Chapter Text
The grass was wet with morning dew under Will’s bare feet as he tromped up the hill. The sun was just beginning to wake up, painting the dark sky with a twilight glow. No birds were singing yet, the air quiet and still. But the Ravenstags would be grazing.
He made it over the hill and bounded down, picking up speed as he went. In no time, the pen was in sight, and sure enough, three black beauties stood inside, feathers shimmering even in the low light. Will slowed his pace and stepped quietly as he drew near, creeping up to the wooden fence and slipping underneath.
One of the three, the smallest of the bunch, glanced curiously over at him as he came in, blinking her dark eyes.
“Don’t mind me,” he whispered. “Just here for some feathers.”
The Ravenstag regarded him for a moment and then seemed to nod before returning to breakfast. He didn’t know of any other herd animals that grazed before dawn, but Ravenstags weren’t like any other animals he’d ever seen. The three before him belonged to the town apothecary, who lived in the cottage up the path from the pen—Hannibal Lecter was his name, an eccentric sort of man, and Will had only ever seen him from afar. Which was perfectly fine.
He got to his task of poking around the pen, snatching up feathers the stags had shed as they grazed. Their pitch black feathers were longer and more iridescent than any from a bird, and they’d fetch him a pretty coin in the market if he gathered enough. And today there were plenty. It was best to get them while they were freshly fallen, before they’d been trampled and broken, so slipping in just before sunrise was perfect timing.
Will tucked his handful of feathers into the sack he had slung over his shoulder and slipped out of the pen in under two minutes. He watched the Ravenstags grazing for a while more. The sun was starting to peak over the horizon, and their feathers glistened with a rainbow sheen. He couldn’t help but wonder how Hannibal had come to own them. But no matter. He leapt and nabbed an apple from Hannibal’s tree as he left, biting into the perfectly crisp fruit as he made his way to the market.
Will’s wheeled cart was chained to a tree just off the roadside, and with a flick of his finger, the lock popped open. He left the chain in the grass and pushed the cart over to his usual spot on the dirt path, just a stone’s throw from the market shops. A few store owners were out, sweeping their steps. Will took off his bag and pulled open the flap, taking out his wares for the day one by one, tossing them into the air so that each could take its rightful place on his stand. Next, he took up the handful of feathers and floated them swiftly into place, each sticking snug into his flower crowns, brooches, lures, and other assorted pretties, giving them just the right touch of sparkle.
All set, he turned his gaze to the sign at the top of his cart, and it unfastened and unrolled itself, proudly displaying his shop name in bold red cursive: The Wolf Trap. Truth be told, the sign had already been attached to the cart when he’d come to own it, and he knew nothing of its original meaning. But it suited him fine.
With everything situated, he kicked back on his stool, resting his dirty feet on the cart, and watched signs of life starting to appear in the market. No sooner was he lost in an idle daydream than heavy footsteps came up behind him and a puff of warm breath billowed through his curls. He turned around to find a scaly red snout in his face.
“Good morning, Francis,” Will said. “Down from the mountain early, I see.”
Francis was a small, scarlet-scaled dragon, standing no taller than the modest town buildings when walking on all fours. He snorted in agreement and settled down in his usual spot next to Will’s cart. Francis seemed to like spending at least part of the day in Will’s company, and the feeling was mutual. As far as Will knew, Francis was the only dragon in the area, making him something of an outsider. Will could relate. He felt like they understood that about each other. Besides, the dragon’s presence had the bonus of attracting more curious buyers, which Will knew was not lost on his friend. “Francis,” was not his actual name, of course, but a close approximation of how he’d introduced himself in dragonspeak, which no humans aside from the most powerful wizards could comprehend. Likewise, dragons couldn’t make sense of the common tongue unless spoken by those with magic. Will’s magic happened to be just enough for Francis—and most creatures—to grasp his meaning, which he was glad of, even if their chats were a bit one-sided.
“Did it look like much traffic coming in today?” Will asked. “From what you could see?”
Francis hummed and raised his horned brow optimistically. Will smiled and reached over to pat his head. The dragon leaned into his touch.
“Sounds like we’ll have a good day.”
Across the way and up a few buildings, a pair of gold, glittering wings shone in the morning light as Reba opened up her shop doors for the day. She was a sightless fairy who could find her way on scent and sound alone, and she made the most delicious-smelling candles and soaps in the land. Passers-through often left her shop with basketfuls, and with good reason.
