Lady Sylmenar-Hob was the one to reach out and clasp her hand in friendship. “It is good to see you,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Hopscotch said sheepishly, and Rue suddenly understood why the Lords of the Wing had been consulted. No one else could be relied upon to deliver messages across every level of the courts so quickly. They began to suspect that Hopscotch and Cranberry were only the first of a deluge of new guests about to arrive at the tailor shop. They decided to put on another pot of tea.

In the kitchen, Binx put a tray of baked treats in the oven. They nudged Rue, and said, “I told you.” She was trying to be coy, but she was grinning too much.

“About what?”

“There is a gravity about you.” She gestured, and they leaned in a little closer as she added, quieter, “I think we have all the right people in our orbit.”

Rue looked around at the family they could see assembling in the other room. Gimcrack and Tchotchke, now awake, had been summoned from the other house to meet the long-lost sibling that Nook had told them about, and they were circling and swooping around the room in joy and laughter. Sy was introducing K.P. to Hopscotch, and he was looking at her over the spectacles that Binx had found for him when he kept having to hold his cards at arms’ length to see them properly. Andhera was shuffling the deck of cards, just as poorly as every other time he had that night. The room was a warm glow, and the windows to the outside world were dark, soaking up the light. The Court of Craft was a beacon, a bright star at the centre of a solar system, and it shone brighter the more planets entered its orbit.

Knickolas met their eyes, and it did not have the same effect it once had. It did not cause every other fairy in the room to vanish from their awareness; he remained firmly in context, surrounded by their friends. Nonetheless, they watched his pupils widen to take them in as he had often done before, and they felt their heart melt. It was not the heart-pounding, burning sensation that was their almost-dalliance at the Bloom. It was softer, slower, warming, spreading out from the centre of their chest.

He stood from his chair, and Rue hurriedly looked away, returning to straining the tea. They half-wished Binx would stay, a buffer between them, but she heard none of Rue’s psychic pleas for aid. At the same time another part of Rue was glad to be alone with him.

“Are you alright, Rue?” He was standing very close to them, speaking quietly so as not to be overheard, but they had to suppress a shiver running through them at the low softness of his voice.

“Yes, of course,” they said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He was quiet for a moment, watchful. Then he broke his gaze away to the teapot. “Forgive me. Perhaps I am merely seeing what I expect to, another reflection in the glass. But I have noticed you stepping back, retreating to the kitchen, to Jinx. Serving the Court of Craft as a functionary, rather than joining as a guest, and I fear I am to blame.”

“No, no. It isn’t you,” they said, unsure if it was a lie. They had been avoiding him, after all. But it was not so much about anything he had done, just the tension between them, the feelings that twisted their gut whenever they were alone. Like this.

“I know what it is to feel your service owed to a debt. I cannot say I do not feel a debt to you, to Binx and Andhera, for taking me under your wings. Every fibre of my being longs to find a way to repay that kindness, and yet if I asked any one of you, I know you would tell me that I owed you no such payment. We are both, I think, trying to pay off a priceless debt. I think… I think that a home cannot be paid off like a piece of property. It must be invested in, in a different way. With presence, and love, and…” he trailed off. “Ah, fuck it.”

Their heart clenched, and they wanted to say, No, keep going, but it was stuck in their throat.

But instead of pulling away, he brought up a hand and caressed the feathers on their cheek with his thumb. “I want to kiss you very much, Rue,” he murmured. “If you do not feel the same about me, after everything, I—”

They cut him off with a kiss, no more than a peck on the mouth, and he wrapped his arms around them immediately. They could feel their heart pounding in their chest, or maybe it was his, pressed warm against theirs. They touched foreheads with him, gripping his waist like he was stopping them from spinning off alone into outer space. They felt breathless, but they managed to whisper, “I love you.”

They saw a hint of his teeth as he began to smile. “I love you,” he echoed. “And I do it on purpose.”