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Chapter Text

“What is he even doing here?”

Roland’s pointed ears perked. Being excluded from the surrounding conversations had its advantages. He filtered out the noise, simple after years of practice, and focused in on the heated discussion between crowned heads, which took some effort given how far down the table he had been seated.

Crown Princess Marianne, the future Queen of the Fairy Kingdom and the Dark Forest, betrothed to the mighty Bog King, and Roland’s former fiancé addressed her complaint to her father, King Dagda of the Fairy Kingdom, who answered her in hushed tones. “He was publicly reprimanded and stripped of all honors. Doing anything more would be… difficult under the circumstances.” The King sent a wary glance to the ugly creature seated next to his eldest daughter.

The ruler of the adjacent kingdom, the Dark Forest, was a looming presence even without his usual scowl. The goblin’s armor-like chitin, dull and rough as tree bark, looked out of place among the bright colors of the palace dining hall. Even his wings, sheer and tattered, stood in contrast to the full, colorful scales scattered around him.

Roland kicked himself for the thousandth time. He had been so close to winning the crown, and lost to that oversized insect. Who, moreover, already had a throne, a kingdom, and an army of his own! Too close, Roland acknowledged. So close he became careless. One tiny indiscretion on what would have been his wedding day, and Marianne had canceled the entire thing without even giving him chance to charm his way into forgiveness. Then, at the Spring Ball, after going through the trouble of organizing a flashy song and dance, the kind of showstopper he knew she would appreciate, instead of falling into his arms like she should have, Roland found himself kicked out of the ballroom entirely, nothing but bruised pride and wings to show for his efforts. Prior to this, he had never been on the receiving end of her temper, usually reserved for uncooperative members of her father’s Council. With her violet wings fully extended and murder in her eyes, Roland knew he wanted to avoid a head to head battle at all costs. His usual tricks were designed to maim or kill, inappropriate when one needed to marry the opponent.

Roland’s gaze shifted from his ex and her new beau to the opposite seats, too far for even his keen ears to eavesdrop, seeking allies. No help there. The younger princess, Dawn, had eyes only for her own beau. Until last year, she spent every spare moment fluttering her wings at anything in trousers. Now she only fluttered at the elf responsible for Roland’s current outcast state.

While equally out of place, the elf (Sammy? Sadie? Something like that) did not stand out like the visiting monarch. Rather he nearly vanished, being only half the height of either princess and lacking the striking colors that might give him some presence. Roland did congratulate himself on choosing the elf as a lackey. He had failed entirely at delivering the love potion that would have secured Marianne’s heart and grown, but they could not punish Roland too harshly without punishing the elf as well. Being the consort of the flighty blonde put him in a privileged position, which protected Roland as well, as they were guilty of the same crime.

Roland raised his goblet in a silent toast to himself. He may have been knocked back a few steps, but he always found a new path to sneak ahead. He just had to find some weak point. The right favors for the right people had always gotten him what he needed in the past. Even if he was not on speaking terms with anyone at the moment, as the court followed the lead of the Royals, that could be fixed. Settling back, he nursed his wine and observed.

Fashion had fallen in line with Marianne’s choice of practical outfit, tunics and leggings replacing the slender gowns that were popular a few springs ago. A few hold outs still followed Princess Dawn, though the copper and silver embroidery afforded by the wealthier fairies would never match the elegance of the golden threads reserved for members of the Royal family. Or almost-members, Roland thought, acutely aware that the yellow threads in his own green jerkin were a poor substitute for the gold he was no longer entitled to wear.

Yet for all that Marianne set the fashion, few seemed eager to accept her choice of mate. The fairies closest to the goblin king leaned away from him with twitching wings, the gap between His Majesty and the nearest neighbor increasing minutely as the meal carried on.

Roland noticed this, and from the tense quiver of his broad shoulder plates, the king noticed as well. A flash of color at the head of the table when the nobleman scooted away again proved Marianne had spotted the retreat, and her wings wanted to flare in offense. Roland’s own wings nearly twitched as an idea occurred. The Bog King might win over the citizens of the Fields given enough time, but it could take years for people to get accustomed to goblins in their bright environment. Oh, he would be invited to all the important parties, but that did not mean anyone would accept other residents of the Dark Forest. The Bog King’s own entourage remained hidden at this party, out of sight and mind.

Roland hid a smile behind his cup. If only someone knew how to gain acceptance, no matter the circumstances. If one could strengthen the budding alliance between the kingdoms, that person would be downright invaluable.

* * * * *

Marianne’s fingers tapped against the back of a quartz carved chair. The dinner party had ended far too early, and the royal family adjourned to a large sitting room.

Just the other night, the Palace had hosted a banquet that carried on until moondown. Except Bog had not been there.

Marianne plucked the purple flower from its place behind her ear, a traditional symbol of engagement. The intricate blossom grew only in the shadows of the Dark Forest and, as Bog once blurted out amid stutters and blushes, it matched her wings.

She looked over her family. Her sister, Dawn, and her elfish consort sat on a low bench lost in animated conversation. Her father sat in his usual chair by the unlit fireplace, pretending to read while keeping a watchful eye on his younger daughter. Bog stood by the tall, thin window, designed to let in light and air while keeping dangerous birds out. The window he chose had the best view of his home, the Dark Forest.

Marianne sighed. “This isn’t working.”

Bog turned at her lament, his icy blue eyes meeting hers, then dropping to the flower in her hand rather than her hair, and darted back, wide with panic. “What?”

“This ‘getting everyone used to you’ idea,” she clarified. One long-fingered hand ran through her short brown hair in frustration. “Nobody’s getting used to anything. It’s been a year and everyone still acts like you’re not even there. That’s hardly an improvement.” She wanted to rub her eyes to ease the headache coalescing behind them, but the berry juice she used to paint her face was smudged enough. Her dark-painted lips twisted unhappily.

Bog’s bony hand lifted the flower from her palm. He gently raised it back to her ear, pausing a moment in case she objected, then tucked the stem back behind her ear. Wicked talons caressed her cheek. “It’ll take time, Tough Girl,” he assured her, his voice a low rumble in his armored chest. “Our people have always been separate.”

Marianne pressed his hand against her cheek, her sword-calloused fingers soft against his armored claw. “I just don’t think it’s enough,” she whispered.

A series of coughs drew their attention. Her father, King Dagda, set his book aside and struggled to lift his hefty form out of his seat. The weight of his traditional green and gold armor did not make this any easier. He abandoned the effort, white wings flapping in an attempt to cool down. “Marianne,” he huffed between tired breaths, “you can’t expect people to take to Bog after a few dinner parties. After all, he is rather…” He trailed off uncertainly.

“Scary.”

The three looked over to the bench where Sunny attempted to meld with the wall after his tactless observation. Dawn took over when he sent the nearest window a calculating look.

“Boggy is rather tall,” Dawn added. “And snarly.”

“I am not snarly,” Bog snarled, his crooked, pointed teeth audibly grinding.

“See?”

Bog’s iridescent wings vibrated in irritation. He skulked back to his window.

“Maybe if we got goblins who were more sociable,” Dawn suggested. She smiled brightly, warming to the idea. “What about Griselda?”

Dagda finally found the energy to stand. “Bog’s mother is… charming, but a little…” He paused when Bog turned a menacing glare in his direction. “She’s a little vivacious.” Bog turned back to the window in silent agreement.

“Well, maybe she knows someone,” Dawn pressed. “Someone who, I don’t know… is more placid? There must be someone in the Dark Forest who would fit in.”

Marianne snorted. “You’ve been to their parties, Dawn. They get loud. They get active. If someone gets bored, they start a fight.”

“You started a fight at the Spring Ball last year.”

“And it was fun!”

“Might I offer a suggestion?”

Amber eyes narrowed. Marianne turned a murderous glare to the doorway where an unwanted guest stood, completely at ease and as smug as ever. “Roland,” she hissed. Bog was at her side in an instant, iron scepter in hand and ready for battle.

“Now, Buttercup,” Roland began. Her hand moved to the hilt of her sword, a satisfied smirk raising the corners of her mouth when he gulped nervously. “That is, Marianne. Your Highness. I know we’ve had our minor disagreements—“ She scoffed at this. “But I am here to make amends.”

“Out of the question.”

“Why don’t we hear him out?” King Dagda suggested.

Marianne gaped at her father. “Dad!”

“Roland is skilled at navigating social situations,” Dagda reminded her.

Marianne scowled. Roland’s numerous betrayals still stung, even a solid year and better boyfriend later. But her father had a point. She looked to Bog. He had as much reason to hate Roland as she did, his castle having been a casualty of Roland’s schemes. He inhaled deeply as his shoulder plates rustled, then settled. “Let him speak,” he agreed. His mouth twisted into a grin. “Then we kill him.”

If Roland was surprised by either Bog’s support or threat, he did not show it. He entered the room as though he had been invited, and deliberately stepped between Bog and Marianne until he reached the center of the room. He turned and paused, ever the practiced showman. Marianne rolled her eyes at the familiar antics and braced herself for a performance.

“You can’t just throw someone into the thick of things and expect everyone to accept them,” he began his no doubt rehearsed speech. “These goblins don’t know any of our customs, let alone our manners, our dances, our fashions, any of it. They don’t even wear clothes.” He looked pointedly at Bog, who glared back. “But all that can be taught. If you can find someone willing to coach a few goblins. Teach them what they need to know to get along. Given a few weeks, they’d get along fine.”

“And by ‘someone’,” Marianne interrupted, “you mean you.” Roland spread his arms wide with a charming smile. “What’s your angle?”

He pressed a hand against his heart, green eyes widening in a decent simulation of wounded disbelief. “Why, nothing at all, Buttercup,” he declared dramatically. “It’s the least I can do. My only wish is to support you in every way, and be of rare and personal service to the Crown.”

Her eyes narrowed at the specific wording. “You want your title back.”

His placating smile turned as sharp as a knife.

The two monarchs in the room said nothing. Both were aware that unpleasant alliances were often necessary for the good of the land, but the association between the Dark Forest and the Fairy Kingdom was a project Marianne had been working towards for years, long before she ever set eyes on her intended. This decision had to be hers alone.