Then there were the other shops and pubs selling everything from groceries and hunting supplies to paper parcels and rare liquors. Their little stretch of town saw heavy traffic from travelers going North toward the mountains and South toward the great cities. Those headed North for hunting and fishing were easy to entice with supplies, while the city-bound travelers were often eager for a chance to stretch their legs and pick up refreshments or charming gifts.
During lulls in the foot traffic, Will would kick back and construct his crowns and crafts by hand. Weaving them out of multiple materials at once was complex, delicate work that needed a closer eye before he added finishing accents with his magic. Directly across the road was another cart selling rocks of all sizes carved to look just like skulls, run by two locals called Brian and Jimmy. On days when they and Will both managed to fully sell out their carts, they’d celebrate by visiting one of the pubs after dark.
This particular day, Sheriff Katz came around with extra muffins for all of them, even tossing one to Francis. She was the friendly type. And Will managed to sell more than half his wares by the time the sky was shifting from blue to orange. It was a good day.
After re-securing his cart to the tree off the road, Will headed home, strolling along the riverbank toward his little house. It was a simple single-room cottage nestled in a grove of trees just a few paces from the water. Nothing much, but it suited him fine, and he enjoyed the fresh air. He checked the makeshift fishing poles he kept planted in the bank and found two plump trout to take inside for supper. He’d make a pot of stew, which he’d share with the handful of forest cats that had adopted him, and then he’d pass out on his cot surrounded by purring floofs. As usual. And then he’d get up and do it all over again.
***
Will awoke to petrichor and a gray blanket over the sky, strong winds rustling the trees outside. It was still dry, but not for long. He hopped out of bed and pulled on his vest and bag, hurrying out the door. Rain could mean a slower day at the market, but it was good news for the shallow river. The breeze tossed his curls about as he bounded up the hill, but he stopped short when he got to the top. At the base, in the rippling green grass, stood a Ravenstag. He recognized it at once as the smallest of the bunch.
“What are you doing all the way over here?” he whispered, starting cautiously toward her.
She turned her head to him, seemingly ready to bolt.
“Easy now,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “You know me. I’m a friend.”
She seemed to relax just a bit, her eyes fixed on him as he approached.
“Did you get lost?”
The Ravenstag huffed as if in answer. Her feathers flapped wildly in the wind like so many flustered little birds. Will was close enough to touch, and he reached out his hand toward her face. He expected her to recoil, but instead, she met his palm with her cheek and rubbed the black fur of her face across his skin, closing her eyes. Friends. Will smiled.
“Come on, then, I’ll show you the way back,” he said, and she fell in line beside him as he guided her home.
When the pen was in sight, Will’s breath caught. The apothecary himself, Hannibal, was there in the flesh, wrangling the other two Ravenstags into the pen. The one walking with Will stopped when he did.
“Well, go on. You’re home now.”
She lunged forward and rubbed his cheek with hers, and Will laughed. “Alright, alright.”
Reluctantly, he walked her the rest of the way to the gate. Hannibal took notice of them and came out to guide her inside. Once in, she bounded over to the other two and they huddled together under their awning on the far side of the pen.
“Thank you for returning her,” Hannibal said, turning to Will. He spoke with an accent, his voice surprisingly soft. “The gate came off in the wind and she must have been spooked.”
Will nodded, his own voice suddenly gone from him. Hannibal was uniquely stunning, with features at once gentle and subtly alluring. Will had never seen him up close, and now he was just steps away from his striking cheekbones and amber-brown eyes, partly obscured by locks of graying hair the wind tossed across his face.
“I don’t believe we’ve ever properly met,” Hannibal went on, extending his hand. “I’m Hannibal.”
“Will,” he said. Hannibal’s hand was warm.
“You’re a warlock, aren’t you?” Hannibal asked next, as though it were a natural progression.
Will was a bit taken aback, but he realized Hannibal must have noticed how the Ravenstag responded to him. He ran a hand over his hair out of habit. “Nothing so powerful, I’m afraid. I’ve only a touch of magic, myself.”
A slight smile warmed Hannibal’s features, as though Will had said something charming or clever. For a moment, they just regarded each other, and then Hannibal gazed over at the now calm Ravenstags.
“What do you do with the feathers?”
Hannibal didn’t sound angry, only curious, but Will’s cheeks flushed hot. He hadn’t been as stealthy as he’d imagined. “I make things. I have a cart at the market.”
Hannibal nodded. “I’ll make a point to come visit sometime.”
