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With his sword still drawn, the gnome leader scowls at Pranmore, and then he turns his eyes on me. “Is he one of yours?”

Reluctantly, I answer, “He is.”

The short man stares at me and then scans our group. After several long moments, he slides his sword into the leather scabbard at his side.

It’s an unspoken signal, and the others lower their weapons as well.

I jerk my head toward Bartholomew, who’s currently tied up like a hog and being used as a human bench. “Do you think you could release my squire?”

Grumbling, the gnomes crawl off Bartholomew and begin to work at the knots in their ropes.

“You look like something an aynauth repeatedly smacked against a tree,” the gnome leader says to Pranmore. “What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s just a little indigestion—”

“He ate imposter berries,” I interrupt.

“As stupid as they look,” someone in the crowd mutters, obviously wanting us to hear since he’s speaking in the common language.

“We have a tincture to settle his stomach.” The gnome leader turns and waves for us to follow him. “Come along, and you can explain why you’re in our woods.”

“My archer needs care,” I tell him. “She can’t travel in this state.”

Pranmore turns toward Clover, and his eyes widen with true concern. “Lady Clover, you’re injured.”

“Can you heal her?” I ask,

Clover reluctantly lets him examine the wound.

“Yes…” He turns a little green and quickly looks away. “But not quite yet. For now, I can help ease her pain.”

“Enough talking,” one of the female brawlers says. “If we’re not gonna kill her, we might as well bandage her up. She’s leaking all over the forest.”

* * *

According to the gnomes,they have no village healer, but when someone needs “sewn back together after a tussle,” Maisel takes care of it.

The makeshift healer’s hut smells like herbs and dried moss, along with the lingering aroma of fried pork fat and potatoes.

It’s a strange little cottage, circular and built of stone, with a cedar shake roof and an ancient potbelly stove that appears to be fueled by wood instead of the oil the elven craftsmen have long preferred.

An axe and hunting knife lay atop the table, along with a pair of shears, a pincushion, a grubby lard candle, and what looks conspicuously like a well-worn collection of romantic elven literature.

“Thathurts,” Clover growls as the gnome woman she pinned to the ground earlier none-too-gently wraps a bandage around her arm.

“My apologies,” Maisel replies with a hefty dose of sarcasm. “I forgot how delicate you human females are.”

Clover narrows her eyes at the gnome’s bandaged nose. “Did I look delicate when I ripped the spear from your hands and pinned you to the ground with my foot?”

“Clover,” I warn under my breath, reminding her not to taunt our reluctant hostess.

She raises her brows, unrepentant, but she doesn’t rise to Maisel’s provocations again—even when the gnome gives the bandage a final, firm tug. Clover winces, holding her tongue, and gives me a pointed look that says I better appreciate her restraint.

Maisel has created a rudimentary sling, and Clover grimaces as the gnome slides it over her shoulder and guides her arm into it.

“That should keep you until your elf friend stops hacking up berries,” Maisel says almost cheerfully, proud of her handiwork.

“Lovely,” Clover mutters as she stands. “Thank you.”