After a moment’s contemplation, Marianne smiled. “Alright. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Roland blinked, knocked off guard by her easy acceptance of his terms. “Seriously?”

“Sure,” she said too sweetly. “You turn one resident of the Dark Forest into a regular guest this season, and I will personally restore your knighthood. I’ll even have Griselda set up a meeting with some likely candidates.”

Against the wall, Sunny gaped at the scene. “Is she serious?” he asked Dawn, only to be elbowed into silence, Dawn’s face carefully blank.

Roland searched Marianne’s face, but her expression gave nothing away. Before his tenuous welcome could be worn out, he gave a brief bow. “I’ll, uh… expect her invitation then.”

“Do that. Good night.”

At the clear dismissal, Roland nodded to each king, then Dawn, ignored Sunny entirely, and walked out of the room, his orange wings gaudy and visible even when he reached the far end of the hall.

Bog said nothing until King Dagda returned to his chair. “What are you up to, Tough Girl?” he breathed against her hair.

Marianne’s smirk grew into a smile, her teeth glinting viciously. “Does your mom still know Maxine?”

Chapter Text

Twig’s slender arms stretched for the pair of goblins holding unsteady dragonflies as close to the tree as they could manage. One kept the bag full of letters balanced between their mounts while the other reached out with Twig’s mail. Dragonfly wings brushed dangerously close to the hive, the letters nearly flying away in the stirred air. She gave the ground an uncertain look, then maneuvered herself further onto the edge. Her stunted wings were too weak to support her small body. If she fell, even from such a height, someone would have to catch her, or else she would hit the ground.

She gripped the wall a bit more firmly.

With a heave, the goblin shoved the pile of letters into her claw and the dragonflies retreated to a safer distance, away from the rough bark that could so easily damage their wings. Twig retreated into the safety of her hive.

Most of her neighbors kept a secretary on staff, a troll or smaller goblin with fleshy hands that could sort mail and answer correspondence without damaging parchment. With Twig being only half the size of most of her relatives, and a quarter the size of her mother, her dainty claws were too weak to tear paper. Instead of trailing hunting parties with her siblings and cousins or learning to fight, she had remained indoors with extra tutors to learn languages and calligraphy, ideal for the family’s scribe.

Sprites preferred to keep personal tasks close to the family. And at least this way, she could be useful.

Twig flew down the hall with her spindly arms full of letters, but jerked to a halt when something damp closed around her leg. Looking down, she found one of her sister’s children had escaped the nursery. The chubby larva reached up with stubby arms for a cuddle. Twig deposited the mail on a nearby table and gave in to the adorable demand. Her sister’s eggs had hatched only days ago, but this one nearly dwarfed his aunt already. She landed on the floor so it could hug her without topping her over. While disappointed that Twig could not lift him up for a proper cuddle, it chittered happily when she tickled their antennae together. “You will be so big and strong when you molt,” Twig cooed.

“Could gobble you up already.” Twig turned towards the creaking clicks of her aunt, a scarred old sprite who walked about on her legs, wings too damaged for flight. Like many of their kind, she had retired to the nursery to care for the next generation once she grew too old and injured to safely leave the hive. The story of her last great battle was a favorite among the young ones.

Twig would be a hive nanny herself if her sister’s first clutch of eggs had not all died. With this most recent clutch, and her brother’s wife due to start laying in the next few seasons, Twig would soon join her aunt in raising the young ones and someone else would be hired to handle the mail.

Twig ignored the pang in her heart at the thought. Twig collected the mail as her aunt collected the larva to return to the nursery. Twig had always known she would never marry. She could barely fly, let alone fight. Strength was valued in the Dark Forest, and even the wealthiest families would have trouble finding a groom for someone as weak as she. With a tired sigh, Twig continued to the study.

Her tiny wings kept her round body just high enough to avoid the floor as she made her way to the low desk. There were numerous letters from various branches of the family, distant relatives, and close friends. Most addressed to her mother. Twig kept those close. With Mother’s failed eyesight, she required Twig to read the letters as well as take dictation for the response. A few letters went in stacks for her father, her siblings and their spouses. Invitations were set aside for rejection. With the last of the winter frost melted, most creatures chose to throw a party to shake of the malaise and welcome Spring, so this stack towered above the others.

Twig pulled a clawful of cards from their cubby and a vial of ink from a drawer. She used a ragged leaf to brush her claws clean before dipping the left pincer into the ink well and began to write out a series of refusals.

The sun filtered through gaps in thick branches and leaves, and the air had grown warm by the time Twig reached an invitation on much finer parchment than the others, the recipient written in a professionally neat scrawl with heavy ink. She had seen a similar note only once before. An invitation to the now-destroyed palace of the Bog King.

The invitation had not been written to her specifically. Rather, the note requested that any eligible female creature present herself to the Queen Mother as a potential bride for their monarch. With her sister already engaged and all other females past egg-laying age, Twig had been the only one in their hive to meet the requirements. Her mother had been skeptical -- what could the Bog King ever seen in such a scrawny creature? – but in the end a royal summons was a royal summons. With her brother as an escort, Twig was permitted to visit the palace.

The Queen Mother had not been impressed with her, and undersized sprite with mandibles that could scarcely tear flesh and wings that hardly kept her off the ground. Yet she had presented Twig to her son just the same with the declaration that this candidate would make a “positively perfect” bride.

Twig shuddered at the memory of that humiliating encounter. The Bog King dismissed her without so much as a glance in her direction. A creature with a stronger will might have persisted, but Twig left when shoo’d away, unable to stifle her tears.

She slept at the base of her tree that night. Her brother had vanished, sprinkled with Love Dust and taken to the dungeons while she had been in the castle. Twig thought he merely expected her to be longer, and had been too embarrassed to sit and wait for his return. The trip home had drained all the strength from her wings despite numerous breaks, leaving her stranded among the roots. The forest had never been so terrifying. Stories of bats that mistook intelligent creatures for mindless insects haunted her mind. She cowered at the rustle of every leaf and barely left her hive since.

Still, the arrival of another Royal missive intrigued her. She flipped the card in her claw and saw found her own name as the Recipient!

The parchment tore around the seal, tiny claws leaving dents in the page as Twig’s eyes flew over the words. She, specifically, was invited to tea with the Queen Mother! This very day at the sun’s peak.

Twig looked at the window. The sunlight no longer spread across the floor, but lingered on the window sill. Judging by the vanishing shadows, it was nearly the peak hour already. It would take her hours to get her mother’s permission. She could travel alone, but it would also take ages to reach the new castle. Twig flew to the window and looked down at the sheer incline, her breath shuddering to a halt. She took a breath and let it out, forcing herself to relax. She could be fierce, just this once. There was no real danger. The spring thaw had made the ground soft. And the forest was less frightening during daylight. Creatures that wandered about while the sun was up could tell a sprite from an insect as easily as Twig could tell a kappa from a frog.

Claws dug into the ledge as Twig eased her way out of the room. If her eyes had lids, they would be shut tight, but she had no such luxuries.

With one last look at the stack of messages on the desk and a mental apology to her mother, Twig let herself fall.

* * * *

Roland dismounted his brown squirrel and took in the Bog King’s new castle. The dead tree stood in a patch of swamp closer to the border of the Fairy Kingdom. Thick roots were visible, twisting down into the muck. Trees and foliage created a gloomy green atmosphere. The stump remained unaffected by the blight that had weakened the original structure’s foundations. Really, Roland thought, the Bog King should thank him. This shack might be ugly, but it could survive a few blows to the base. The old wreck belonged at the bottom of the quarry.

A bridge had been built from peat and stones leading from the main path to the entrance. A deer skull with a wide opened mouth decorated the entrance, forcing any visitors to walk directing into the maw. Of all the artifacts to salvage from the wreckage, they had to choose the creepiest. Roland dropped the reins, content that Chipper would stay put.

A handful of goblins guarded the entrance. They ranged in size from as big as a rabbit to no higher than a fairy’s knee, with smooth, slimy hides and unnerving webbed hands. Each creature bared their teeth at him as he passed, but made no attempt to prevent him from walking across the threshold to a windowless foyer. Uneven amber lanterns danged from the ceiling by preserved vines. A squat goblin jumped to lead Roland through a series of doorless rooms, proper hallways not a feature of goblin architecture, to a large room with a hole that spanned the length of one entire wall acting as a window. The mostly bare room seemed to have been hastily decorated with whatever had been saved from the collapse of the old castle. A low, rectangular table filled the center of the room, a settee and several mismatched chairs made of warped wood and moss cushions surrounded it. The table was set with an ugly iron kettle, heavy cups of carved and polished bone, dull iron trays filled with berry slices arranged on dark leaves and small, dark pastries of questionable origin. Roland had timed his trip to be the last to arrive, but nearly turned back around when he saw the creatures lying in wait.

The Bog King’s mother, Griselda, was bad enough. The elderly troll with frizzy red hair and jagged stumps where horns used to be sat in a tall chair made from thick pieces of antler. Her wide mouth spread into an unpleasant grin when Roland caught her beady black eyes. “Well, if it isn’t our special guest.”

Her hoarse voice grated against his nerves. Roland bowed over her hand, sickly grey and clammy. “Your Majesty,” he drawled, and dropped her two-fingered hand as soon as courtesy allowed. “Thank you for your kind invitation.” Noises that were not quite laughter escaped the other three creatures. “And who are these… ladies?”

Griselda’s grin broadened as she gestured to another troll seated on a stool to her right, this one with bristly brown hair and horns that doubled her height. “This is Maxine, from my own village.”

Roland bowed over another two-fingered hand. “Charmed.” She belched in his face.

Griselda motioned to her left where a stout black sprite with a wicked horn that curled like a saber from the center of her face sat upon a spindly chair of woven grass. “Lakeisha here was just showing off her new pelt.” The pelt in question was still mostly attached to a severed frog leg being skinned in swift, precise movements.

Roland did not allow his expression to waver. “Delighted,” he nodded, grateful this one had not offered one of her bloodied claws. He backed around the table to bring the last of the room’s occupants into view without losing sight of the others, just in case Lakeisha decided his hair would make a nice addition to her collection.