“If you’d rather I didn’t take them—”
Will was interrupted by a rumble of thunder; the sky had grown darker since he’d arrived.
“You’re more than welcome to them,” Hannibal replied. “Perhaps you’d like to come in for breakfast while the storm passes?”
“Oh, that’s not nec—”
“It’s the least I can do to show my gratitude.”
It took Will a moment to recall what Hannibal was grateful for. He wouldn’t decline the offer of a free meal twice. “That sounds lovely.”
***
The sky broke open as Will sat at Hannibal’s kitchen table. Whatever Hannibal was cooking was starting to smell torturously delicious, and Will was thankful for the sound of the downpour to drown out his growling stomach.
It was a bit surreal to be sitting there in the quaint kitchen, flanked by wooden shelves bearing dozens of leather-bound journals, trinkets, and glass jars and vases holding an assortment of neatly kept plants—herbs, perhaps. The window offered a picturesque view of the pen and river below. Somehow Will hadn’t imagined such a charming space inside the mysterious house.
Hannibal appeared carrying a tray to the table, his sleeves rolled up above his strong forearms.
“Thank you,” Will said, and Hannibal smiled before turning to retrieve something else.
In an instant, Will’s focus was on the food in front of him, and he very nearly drooled on it. It had been ages since he’d had a hot breakfast. Fluffy scrambled eggs mixed with sausage, a bowl of thick porridge with diced fruit and nuts, plus a glass of fresh juice. Waiting to begin eating was a struggle with food right in front of him, but he was a guest in Hannibal’s house.
Hannibal returned with a pitcher of the same juice and a bowl of apples, placing them in the center of the table. Will’s cheeks went warm at the sight of the apples—if Hannibal knew about the feathers . . .
“No need to wait,” Hannibal said. “Eat now, while it’s warm.”
Will didn’t need to be told twice. He fell upon the breakfast, relishing every mouthful of buttery eggs and sweet porridge, gulping juice in between. He only paused when he realized Hannibal had just sat down across from him and his own dishes were half empty.
“It’s delicious,” Will said, suddenly self-conscious of the way he been hunching over his plate.
“I’m glad you like it,” Hannibal said with the same warm smile. “You’re welcome to join me for breakfast anytime.”
Will swallowed another sip of juice and gave a polite nod. Surely Hannibal wouldn’t want him showing up for food every day. He gazed out the little window, streaked with raindrops.
“Where did you get them?” Will asked, changing the subject. “The Ravenstags, I mean.”
“I rescued them,” Hannibal said with a casual fondness. “Through my work, I came across a supplier who had caught a handful that he planned to kill and sell the parts—the blood and feet alone can fetch a fortune on some markets, and you know firsthand how people like the feathers. He had them in a dark barn. I took one look at them and asked him his price for all five. As you’ve gathered, I couldn’t afford all five. He wouldn’t budge. So, I ended up with three. They seem happy here. And they’re safe.”
Will nodded, quietly moved by Hannibal’s story. “And you don’t plan to . . . use them?”
Hannibal shook his head, unbothered by the question. “Not until they pass of natural causes, if that happens in my lifetime. While they’re healthy, their saliva makes a crucial ingredient in certain elixirs, and that I can sample painlessly.”
Will nodded again. Hannibal resumed eating and Will averted his eyes, realizing he’d been staring.
“How long have you lived in the village?” Hannibal asked after a moment.
“Ah, going on a few years now,” Will said with a shrug. “I was meant to be passing through, but well . . . I’m not in a hurry. In any case, I like it here.”
Hannibal held his gaze, his features warm again. “I’m glad you’ve found it to your liking.”
The rain had let up by the time Hannibal collected their dishes. Will stood to grab his bag and make a polite exit, thanking Hannibal for something like the dozenth time. Hannibal was quickly at his side, getting the door for him. He turned to Will in the threshold and extended his hand.
“I’m very pleased to have met you, Will,” Hannibal said.
Will took Hannibal’s hand, expecting a polite shake, but Hannibal surprised him by lifting his hand and pressing his lips to Will’s knuckles. At the precise moment of contact, a glass vase leapt off a high shelf behind them and shattered on the floor.
Will wrenched his hand away, inelegant. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I should go.”
Hannibal was giving him a curious look. Will turned and ducked out the door.
“Will,” Hannibal started, but Will was already down the steps and in the grass.
“Thank you for breakfast,” Will called back. “I’m truly sorry for the vase.”