The fourth guest was another sprite, tall with a dark brown carapace that shined like polished wood. Long and slender limbs made her closest to a fairy in shape and form. A gown would fit easily over her trim thorax. She sprawled on a chaise like a drunk elf, but Roland felt certain with a few corrections this one could be molded into a decent socialite. He brightened his smile and lowered his voice to a seductive croon. “And who might you be?”

The most ear-splitting screech echoed in the chamber and startled a group of gnats outside the window into flight.

“Aida,” Griselda translated. “She has a wonderful singing voice as well.”

“I can imagine.” Roland twisted a finger into his ear to sooth the ringing. He selected a seat, one close to the door, and with some hesitation accepted a heavy mug of bitter-smelling tea. If he could find anything salvageable in these loathsome creatures, something to mold into a semblance of respectable behavior, then his bet with Marianne would be all but won. He settled in for an unpleasant afternoon of -- oh, skies! -- getting to know everyone.

* * * *

Roland stormed from the sitting room with what little dignity he had left, berry juice stains in his hair and filling from those questionable pastries smeared on his shirt. His soft boots squished against the peaty floor marking his exit with a trail of damp footprints. He had barely managed to excuse himself, no longer concerned with keeping in that monster’s good graces. These disgusting creatures would never pass in civilization! He could only imagine how many hours Marianne had worked on that cockroach she associated with, and what sort of incentives were offered to keep him in line.

Roland closed his eyes and paused on the path towards what he hoped was the exit. “Visualize,” he counseled himself. An image of the Crown worn by the ruler of the Fairy Kingdom appeared in his mind’s eye, but he dismissed it. Water under the bridge. No use mourning what was already lost. He forced a new image to his mind: his status restored and his reputation in Court reestablished. If he could get back his title and position, he could find another bride with the right connections to secure a seat on the Royal Council. That would give him the required push to become the Minister of the Royal Army.

If he could get his title back.

With a heavy sigh, Roland continued down the hall, rifling through a mental list of people who owed him a favor. He must know someone with a useful connection that he could exploit.

Something hard yet pliable bounced off his legs and nearly sent him sprawling. Roland looked down and met a pair of dull compact eyes. The creature buzzed melodically, the antennae hanging from its mouth writhing along with the sound. This thing was, at least, quieter than the screeching critters he had suffered over tea. It fell silent with an expectant look, the only sound from a pair of iridescent wings that seemed too small to heft such a fat creature.

It buzzed again, but by this point, Roland had run out of patience with this hideous forest and everything that lived in it.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he interrupted. “I don’t speak bug.”

He walked around the creature to continue his search for the exit.

Chapter Text

Twig stared in shock as the fairy disappeared around the corner.  Bug?  He called her a bug!  The shock wore off enough for the insult to bristle, her setae thoroughly ruffled.  She sagged at once, too exhausted to maintain a satisfying level of irritation.

Despite the sun already passed its peak, cackles echoed down the hall. It appeared the Queen's Tea had not broken up yet.  Twig made a final, futile attempt to make herself presentable.

Her attempt to slow the fall by digging her claws into the bark resulted only in chipped and scratched claws.  The ground had not been soft so much as muddy.  She landed safely, but looked a fright.  A convenient puddle allowed her to clear most of the mud, but muck still squished in the crevices of her carapace.  She should have gone home.  She never should have left home. But the Queen had remembered her, and Twig did not want to seem ungrateful.

She had never received an invitation before.

Twig shook off the last of her fears and a few loose drops of mud, and flew into the Queen Mother's sitting room.

She faltered at the entrance.  Tea and crushed scones littered the table and floor, a healthy measure of liquid puddled around an empty chair with damp footprints that trailed into the hall.  Juice seeped into the grain of the wooden table from the overturned tray of berries. The Queen Mother and her guests sprawled inelegantly in the midst of the mess, laughing uproariously.

"Where did you dig up that frog leg?" a troll, Maxine, with impressive horns asked, brushing crumbs from her feet.

A sprite introduced as Lakeisha shoved the last bloody rag off her lap to the floor. "I stole it from the kitchen," she clicked.  "Is there a clean napkin? I'm a mess."

A taller sprite unfolded herself from the lounge, long legs stepping lightly over the shards of a broken teacup to hand over a clean scrap of fabric. "It was worth seeing the look on his face," she chirped.

This sent them into another round of laughter as Griselda noticed Twig in the doorway. "Ah, you sweet thing, we thought you weren't going to make it."  Twig flew over when beckoned and dipped momentarily in a hovering curtsy.  She hummed an apology for her tardiness, which the Queen Mother waved away. "It was a last minute thing.  It's just a shame you missed the fun!"

The tall sprite, Aida, returned to her seat, her mandibles snapping aggressively.  "He was worse than you described, Your Majesty."

A trio of goblins entered with brushes and pins to tidy the mess, replace the food, and deliver fresh pots of tea.  Twig settled herself on a low stool, out of the way but not quite part of the circle.  "Who was he?" she ventured.

The Queen Mother poured fragrant tea into five fine bone cups before answering. "You know how my son is marrying the fairy princess?" she began, pride evident in each word.

Twig hummed the affirmative.  The announcement of the Bog King's engagement had shocked most of the forest. Love had been banned by Royal Decree for several years.  Even more shocking that the future queen of the neighboring kingdom was his bride.  Rumors abounded, most from the King's personal stewards who claimed to have witnessed much of their whirlwind courtship.  A popular tale claimed she had burst into the throne room and challenged the King to single combat.

Twig accepted a cup of tea when offered and wondered if the King's lack of interest had been because he already met his future bride.  Then she remembered that the skylight had been intact when she had been introduced and slumped in her seat.

"That is the girl's former fiance," Griselda continued with a smug grin.  "I don't know the details -- you know how I hate to pry."  The group assured the Queen of her well-known discretion.  "Seems he's trying to get his title back by making a goblin over like a fairy."

Twig lifted the heavy bone cup in both claws and poured a small amount of the spicy liquid between her antennae into her mouth and examined the other guests.

Was fairy culture so uncivilized that all of these ladies were considered unacceptable?  Now that the room had been put in order, the bloody rags and broken dishes cleared away, they each sat with practiced grace, tea sipped just so to show off fangs and strong jaws, sharp claws digging precisely into pastries.  Fairies must be more delicate than rumored.

Except the one that broke though a skylight.

"I hope we were vile enough to discourage him," Lakeisha squeaked.  "It was fun, but I feel silly behaving so poorly."

"I would do it again in a heartbeat," Maxine declared, tossing her hair. "It was a hoot."

"That creature isn't worth good manners," Aida clicked.

"From what I hear, this one won't give up after one try."  Griselda popped a slice of berry in her mouth and smiled too sweetly. "Any of you girls got plans tomorrow?

*     *     *     *

Roland directed his mount through the Dark Forest along the same path they had followed yesterday.   He had been surprised to receive another invitation from the Bog King's horrible mother, but the trip gave him plenty of time for second-thoughts.  Yesterday’s stains had set into his clothes and would have to be professionally cleaned.  His boots were beyond repair, and had to be discarded. The boots he wore now were on the ragged side, not what he would normally wear for a royal audience no matter how awful the royal. But the cobbler would not take a rush order, and only promised to make a new pair when he got around to it.

Roland reached to scratch his head, but redirected his hand towards his chin so as not to muss his hair.  This was going to be an expensive year.  He stretched his wings, suddenly heavy from the burden he was forced to bear.  He looked up, expecting to see identical collections of green brush and grass, but instead found himself faced with a path cluttered with dark brown branches mingled with a patchwork of sky-blues that were too close for his peace of mind.  His legs clenched around the saddle. He yanked the reins and forced Chipper to a stop. “Chipper,” he forced out around the lump in his throat. “I thought we agreed to no climbing.”

The squirrel sniffed and dug his claws into the tree’s bark to move another step upward. Roland yanked the reins again.

“I mean it, Chipper. Get. Down.”  A brown-almond eye glared from over a fuzzy shoulder. “Down,” Roland snarled.

The squirrel squeaked with displeasure, but turned and descended. Roland’s eyes clamped shut until his steed touched down and the world righted itself.  His wings loosened from their paralysis and the weight of being pulled down.

“I’d have flown myself down,” Roland explained loftily.  “But you can’t get away with that sort of disrespect. It’s the principle of the matter!”

Chipper sneezed.

They approached the Bog King’s castle, and Chipper eyed a nearby hazelnut tree.  “Don’t even think about it.” Roland dropped the reins, certain he would be forced to walk home. 

“Mornin’, fellas,” he greeted the same group of ugly goblins as yesterday. The same teeth were bared and ignored.  No fat footman awaited him inside.

Despite a few false turns, Roland found his way to the same sitting room.  He paused, pointed ears picking up the sound of several voices. Many more than yesterday.  He shuddered at the thought of an afternoon faced with an army of beasts.  But he had to press on.  There must be one creature in this damnable forest that could at least pretend to be a lady!

Something squeaked behind him.  He turned and saw that same fat bug as yesterday.  Not quite a bug, he noted.  She had only four limbs: two arms and two legs, paired with the wings on her back. The easiest way to tell a sprite from an actual insect. Roland did not know much about sprites, but if there were at all similar to fairies, calling her a bug would have been quite an insult.

Yesterday, Roland admitted to himself, had not been his finest moment. His insults were worth more when saved for an opportune moment when they could do the most damage or make him appear clever in front of the right people.   He had dismissed her as some kind of maid, though if he considered the behavior of the others he had been introduced to, to arrive at a party after it was already over seemed downright polite.  The Dark Forest had some strange customs.

He examined her to get a read on the creature.  She seemed to be looking around, those creepy eyes never settled on him, scratched and chipped claws twisted together with nerves.  The hard used chela seemed to be an anomaly, the rest of her carapace free of scratches, wings intact with not a scale out of place.  He recalled the guests at yesterday’s tea, their wild stories of hunts and battles, scarred flesh and unhealed gashes displayed with every boast.  Conversation more suitable for the barracks than the sitting room.  The mere scrapes on this creature were shallow, new.

“You don’t get out much, do you?”

The sprite finally met his eyes, the stiff hairs along her back bristling, mouth antennae straightening with a quiet snap.  Evidently he had insulted her.  Again.

Roland rolled his eyes. He did not have time to deal with an oversensitive shut-in right now.  He turned his back to her and braced himself for another afternoon with a pack of undesirables when a sound almost like a voice except small, garbled, like a person trying to speak around a mouthful of seeds, stopped him in his tracks.  “No one will help you.”

He turned back around.  There were only two beings in the hall, and he did not sound like that.  He smirked at the indignant thing.  “Really? What makes you say so?”

Her wings moved faster and raised her higher into the air.  “Her Highness spoke to the Queen. Asked for help to make you look a fool.”  Tiny mandibles nipped at nothing in time with the stilted Common.  “Everyone laughs at you. You… you should just leave.”

Roland held himself still, his hands clenched against the small of his back.  Of course. Marianne had given in too easily, but he had not been able to figure out her angle.  Conspiring with her betrothed’s mother against him made for a neat little plan. Easily denied, and all the work fell on others.  His wings flared minutely.  He had been set up for failure.  With both women speaking against him, he had no hope of finding a suitable candidate to make over into a debutante.

His teeth ground as Roland tried to push aside the pessimistic thoughts.  There had to be a weak point, if he could find it.  Someone in this rotting mulch pit must be desperate or naïve enough to…

The sprite flew passed him, her wings a quiet hum in the hall.  Roland’s wings settled once more along his back as he conjured a charming smile.  “You know,” he began with a questioning tone, “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you around the Fairy Kingdom.  Such a, uh… refined creature like yourself should be the gem of any party.”

She pivoted in mid-air, disbelief evident in her oddly-shaped form.

“Oh, but you’d probably be bored,” he continued.  “Fairy parties aren’t at all like you have here.  So quiet. Peaceful even.  Music so low you can hear yourself talk right over it. Hardly any fights at all.”  He clicked his tongue a few times, watching from the corner of his eye as her disbelief melted into uncertainty.  “Such a shame.  Why, if you had someone to point you in the right direction, you’d be the favorite guest of every hostess in no time.”  He looked again, reading her reaction. Not quite…  He examined his nails, weighing his next words carefully.  “And it’d have meant so much to the king.”

He was overdue for a manicure.

“How do you mean?”

Roland did not have to fake this smile.  “He’s having such a hard time fitting in,” he lamented.  “He’s just so…. Well, you know.”  Nothing he had to say about the Bog King would endear him to one of his subjects, so best to say nothing at all.  “I just thought I could make things a little easier on him, help soften up people’s opinion.  But I suppose I’m just wasting my time…”  He turned to walk back the way he came.

The soft snap of claws clicking together echoed in the empty hall.

“What would I have to do?”

Roland turned on his heel.  “Meet me at the border, midmorning. Follow the path to the edge of the field where two trees make up an archway.” His mind raced ahead at this small triumph.  She would need to learn proper manners, dancing, how to dress. Would a gown even fit that misshapen body?

He twisted a strand of hair around his fingers and let it bounce back into place, the impact wasted on this creature.  “I’ll be waiting.”

He turned again and headed towards the exit. “You are not attending tea?” she asked.

“Why should I?” he remarked, disappearing around the corner.  “I got what I need.”

*     *     *     *

“Seems the slug knew better than to show up today.”

When it became clear the infamous Roland was not going to arrive, the party had moved to a larger dining room with an amber skylight that tinged everything with a warm glow.  The Queen Mother and a dozen guests enjoyed a light luncheon of shredded frog meat, sliced bread made from marsh grains, and a waxy substance made from snail milk that was apparently common food among fairies.  Twig picked at her meal as she mulled over what she had agreed to. 

The orange-winged fairy had all but confirmed the plot Griselda had described, though he made it sound like a kindness.  But Twig had no illusions about his honesty, the story of his attempts on the King’s life and use of Love Dust on the Princess still fresh in her mind. She did not understand why he tried to trick her when she told him she knew of his plan.  She should have been insulted he considered her so easy to fool.  Yet…

Her family had not been pleased to find her out of the hive and lectured her thoroughly about dangers she would be too frail to avoid. She might have been stepped on by a deer or eaten by a plant.  She bore their concern with as much grace as she could spare until she found a pause to explain her invitation from the Queen, and the follow up invitation for the very next day. 

This startled them.  Last spring’s summons had been written off as an aberration.  Her mother seemed pleased that Twig had secured such an influential connection and granted permission for Twig to accept any invitation she received.

Connections were always useful, Twig knew. Knowing the right people would strengthen any family’s position.  There were few important families in the Dark Forest that her mother or some other relative was not acquainted with.

They did not know anyone in the Fairy Kingdom.

Twig tore a piece of frog meat apart, her mind racing.  Roland might not be popular at the moment, but apparently had been accepted by every important household.  His position had been high enough to marry the future Queen, at least.   If the rest of his story was true -- and from what Griselda had said about the Bog King’s struggles to be accepted in the Fairy Kingdom’s court, he had been telling the truth -- perhaps her own nonthreatening presence could be accepted by the fairies.  She might even gain a social circle that extended beyond her own front door.

No one among the Queen’s expanded guest list noticed her voice absent among the chatter as each creature offered their opinions on why the guest of honor failed to make an appearance.  The three from yesterday were describing with glee all the horrible manners they trotted out to disturb the absent fairy, other guests interjecting with their own ideas of what they might have done had he arrived.  Twig finally spoke. “What’s the Fairy Kingdom like?”

The table fell silent.  Twig cringed in her seat.  “The Fairy Kingdom,” she repeated.  “I… I’ve never left the Dark Forest just wondered…” she trailed off, embarrassed.

The other guests looked at one another but none spoke. Finally, all eyes turned to Griselda.  After a moment, she chuckled ruefully.  “You know, I’ve never been.  When the old castle was destroyed, I went back to my old village.  The staff all stayed in their family homes.  I haven’t gone to any of their parties yet. I think Bog’s the only one who’s visited.”

“Oh,” Twig responded lamely, sorry she had asked.  Someone changed the subject to the Bog King’s upcoming wedding.  Twig only half-listened to the gossip, and said nothing more until she could leave.

Chapter Text

“Vanessa, you can’t just toss poor Chipper out into the cold.” Roland checked to be sure the squirrel’s pleading eyes matched his own before turning back to his old flame.

“You’ve had plenty of time to make other arrangements,” she insisted. “If you can’t pay the fees, then you can’t keep him here. I’m sorry, Chipper.” She gave the squirrel an apologetic pat on the nose before she turned back into the stable, slamming the door behind her.

“Unbelievable.” Roland lifted himself onto Chipper’s back and directed the squirrel towards the entrance to the Dark Forest.

The laundress that cleaned his suit took more money than he had bargained for – no more discounts it seemed. And the cobbler raised his price for boots. Roland had counted on being able to sweet-talk his way out of another week of stable fees, but Vanessa refused to oblige. She still had a chip on her shoulder about the Marianne thing.

Vanessa never should have found out about Marianne. It had been more of a business arrangement, anyway. He needed a place to keep his squirrel, and Vanessa’s family ran a stable near the border. She got a handsome beau; he got housing for Chipper and something to occupy his time while Marianne dealt with her affairs of state. Probably of state.

He was still half-convinced she had been seeing the Bog King on the sly.

Even so, Marianne refused to forgive him for getting caught with another woman on their wedding day. He only meant to drop Chipper off so he could focus on his bride. But Marianne flew in from nowhere just as Vanessa threw herself at him. Then wedding got called off, he got all but barred from Court after his efforts to win Marianne back got her younger sister kidnapped, and now he had to pay stable fees.

Roland sighed in frustration. “And what am I going to do with you?” he asked the back of Chipper’s head. The squirrel said nothing. Swift paws bounded over rocks and logs toward the border. The pink heads of primrose blossoms lined the edge of the forest, a few adventurous blossoms tangled with the thorny vines deeper within the trees. For years goblins had kept the border bare of primroses to prevent any attempts and brewing a love potion. Now they were left to grow wild. Likely because the potion did not even work. Roland had gotten Marianne full in the face with the dust, and instead of falling in love, she punched him square in the jaw. The memory still summoned a phantom pain in his chin.

“Ah, well,” he muttered, massaging the echo of an ache away. “No use dwelling on the past. Being the Minister of the Army is almost as good as having an army.” Chipper pulled up short at the two twisted trees that marked the official entrance to the forest. No sign of the sprite yet, but the sun had not quite risen to the mid-morning point. He could wait.

* * * * *

The sun rose higher and higher in the sky. The sharp scent of sun-warmed grass mixed sickly with the mossy stench of the forest. Chipper napped in a patch of sun while Roland lost the last of his patience. He kicked at a small stone and glowered down the path into the Dark Forest.

“If that bug doesn’t make good, I’m straight out of ideas.”

Chipper yawned and flopped over to expose a different angle to the day’s warmth.

Roland scowled at the unsympathetic creature, then glared again into the shadows. “Tricky little insect. This was part of Marianne’s plan the whole time.” He stomped over to the squirrel, wings shuddering with fury, and gave Chipper a firm shove with his foot. The squirrel squeaked in annoyance, but stood and allowed Roland to climb into the unadorned saddle. Roland snapped the reins and charged headlong into the Dark Forest.

They had a deal, and that little sprite would hold up her end if he had to tied her wings together and drag her to the Midsummer Ball.

* * * * *

Twig sat on a low rock watching the shadows around her grow shorter as the sun climbed higher, willing her wings to work. She left right after breakfast, stating only that she had “an appointment” and dodged any questions about who she had an appointment with. Her family would be outraged at her meeting a male creature without a chaperone, even if he was only a fairy.

She suffered for the omission now. The path stretched out before her, the archway to the Fairy Kingdom still concealed by thick leaves and branches of the underbrush. Family approval would be a moot point if the fairy decided not to wait for her.

With a hiss, Twig forced her wings into motion to beat an irregular tattoo against her carapace and meandered down the path.

After a mere moment, the heavy thrum of a stampeding animal echoed off the trees. A huge, furred creature charged down the path, heavy paws kicking up dirt and rocks as it rushed straight for her. Twig shrieked and dropped to the ground, her arms raised around her head. If she made herself small enough, it might pass by rather than trample her.