“I do hope you’ll come back soon,” Hannibal called after him.
Will tromped on to the market, bare feet squishing in the fresh mud. Hannibal had been sweet, perfectly sweet, so it naturally followed that Will had ended the visit by breaking something and running away. He swore he could still feel Hannibal’s lips on his hand. . . . The gesture had been oddly formal, for the setting—besides, if anyone should have been kissing someone’s hand, it was Will in gratitude for Hannibal sharing his meal with him. When he made it to his cart, he rubbed his hands over his face and tried to put all the awkwardness out of his mind. At least his belly was full. Never mind that he was low on feathers.
***
Will had dozed off in his chair during a lull in the crowds when Francis nudged him awake and flicked his gaze down the road. Will followed with his own eyes and saw a handsome man with graying hair headed right for him. He sat up straight. Apparently Hannibal had been serious about visiting. And he was carrying a basket.
“Good afternoon, Will,” he said as he stepped up to the cart.
Will cleared his throat and nodded. “It’s been so long.”
Hannibal had the good nature to laugh. “Who’s your friend?”
“Oh, this is Francis,” Will said, turning toward the dragon. “Francis, this is Hannibal.”
Francis gave a friendly snort. Hannibal smiled. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Hannibal stepped around to the side of the cart, then, and held out the covered basket he was carrying. “I brought you something.”
Will stood to take it. Setting it on the side of the cart, he pulled the covering off to find five thick bundles of feathers—perfectly preserved and tied up with nice twine.
“Oh, heavens,” he breathed.
“Saved from their grooming. You’ll have more use for them than I.”
Will looked up, unsure of what to say. “This is so generous. . . . Please, allow me to repay you,” he said, reaching for his coin pouch.
“Oh, Will, no. I intended for it to be a gift.”
Will straightened up and nodded. “Well, thank you. Much appreciated.”
“My pleasure,” Hannibal said with a small bow.
Will took stock of his cart. “Perhaps you’d like to see them in action?”
Hannibal looked confused but agreed all the same. Will smirked and slid a palmful of feathers out of one of Hannibal’s neat bundles. They were thick and absurdly glittery in the sunlight, the type he’d have been lucky to find on any of his morning scavenges. Taking them up like darts to make a show of it, he flung them into place one by one, embellishing each of his crafts with perfect precision. It wasn’t often that he had an audience.
“How remarkable,” Hannibal said with maybe too much sincerity.
Will mock-bowed and then laughed at himself. “Take one if you like. Any of them. A gift.”
Hannibal smiled in response and then stepped around to the front of the cart, studying Will’s creations with a careful eye.
“You truly have an eye for beauty,” he said, taking up a brooch in his hand. “This one, if that’s alright.”
“It’s yours.”
Hannibal pinned the brooch to his dark vest. It suited him more than Will expected, black feathers emerging from behind small dried leaves, bound together at the base with wrapped twine, secured with a single silver bead. Hannibal regarded him, then, his smile falling a little more serious.
“I’m very glad our paths crossed this morning. It’s not often I have such pleasant company. I hope I wasn’t too forward before you left.”
“Oh, you weren’t,” Will said, running a hand over his hair. “You only surprised me. That’s all. I had a nice time. Sorry again for the vase.”
Hannibal gave him a look. “I don’t care about the vase.”
“That’s lucky,” Will said with a smirk and a shrug.
Hannibal’s gaze was unwavering, the air abruptly choked between them.
“Perhaps you’d like to join me for supper some evening?” Hannibal asked, charmingly cautious. “Next week, if you’re free?”
“Well, you are ripping me away from eating fish stew with my cats for the hundredth time, but I suppose I’ll manage.”
Hannibal smiled. “Brilliant. And what do you like to eat?”
Will shrugged. “Anything but fish stew, to be honest.”
Hannibal laughed with him. “I’ll manage.”
The foot traffic was starting to pick up, then, and Hannibal made his goodbyes. After he’d gone, Will looked over at Francis, who made a show of looking everywhere else.
“Don’t say anything,” Will snapped.
Francis hummed in response.
“It’s not . . . I mean, it could just be a friendly meal, couldn’t it?”
Francis lowered his eyelids.
“Alright, I suppose not,” Will muttered, unable to fight his smile.
It was a smile that stuck the rest of the day. He was still smiling when he returned home to a chorus of mews and flung himself onto his cot, where he was promptly trampled by cat feet.