No claws crushed her into the dirt. Instead, warm puffs of air brushed over her. Twig uncovered one eye and looked up to find a snout wriggling beside her. After another snuffle, the damp nose pressed forward. She toppled over with an undignified squeak. The nose was damp, heavy, and cold.

“I’ll be generous and assume all these trees mess with your sense of direction.” Roland slid from the back of the massive creature to the mossy ground, looking completely at ease and absolutely furious.

“I thought I would be there on time,” Twig hummed quietly. She stood unsteadily and brushed dirt from her spindly legs. “The border is farther than I thought.”

Roland rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I don’t understand a word you say,” he groused.

Twig huffed, indignant. From a larger sprite, it might have been a growl. “I. Don’t. Fly. Far,” she enunciated, this time using the common language that gave her mouth such trouble.

His eyes flicked to her unimpressive wings. Invisible when in motion, dull and sheer when still, and each flimsy section smaller than one of her eyes.

“Huh,” Roland huffed consideringly, as though he only noticed this particular handicap now. “Right. Well, Chipper here can get around faster than flight.” He patted the furry thing – a squirrel, Twig identified at last – on its side. Roland pulled himself back into the plain brown saddle that vanished against dark fur. “Come on,” he demanded. “Or is even this too high?”

Twig tapped her claws together uncertainly. The squirrel chittered at her, either a threat or encouragement. She decided to take it as encouragement.

With some effort, she summoned what strength she had left and fluttered to where Roland waited impatiently and settled uneasily behind him. “Hang on,” he ordered. “We’re running low on time.”

The squirrel reared back to turn on its hind legs. Twig clutched the back of Roland’s jerkin to prevent a fall. Dust kicked up behind them as Chipper charged back towards the Fairy Kingdom.

* * * * *

Roland let Chipper run for a while, then slowed their pace when the canopy began to thin. Sunlight filtered through the branches and painted thorny brambles a dappled green. They rode in silence as Roland reworked his plan for the day. Twig enjoyed the chance to rest and slowly began to enjoy the ride for its own sake.

Roland’s voice snapped through the silence. “The first thing we gotta do is smooth out that accent,” he said. “No one will understand those buzzy noises. You need to start using Common all the time.”

Twig hummed unhappily. Her claws twisted into the leather she held to stay on the squirrel. She spoke, carefully wrapping her antennae around each word. “Could I get… a translator?”

Orange wings shook with his derisive chuckle. “Let someone put words in your mouth? Bad idea. Too easy for someone to twist things in a bad way.”

“At home… we speak Sprite.” And why not? she thought. Nearly everyone in the Dark Forest learned at least a bit of various languages to get by. Twig had a conversational understanding of the hissing chitters of the Gremlin language and the guttural howls of Kappa speech.

“So practice on your own. Try some tongue twisters.”

“I have no tongue.”

“Have no—are you kidding me? How do you talk?” Roland twisted to glare over his shoulder, his wings forced to lay awkwardly between them. He focused on her mouth area. “Say something.”

Twig hesitated, unused to such scrutiny. Any clever remark or philosophical quote she might have summoned fled her mind. “I cannot think of anything,” she said lamely.

He winced as her antennae twisted and flicked to assist her vocal chords in forming syllables they were never designed for. “Right.” He turned back around and shuddered with a sound of disgust.

Twig clicked at his back. This fairy had to be the most ill-mannered creature she ever met. She wanted to say so, but that would have been rude as well. She flicked her wings in agitation, then flicked in delight as a thought occurred. “Roland,” she sounded out.

“Hm?” came the absent response.

“Do you know my name?”

“Didn’t know you had one.”

Her mandibles jerked, an instinctive urge to snap at him. How did he ever manage to win a princess?

“Twig,” she said primly.

Roland looked over his shoulder again, one eyebrow raised. “Come again?” She repeated her name. “Twig?” he echoed. “As in...” He reached out and snapped a bare stem from a nearby bush. “This kind of twig?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly. His eyebrows evened out and he seemed to be grinning. It was not a kind expression.

“You’re named after a plant?”

She bristled at his derisive tone. “Many are. The Royal Family will choose names from nature.”

This time he laughed outright. “Oh, sure, I’ve met your Bog King. What’ll he name the kids, Poppy? Fern? Basil?”

Twig did not respond. She thought those were rather nice names. “What is a tongue twister?” she asked, and hoped he would drop the subject.

To her relief, he followed the change in topic. “They’re like short poems, but hard to say. Good for learning to talk right.”

“Did they work for you?”

His wings tensed beside her head. “I never used them,” he said tightly.

“How do you know they work?”

“Do you want to learn this or not?” he snapped.

Twig glared at a spot between his wings.

“We’ll start with an easy one,” he began. “Repeat after me: ‘Good blood, bad blood’.”

Chapter Text

Roland made her repeat various tongue twisters as they traveled.  To her consternation, he refused to answer any of Twig’s questions about who “she” is, where to find the “shore”, or what “sea shells” might be.

Twig let herself rest a moment and noticed the air had warmed considerably.  Rays of light brightened more leafs than she had ever seen as the sun seeped heavily through the canopy. She looked around Roland’s wing and saw a bright opening in the underbrush at the very end of the track.  “The border?” she asked.

“Of course it is. Where do you think we’ve been going?”  Default tone seemed to be a mid-level derision, but she could ignore his lack of manners for the moment.  Her wings hummed to life. She rose high enough to see over Roland’s shoulder, eager for her first glimpse of the fields and the Fairy Kingdom.

The light grew brighter and brighter as they approached.  Twig attempted to shield her eyes, but her scant claws provided little shelter and the light soon grew harsh.  They broke through the underbrush and Twig found herself blinded in the direct sunlight.  With a shriek of pain, she hid her eyes against Roland’s back and blocked as much light as she could with her thin arms.

“Don’t tell me,” Roland drawled, “The sun makes you sick.”

“Too bright,” Twig hissed. 

“Of course it is.”  The intense light dulled from a painful white to a quiet orange glow.  Twig risked a look and found Roland had opened his wings.  They curled around her and blocked out the sky, though she could still see the ground as the squirrel galloped over stones and across dry soil.  Twig raised her head from his back, surprised by the gesture. 

“Thank you,” she chirped to a spot between his wings.

*   *   *   *   *

Roland slowed Chipper’s pace.  His seat felt unbalanced with his wings open, but there were additional benefits.  His riding companion remained hidden, for instance.  He did not want word to get back to Marianne that he found a subject for their bet.  She would certainly try to sabotage him again.  He kept his wings open around the Sprite, settled into a confident pose, and hoped no one crossed his path.

They reached a pile of stones far from the border and the palace.  A short ride farther and the decorative flower meadows became fields of crops with groves of fruit and nut trees dotting the landscape.  Chipper trotted the familiar path to the apartments without guidance. Roland no longer worried about someone seeing him; at this time of day, everyone would be out in the fields or paying calls.  And no one important paid calls this far from the stream.

When they reached the shadows cast by the stones, Roland folded his wings back.  “Can you make it to that window?” he asked, pointing to a hole a third of the way up the rock.

Twig gave the stone a measured look, the sunlight blocked as best her claws could manage while her eyes adjusted.   She chirped in the affirmative, then corrected herself.  “I think so.”

“Fine.”  The gust from Roland’s autumn-leaf wigs nearly blew Twig off the squirrel’s back.  She caught herself, then set her rested wings into motion and followed him up the side of the building through the window.

The interior of the stone structure had a fine, rough texture. Spherical rooms had been carved into the rock, dull gray walls high enough for Roland to open his wings without brushing the ceiling, but only just.  Two doors of dark wood fit neatly into curved openings.  Rugs of dried and woven grass edged in bright colors lined the floors from wall to wall.  A desk, a few chairs, and a detached shelf filled with scrolls furnished the sparse study, each piece made of dark wood and in need of polish.  Twig examined the scrolls while Roland fussed with a box on a low table near the door. The small box began to play a tinkling tune as Roland turned with a flourish. 

“Dance is almost as important as conversation.”  He stepped to the center of the room and gestured for her to join him. “This is a minuet.  Simple dance, should be easy to follow.”  One long finger pointed to the floor. “No wings.  That’s a whole other dance.”

With some reluctance, Twig lowered herself to the floor, legs braced to hold the weight of her body.

Roland took the starting position, wings folded close to his back and hands tucked behind them.  “Now, follow me.”

*   *   *   *   *

The afternoon sun cast shadows along the floor, stretched as thin as Roland’s patience.

“It’s a simple minuet,” he burst.  The key on the music box nearly snapped as he wound it for the seventh time. “If you can’t manage this, there’s no hope for you at all.”

“I am doing my best,” Twig responded in an agonized hiss.

“Do better!”

His imperious tone ruffled her setae.  For the first time in her life, she understood the instinct to rip the flesh from a living creature.  If her legs were not screaming, she thought venomously, she might indulge the urge.

Twig sighed, too exhausted to enjoy this rare flash of temper and allowed the impulse to pass.  She flew back to the starting position and maintained her hover.

Roland rubbed his temple. “How many times do I gotta tell you, this ain’t a flying dance?”

“I am tired,” she snapped, antennae flicking on each word.  “I fly, or we stop now.”

His green eyes narrowed at her, mouth pressed into a hard line. “Fine. Just try to follow the pattern right. For once,” he added, not quite under his breath.   He counted the beats and stepped into the pattern of the dance.  Twig mimicked his steps though kept her feet from elevated, and found the dance quite simple to follow when her short legs did not have to match a fairy’s long stride.  By the time they returned to the starting position, their motions were if not identical, than at least in sync.  Roland did not mention the sudden improvement, but abruptly changed direction into a completely different series of steps.  Twig faltered, but managed to catch up and meet him in the middle. Roland had one arm stretched towards her.  She mirrored the gesture, and her claw nearly touched his hand before they continued the steps passed one another.  He walked her through several cycles of circles, crossed paths, and more zigs and zags than she cared to remember.  The entire purpose seemed to be to play coy with one’s dance partner, to get close only to dart away, flighty and rather silly.  Twig supposed that it was appropriate for fairies.

Eventually the music box slowed to an eerie dissonance and finally stopped.  Roland gave her a measuring look.  “Not bad. You learn to do that with your feet, you’re in good shape.”  He opened the music box and pulled out a metal cylinder, then placed it in a drawer and sifted through a pile of similar items.  “Next we’ll try a reel.”

Twig looked at the shadows that seemed to grow longer by the second.  “I must go home.  Nearly sunset.”

Roland did not bother to look up.  “Most parties happen after sunset, sweetheart.”

She shifted, startled by the sudden familiarity.  “I did not get permission…”

He sighed loudly and shut the drawer.  “Fine,” he said testily.  “But get permission.”  He moved to the window and placed his fingers in his mouth and released a long, shrill whistle.  “Can you fly down, or is that going to be a problem, too?”

Twig clicked her mandibles in irritation and flew to the window.  Her hive stood much higher than the apartment and she had managed that distance well enough.  Plus the squirrel had returned and stood beneath the window.  With her wings fluttering as fast as she could manage to slow her decent, Twig let herself fall.  She skimmed the edge of the rough stone, the incline turning the fall into a slide.  She reached the ground with a small bounce.  The squirrel blinked at her.

Roland landed heavily beside her and grabbed her arm.  “Don’t you ever do that again!”

She tugged against his grip, unable to pull her arm away.  “I may do as I like.”

He laughed, hoarse and unpleasant. “You can’t cross a room without needing a break.  I can’t have you dying on my watch.”  He yanked her close, green eyes glaring into hers.  “This translate?” he sneered.

She refused to retreat, and glared back with unblinking black eyes.  Her claws curled and cut into his pale, fleshy grip.

“I don’t exactly need you,” she hissed.  “The Queen could introduce me to any number of fairies.  You are just an outcast. Without me, you will remain one.  Be grateful I have some patience for your cruelty.  I am not some grub for you to trample on–”

“Bzzzz, zzzz zzz zzzzzz, that’s what you sound like.”  He dropped her arm and pressed fingers into his temples.  “Great blue skies, why did I ever agree to this?” he muttered and stomped towards his squirrel.

Twig scowled at his back, embarrassed that she had slipped back into her native language.  Why did she ever agree to this?

*   *   *   *   *

They rode in a stony silence.  Twig clutched the saddle rather than Roland’s tunic and kept as much space between their bodies as the bounding squirrel allowed.  In the dim glow of sunset, the Fairy Kingdom looked no less gloomy than the Dark Forest at midday.  The flowers seemed edged in gold in the dying light, though Twig could not appreciate the array of colors in her current mood.   The shade of the Dark Forest relieved her light-sensitive eyes, and by the time they reached her maple tree, she could see clearly once again.

“Cheer up,” Roland said, his voice too loud in the quiet darkness.  “Tomorrow we’ll go shopping.”  He flashed a smile over his shoulder.   Twig gave a noncommittal hum, uncertain why acquiring goods would be something to look forward to.  Her father always negotiated for luxury items the family required.  Daily items were the responsibility of the staff.  Even Twig’s ink and parchments were always replaced before she could run out. Fussing over prices and quality seemed a tedious task. One, it seemed, she could no longer avoid.

To her surprise, Roland dismounted before she could.  “Chipper, up,” he ordered.  The squirrel sprang onto the side of the tree.  Twig grabbed its fur as sharp-edged paws dug into the bark to carry her easily to her hive. When the squirrel dangled from the wide opening of the parlor, Twig climbed inelegantly over its head into the safety of her home.  She gave the animal a gentle scratch behind the ear.  It made a low growl, which sounded pleased rather than aggressive.  In a moment, Chipper scurried back down the tree to his waiting owner.

“First thing in the morning,” Roland called, the noise startling a sleeping gnat nest.  Twig waved to signal her agreement.  He turned his mount toward the border and rode away far faster than they had arrived. Twig ducked into her hive and hurried to the dining room.

Her family was just sitting down for the last meal of the day.  Twig trailed in and took her usual seat and hoped her tardiness had gone unnoticed.  For once, her meek demeanor worked in her favor, and she hurried through the meal with no awkward questions directed at her.  At length, she excused herself from the table – a cautious third after her aunt and brother – and flew to her room.  She had the chore of shopping to prepare for.  If it proved to be as dull as she feared, she would need her sleep.

Chapter Text

“If you want to make squirrel tack all your life, that’s fine by me.”  Roland paused his nonchalant stroll around the workroom to give the large elf a knowing glance.  “I’m just offering you the chance at something…bigger.”

“Lizzie’s pretty big,” Pare replied placidly.

The Fields were still dark.  Pare always got up early to work on his personal projects.  He spent the daylight hours repairing bridles, stitching leather, and measuring the odd mount and rider for correct saddle fit. On precious rare occasions, someone needed parade gear in fine fabrics with lush details.  Pare relished the opportunity for delicate work.

And now Roland suggested Pare become a dressmaker.

Pare stabbed his needle through plush blue fabric.  He was tempted, to be sure.  Orders for parade livery were rare, and nothing could match the finery worn by fairies at their grand parties. Pare thought he might help his friend, Sunny, with formalwear when he began courting the princess, but she had her own seamstresses see to it, so never made the offer.

“Why me?” Pare asked at length.

“Who else?” Roland asked with a flourish. “I wouldn’t trust my squirrel with anyone else, let alone a lady.”

Pare nodded over his stitches. His family made all the tack for the King’s Army, so there had not really been a choice.  Doing the fairy a favor would not endear Pare to anyone.  Not after what happened last Spring. Pare had seen a good portion of the crimes firsthand, though managed to avoid testifying when Roland threw himself upon the mercy of the court.  Which, to his credit, worked.

The former knight watched quietly as Pare examined the garment for loose or uneven threads.  After several long moments, Roland spoke again with a wheedling tone.  “And, of course, when she becomes a social success, everyone will want to buy from her tailor.”

Pare’s hands faltered as the thought of a tailor shop sprung unbidden to his mind. A shop filled with bright colors and lovely things, far from the stench of tanning leather and squirrel musk.

“I have to finish my chores,” Pare said at last.

“Atta boy!” Roland slapped his shoulder then flounced to the back door of the workroom. “I’ll bring her by later on so you can do... whatever it is you do.”

Pare nodded to the empty room. With a heavy sign, he gathered the blue fabric and carried it out the same door. A gigantic lizard stomped over from wherever she had been hiding.  With an indulgent pat to her nose, Pare expertly tossed the caparison across Lizzie’s back and tied the cords beneath her chin.  She wriggled in pleasure at her new cape and allowed pare to scratch under her chin.

“Lizzie, I think I’ve gotten myself into a world of trouble...”

*    *     *     *     *

Twig stood in the messy workroom that seemed more like a stable than a dressmaker shop and allowed herself to be positioned and measured by the largest elf she had ever seen.  His hands were gentle, though, and his infrequent smiles sincere.

“You do not often make clothes,” Twig observed hesitantly.

“Nope,” he replied.

Twig said nothing for a moment while he wrote her measurements on a piece of parchment. “So why...?”

“Roland.”

She slumped, a pattern starting to develop.

Pare set the parchment aside and sifted through a stack of material. “You?”

“Roland,” she replied awkwardly.

He nodded and laid out a length of plain white fabric. “Erm... like the Fields?” he asked in the manner of someone unused in small talk.

“I... have not seen it.” Roland had collected her from the hive at sunup and again shaded her with his wings when they reached the open air. “The sun is bright.”

Pare paused and examined her more closely. He leaned close to squint into her eyes, then turned without a word and burrowed into a box of scraps.  Turning back to the worktable, he shoved the smoothed out bolt aside and arranged a dark blue remnant in its place.  Twig watched as he quickly cut the fabric into pieces, then reformed them with swift needlework until it resembled a daisy that had lost half its petals. A long black ribbon with both ends left dangling finished the odd creation.  With a smile, Pare placed it on Twig’s head and tied the ribbons behind her antennae.  The fabric created a canopy over her lidless eyes. Pare stepped back and nodded in satisfaction.

“That will help.”

*   *   *   *   *

Roland left the sprite with the elf and rode Chipper back to the apartments near the crop fields. He left Chipper to forage and flew into the same study to search through the music for another simple court dance, unwilling to waste more time.

“I thought my guest room had been used.”

Roland grimaced, but forced it into a smile as he turned.  A handsome woman with green wings and greener eyes stood at the open door to the study.  “Hi, Mama.’

Margaret accepted a brief kiss on the cheek from her son.  “If you are going to stay the night again, I expect you for supper.”

“Afraid not, Mama. I’m... working on something.”

She groaned softly. “Can’t you leave that poor girl alone?  After the stunt you pulled, it’s a miracle you weren’t exiled. Or executed!”

“I’m not trying to win back Marianne,” he assured her. “I’m actually doing her a favor.”

A dark eyebrow rose in disbelief.

“That beau of hers hasn’t been taken too well by the Court. I’m taking one of his gentler subjects under my wings.   Show her how to get by, make it easier for Marianne to work her alliance scheme.”

She scoffed and settled into one of the wooden chairs. “And how do you intend to present this goblin? Your name is mud as far as Society is concerned. The only reason I have any friends left at all is because the late Queen and I were so close. How will you be invited anywhere?”

Roland gave her a seraphic smile.  Her eyes narrowed, then snapped wide with horror. “Oh, no, young man. You are not stringing me into your nonsense.”

He kneeled and squeezed her hand, reminiscent of a little boy begging for some treat or favor, as he had many years ago. “Just take her on a visit, Mama.  So she can get used to being around fairies that aren’t me.”

Margaret felt her will to resist melt away under his pleading eyes. She sighed, feeling every season of her age. “How long do you need?”

“Seven days,” he said with a grin.  “Her conversation is getting better, but goblin table manners...” He shuddered dramatically.  With another kiss to her cheek, he stood. “I’ll have my title back – and you your guest room – by Autumn.”

His mother stood as well, and brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Won’t you stay a little longer? You haven’t seen your father in weeks.”

Roland blanched.  “I don’t think we need to worry Pa about this,” he muttered darkly.

“He just wants to see you happy. So do I.”  Soft hands cupped his face.  “Will this make you happy?”

His mouth twisted to something more sneer than smile. “There’s more to life than happiness. I don’t intend to settle.”

Margaret dropped her hands. “I did not settle,” she replied coldly.

“Of course not, Mama.”  Roland twisted a lock of hair around his fingers and let it bounce and curl in front of his face, hiding his eyes.  “I’ll see you in seven days.”  He glided down to his squirrel and rode back towards the border.

*   *   *   *   *

Twig tipped the heavy clay cup towards her, the edge balanced on the table with two claws holding it steady so the liquid inside would not spill. She poured a small measure into her mouth, cool and sweet in the warm workroom.  Pare sat across the table with his own cup, raising it easily with one hand while he sketched with the other.  Throughout the morning, they discovered that only the lightest fabrics would not weigh her down.  Several sheets lay in stacks, each design placed in one with a quiet “needs work” or “maybe” from the elf.  He asked her opinion on every dress, but Twig had no opinion. Aside from trolls, no one in the Dark Forest bothered with clothes. Thick skins and hard exoskeletons were better suited for the dense foliage and thorn bushes than leaves and petals.  Still, she was touched by Pare’s inclusion of several hats, as they were called, to protect her eyes from the harsh sunlight.

Eventually, another elf brought in a bridle for repair, so Pare set aside his drawings.  Roland found them in a companionable silence when he returned from his errands. “You, uh, all done here?”

Twig chirped in response, picked up her discarded hat, and flew over to Pare.  He shoot her claw gently. “Thank you again,” she said.

“It’ll be fun.” He placed the hat in place and tied the ribbons again. “You have fun, too.”

The sun was high at this point, but the wide bring of fabric shaded Twig’s eyes and allowed her to see the Fairy Kingdom in daylight for the first time.

Pare’s shop was only one of many sitting on the edge of a tall cluster of pale clay buildings. Ropes attached to wooden slats formed bridges that connected the taller sections.  Elves and brownies that had been inactive when they arrived now went about their business, crowding the paths without ever seeming to bump into each other.

Chipper waited for them and sniffed at Twig’s hat when she approached. As she settled behind Roland, he opened his wings around her as usual.

With one claw, she gently pushed a wing closed. “You do not have to anymore.”

He gave her a confused look over his shoulder. “Don’t have to what?”

She gestured to her hat. “Blocks the sun.”

“The sun?”  He turned to look at her fully. “Oh, you thought— I mean, that’s great, darlin’.”  He turned back, his wings and voice dropping. “That’s so very convenient.”

From the squirrel’s back, Twig had a wonderful view of the Fairy Kingdom.  As they bounded atop log and over rocks, she absorbed the brightly colored flowers that scattered the fields.  Sunlight bathed the meadow vibrant hues she had never seen.  The air felt warm and fresh and smelled bright and sweet, so different from the cool, loamy smells of the forest.   They rode alongside the stream, every ripple sparkling white.

At a small clearing where the water grew calm, Roland halted his mount and slid from the saddle.  “I found someone to take you around and meet important fairies. Not too important,” he emphasized, “but it’s a start.  No dancing, and your table manners... we’ll work on those.”  He gave her a long look. “How you doin’ with those tongue twisters?”

She cocked her head testily. “What is a sea shell?”

“Nevermind that,” he said with a dismissive wave.  “Just focus on speaking clearly.”  He lifted a hand to his hair, but clenched his fist before his fingers could card through.

Twig plucked a petal from a nearby flower and gently tore it into strips.  “What if they do not like me?”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. No one really likes anyone.”

Twig dropped the petal in surprise. “I thought the point---”

“The point,” he interrupted, “is to make you a regular guest. And to do that, we just need to keep everyone curious enough to invite you back.”

She tapped her claws together. “It does not sound fun.”

“Oh, please tell me you didn’t sign on for the fun of it!”

She drooped a bit at his sardonic tone.  A harsh reminder of what she hoped to accomplish. “Will I meet...?” She floundered for the correct words.  “Business fairies,” she settled.

Roland checked his reflection in the still water. “Oh, probably. None of the big players.  You’d need to get invited to something major, like the Midsummer Ball, for that.”

“Will I... be invited?”

He scoffed and shot her a pitying look. “At the rate we’re goin’, you won’t be anywhere near ready for that kind of event. That’s more than conversation and a couple dance steps. That’s the Elite.  Every important fairy and a million ways to insult any one of them.  You need the right clothes, the right manners. You’d need to practice formal dining, forms of address for the nobles, how to flirt–”

“Flirt?” Twig squeaked.  “Why flirt? I am not looking to mate.”

“See, this is exactly what I mean.” He pointed a long finger at her. “Flirtation is a time-honored tradition. And just about the only way to kill time at a formal event.

“Although, it might not hurt to find a guy to get attached to. Romance is always good for repeat invitations.” He gave her an impertinent smile. “Everyone’s always eager to see what happens next.”

She gave him an incredulous stare, which he returned, foot tapping impatiently.  Their courting rituals could not be that Different. Marianne and her creepy cockroach got along just fine. “Show me. You meet a fella, want to get his attention. What do you do?”

Twig fiddled with the ends of her hat ties, mulling over what she knew of amorous interactions. Finally, she fluttered over to Roland and slapped him.

He reeled back.  “What was that for?” he demanded.  His cheek pulsed where her claw had grazed him.

“Starting a fight?” she offered. “Flirting.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Twig buzzed in confusion.

Roland massaged his temples, several aspects of Marianne’s relationship suddenly making only too much sense. “First rule of flirtation: no hitting.”

Twig tucked her claws behind her.

“Instead, why not try a little touch.” He slid soft fingers down her foreleg, drawing her claw back into sight until it rested in his palm. He took a step closer, green eyes half closed with an odd smile that made Twig’s wings stutter.  He drew so close, she felt the warm puff of his breath as he exhaled.

“Once you got his attention,” he said, voice soft and low. “The rest takes care of itself.”  He twisted a lock of hair around one finger and let it bounce back into place, hiding then revealing his eyes in the most intriguing way.

Twig reached limply beneath her hat and pulled a seta out to twist around her claw.  The bristly hair snapped.  Startled, Twig could only look at the pathetic fragment dangling in her hold.

Roland’s wings drooped. “Right, um...” He dropped her claw and stepped back. “So what does... your kind find attractive?”

Twig turned away, embarrassed.  “Size. Strength. Courage.”  She looked down at her claws, about as dangerous as a moth quill. She slid down a blade of grass to dig her pathetic talons into the cool soil. “I am not a catch.”

Roland grimaced. Of course she would have to be desperate.  They were equals in that, at least.  He could not let her get discouraged and back out now.

He sat down next to her, deliberately ignoring the dirt that would end up on his clothes. “Hey...” He nudged her gently. “If that’s the case, you should have no problems.”

She looked up meekly.

“I mean it! There isn’t another goblin in the entire Forest who’d set foot in the Fairy Kingdom. Even your precious Bog King shows up with a weapon.  Then there’s you, flying into the thick of things armed with nothing.”

Twig uncurled a bit. “Really?”

His smile warmed her.  “Definitely.”

She had to look away, suddenly shy.  Roland stood and brushed the soil from his tunic.  “Okay, your turn.”

She looked back with a confused hum.

“Your turn. To flatter me. Say some things to make me like you.”

Twig’s wings felt heavy again. She had not realized this was just another lesson.  She forced herself to fly back into the patch of sunlight.

“Well,” she hummed, and looked up and down Roland’s form, from the fluffy yellow hair on his head to the points of his long feet. He stood tall enough for a goblin or troll, but seemed of average height for a fairy.  His pale flesh became damaged easily; indeed, her own claws left a scratch on his face. And so delicate he required clothing to protect himself even in pleasant weather. His teeth were too dull to bite. His nails too short to scratch or even forage. She looked helplessly at Chipper, unable to come up with a single feature to praise.  The inspiration struck.

“You ride well.”

Roland’s eyes went wide. “That’s it?  That’s the best you can come up with?”

She buzzed, flustered. “I... do not know you well.”

He huffed, his wings giving an indignant ruffle.  “We’ll work on that. There’s a system to working a room. Greet, compliment, move on. And don’t be too obvious about who you’re kissing up to.’

“Up what?” Twig buzzed in confusion.  “What does that mean?”

Roland’s threw his hands in the air. “The same thing we’ve been talking about! Flattering. Getting folks to like you.”

“That is a kick up?”

“Kiss Up!”

“What is a kiss?”

“I know goblins kiss. I’ve seen it.”

Twig’s antennae snapped.  “Not a goblin,” she hissed.

Roland looked at the writhing stems critically. “Open your mouth for a second.”  At her puzzled chirp, he snapped his fingers. “Come on, say ‘ah’.”  He opened his own mouth wide to demonstrate, a fleshy pink muscle on grotesque display.   Twig complied, if only so he would hide the thing away.

He leaned down and squinted to peer passed her open mandibles and spread antennae. “Definitely no tongue,” he commented. “Or lips.”  He straightened with a shrug. “Well, you probably won’t be kissing anyone for a while yet, so we’ll worry about that later.”

While Twig’s insides twisted at the thought of what “later” might entail, Roland started on another lecture. “Now, when you pay a compliment, don’t be too personal, but at least pretend to be sincere...”

Chapter Text

Over the next seven days, Roland drilled her in conversation, forms of address, and etiquette.  Once he brought a picnic and seemed surprised that Twig used the correct utensil for each item.

She ignored that he served each course in the wrong order.

On the fifth day, Pare arrived at her tree with the first of part of her order.  A cousin flew down to fetch the package. The rest of the family swarmed around Twig and urged her to open it for all to see.  Dorsca snapped at them and hissed that everyone would see Twig off in all her finery. This settled the matter.

Away from the cluster of relatives, Twig untied the twine and unfolded the thin paper.  Two bundles of fabric lay before her: one the color of a blue jay’s feathers, the other a cheerful dandelion.  She lifted the blue item with care and a hat, similar to the heavy dark blue creation she had worn all week, tumbled to her bed.  Light and stiff, it boasted a black ribbon looped several times to resemble a chrysanthemum.  Beneath the yellow dress lay another matching hat with a white ribbon tied in a charming bow.  Neither had the loose ribbons to keep them in place.

Curious, Twig placed the blue bonnet on her head.  It settled neatly and did not jostle when she took an experimental zip around her room.  Pleased, she set the garments aside until she needed them, and made a mental note to thank Pare for his clever designs.

The morning of the arranged outing, Twig eyed her clothing with some distress and decided she should have practiced before now. After a short hesitation, she wrestled her way into the blue garment. After a few tries, she managed to work her wings, arms, and head through their respective holes. Per Pare’s instructions, she wrapped a sash around her thorax several times to cinch the dress in place and disguise the loose fit that allowed her to dress without the assistance of a maid. The fabric pressed uncomfortably against the sensitive hairs along her back, but otherwise felt light and soft.  The fabric flared around her legs and arms and fluttered when she moved.  The hat would, allegedly, complete the outfit.

Her entire family clustered around the entrance.  A variety of clicks greeted her hesitant arrival.  Her grizzled aunt plucked none too gently at a sleeve. “Frilly fairy nonsense,” she hissed.

“I think she looks pretty,” her sister chirped.

A shrill whistle from outside spared Twig from everyone’s opinions.  She said her farewells and took her brother’s arm so he could fly her to the ground where Roland waited.

“There’s fashionably late, and then there’s late,” he scolded after her brother flew away.  He looked over her attire with a critical eye as she climbed on Chipper’s back. “Well, can’t expect miracles.”

“Good morning to you, too,” she replied primly and settled in for the ride.

*   *   *   *   *

A cluster of stones created a neighborhood of individual homes rather than apartments build into a single boulder.  From the shade of a lone daisy, a stately fairy watched their approach. While her green wings blended with the grass, her moss green dress stood out more. As they drew near, she stepped into the sun which shined off the grey in her dark hair.  One finely arched eyebrow lifted toward her hairline when she set eyes on the oddly dressed sprite.

Roland dismounted and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Mornin’, Mama.  This is…”  He faltered.  His handsome face twisted in consternation and he snapped several times.

The sprite made a brief hum that ended with a click. “Twig, right.  Mama, this is Twig.”  He leaned close to whisper in her ear, “They’re all named like that.”

Margaret bit back a comment on Roland’s bad manners and nodded to the sprite. “Delighted, my dear.”

The sprite bobbed in midair as Roland finished the introductions. Margaret accepted this as a curtsey and turned her attention back to her son. “I hope you don’t intend to go in with us.”

“Hmm? Why not?”

“Your antics have lost me enough friends as it is.”

“And it’ll be just as easy to get them back.” He strode to the door and gave it a sharp rap before his mother could respond.

Margaret pursed her lips, but followed in silence.  Chipper happily took her spot in the shade for a well-deserved nap. Twig followed and reached the door just as it opened. A stern brownie ushered the trio into a small but elegant drawing room.  Twig nearly collided with Margaret’s wings at the doorway.  She looked to Roland as he frowned over his mother’s shoulder.  When Margaret stepped in, Twig spotted the reason for the pause.

Four fairies sat around a low table drinking from fragile cups. One around the age of Roland’s mother wore an expression quite similar to Twig’s grizzled old aunt when she told stories of her most gruesome kills.

“My goodness, Irene,” the fairy said without taking her eyes off the newcomers. “You do keep such... interesting company.”

Margaret remained composed and approached the fairy in the largest chair, who stood and embraced her with evident warmth.  “It’s so good to see you, Irene.”

“It’s been too long,” the fairy, Irene, agreed. Another round of introductions followed before Margaret and Twig were seated on a backless bench lined with a long cushion.  Roland, curiously, remained standing.

“Will you have some tea?”

Twig jumped at being addressed so soon. “Yes, please,” she said carefully.  The hostess beamed as though she had said something clever.

Sudden nerves silenced the sprite.  Twig sipped her drink instead.  The tea smelled fragrant, but tasted bland. Nothing close to the tea Griselda served when Twig first agreed to this scheme.  

The conversation resumed around her. Irene spoke fervently with her hands.  Her orange tunic with a wide collar and vibrant red sash matched her cheerful personality.  She would stand out anywhere despite her common green wings.

The sharp-smiled fairy, Brenda, wore a dark blue embroidered jerkin that, to Twig’s unpracticed eye, looked too formal for a simple morning call.

The last two were younger, perhaps Roland’s age.  The first, introduced as Gloria, wore a sleeveless pale pink tunic with a wide yellow belt with green hose that led to soft pink slippers. The other – Deborah – sat in a soft yellow dress with matching boots mostly hidden by the uneven hem of her skirt.  Roland floated around this pair with a constant stream of idle chatter that made the fairies giggle and bat their eyes at intervals.

Twig tugged at her dress, which looked so lovely in the reflection of a quiet puddle. How strange she must seem to these sleek creatures in their soft petaled wardrobes. And how odd to see Roland exercise his rumored charm.  He played the cavalier throughout the room, even presenting a pastry to the sour-faced fairy with a gallantry he never wasted on Twig.  The difference chaffed. He treated Twig with a steady rudeness sprinkled with absentminded kind acts.  She never expected anything like this from him.

The mention of a familiar name broke Twig’s depressed introspection.

“Of course, with the Bog King glowering over the table, no one could really have fun.”  Brenda lifted her cup as though to sip her tea, but returned it to the saucer untouched.  “But, of course, the palace always has the most exotic fare.  Didn’t you just love those dark mushrooms, Margaret?”  Brenda placed her fingers on her lips in an unconvincing show of contrition. “Oh, dear, I forgot. You weren’t there, were you?”

Margaret replied with a cool smile.

Deborah, oblivious to the tension, chimed in. “Those things will be easier to get now, won’t they?  With the borders being opened and all.”

“Well,” Brenda sniffed, “if one knows where to get them.  I fear for the unrefined palettes that might be taken in by imitations.”  Another icy look punctuated this remark. Brenda placed her full cup on the low table and stood. “I’m afraid I must be off, Irene dear. Many other important calls to make.”  She swept out of the room without a word to the other guests.

A cup clattered in its saucer as Irene placed it ungently on the table. “She is so smug,” Irene declared at the closed door.  “All high and mighty over one invitation to the palace!”

“It’s all bravado, my dear,” Margaret consoled.

“Why, sure it is,” Roland interrupted with more flare than Brenda used for her exit. “I doubt she’ll be serving up Dark Forest fungus anytime soon.”  He addressed this to the younger fairies in a conspiratorial tone.  Both sighed and melted against the cushions.

After another cup of tea and more conversation that Twig did not participate in, Irene saw her guests to the door.  Twig watched, relieved, as the two youngest fairies flew off.  Her first exposure to multiple fairies had been blessedly short, though Roland would no doubt scold her for her silence after so many diction lessons.

“That could not have gone better.”  Roland flapped his wings with a satisfied preen.

“I could have done without Brenda.  No doubt she’s telling tales to anyone with ears.”

Twig winced at Margaret’s rigid tone.  She had not realized how much social risk the fairy took in presenting Twig.  And unlike her son, Margaret had nothing to gain by helping her.

Dark thoughts weighed on Twig’s mind on the ride back.  Oblivious, Roland chattered on with self-congratulations and left Twig to her reflections. When they reached the comfortable shadows of the forest, she recalled the unpleasant one’s gibe about exotic foods.  Even along the path, Twig could identify a half-dozen common items that might end up in her dinner. Nothing similar grew in the fields. Could something as simple as mushrooms truly be so rare just one kingdom over?  She interrupted Roland’s soliloquy to ask.

“People always want what they can’t have,” he answered, cheerful rather than irritated for once.  “The harder it is to get, the more folks want it. Closed borders are good for the smuggling business.”

Twig’s wings twitched.  “Smuggled?” she asked, an idea cautiously forming in her mind.

“Food, usually.  Easy to hide the evidence when it’s eaten.  Though only the richest fairies can afford contraband.”

Twig considered her words carefully.  “Imitation?”

He paused a moment, then huffed a laugh. “I really couldn’t say. There’s no guarantee anyone got the real thing. No like anyone could tell the difference.”

I could, Twig thought smugly, more cheerful with a course of action in mind.

When they reached her tree, Roland tugged a piece of folded parchment out of Chipper’s saddlebag and handed it to her.  “Make sure this gets to the hostess.”  Twig took the paper and traced the waxy seal curiously.  “It’s a thank you note. I went ahead and wrote one out so it got done right.”

Twig looked up at him with a glare.

“I know, it’s kinda dumb.  But that’s the sort of thing fairies do.”  He tapped the note with one finger.  “We’ll go over this sorta thing next time.”

“When is next time?”

“Well… Look, I’ll be in touch.”  He turned Chipper and set off at a canter down the trail.

Twig glared after him, and when he left her sight glared at the note instead. Two addresses were scrawled upon it in messy lines.  Margaret’s address used for the return.

No doubt assumes we are not so organized in the Dark Forest, she fumed.

*   *    *    *    *

Back in her study, Twig found her desk piled high with unanswered letters. Her lessons occupied most of the day and left her chores neglected.  She cleared a portion of the desk with a mental promise to tend to them later. Surely I will have a day or two to catch up before Roland “gets in touch”.

With Roland’s draft set aside, Twig laid out a fresh sheet of parchment and considered her options. If fairies viewed Dark Forest exports as rare delicacies, a sample would make an impressive gift.  And if fairies developed a taste for genuine products, dishonest merchants would be unable to take advantage.

And, Twig thought, it might improve Margaret’s position to have a supplier.

However, Mother approved any gifts, and those tended involve far more quid pro quo than a tea party. Twig only knew who to contact because she took all of Mother’s dictation.

So no one would know if the order did not come from Mother.

Twig tapped her claw on the desk. She should simply ask for Mother’s permission, but how far would she indulge this project?  Twig could always apologize later if anyone missed such a small portion of the inventory.

With a deep breath to steady a trembling claw, and Twig opened the inkwell began to write.

Before long, a letter had been sent to the production hive with instructions to send a sample of syrup from their best tree along with the two enclosed missives.

With a petty, vindictive thrill, Twig tore Roland’s letter to shreds.