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We follow Maisel out of the hut, crawling on our knees to get through the door.

The small village stretches around us—a collection of child-sized houses clustered in a protected grove surrounded by thick woods. It was so close to where we met the gnomes, we almost stumbled on it by accident.

The Woodmores were apparently wrong—the Dorian people retreated into the mountains, yes, but they didn’t become one with the earth, never to be seen again.

They just chose to live in a remote region so as not to be disturbed.

And, as Jarl Gruebin so eloquently explained on the short walk to the village, King Algernon can’t tax them if he doesn’t know they’re here.

The smell of roasting meat wafts through the air, and the reminder of food makes my stomach clench with hunger. We’ve been invited to dinner, though I’m not certain the gnomes won’t poison us.

“What do gnomes eat?” Clover asks me under her breath.

“You’re in for a treat.” Maisel rubs her hands together. “It’s squirrel night.”

She calls to a nearby woman and leaves us standing alone when she scurries off to join her.

“That was the gnome’s idea of a joke, wasn’t it?” Clover asks.

“I’m not sure.”

“At least they’re not roasting Pranmore,” she points out, biting back a mischievous smile.

We’re quiet for a moment as we take in the comings and goings of the little community. A stream runs through the middle of the hollow, lending water to the orchard, gardens, and small plots that are currently full of sprouting winter grain. The gnomes raise pigs, sheep, and chickens as well, tucking the little pens next to cottages and in their flower-filled yards. Nearby, small, yellow gourds climb an arched wooden trellis, proudly proclaiming that winter is on its way.

The familiar clang of iron being worked upon an anvil makes me wonder if there’s a tiny smithy somewhere in the village as well.

“Can you believe this has been tucked up here, and no one ever knew?” Clover asks.

I shake my head, marveling at it as well. Then I glance at her arm. “How are you feeling?”

Pranmore numbed the pain—it was about all he could manage at the time—but I imagine a wound like that still aches.

Clover looks down and frowns. “I can handle it until Pranmore is better.”

Maisel comes back a few minutes later. “What are you gawking around here for? If you don’t hurry and find a seat, you’ll have to sit at the table next to the muircorn pens.”

We follow Maisel to a community area in the heart of the glade. Already, dozens of gnomes sit at long tables. The wood is gray with age, and they look as though they’ve weathered a great many years. Long runners, woven from reeds, stretch the length of the tables, and on them sit fat candles like the one in Maisel’s hut.

Torches circle the area, giving light in the dimming evening.

Several women fill flat baskets with rounded loaves of bread, taking them from the large pewter platter a man in the center of the tables carries.

“Fetch more,” one of the gnome women snaps at the man when the platter is empty. “And be quick about it.”

He towers over her, likely as tall as I am, if not a little taller. He wears his black hair long and partially braided back, and his clothing is that of a servant.

It’s only his ears that proclaim he’s not human, along with the subtle almond shape of his eyes.

“Is that…” Clover studies the scene in front of us with bewilderment. “Henrik, I think that man is aHigh Vale.”

As if sensing we’re talking about him, the elf looks over. His eyes land on Clover, and his brows raise with interest.

“He is,” I say, not liking the look he’s giving her.

“What’s he doing here?” Clover asks. “And why does it look like he’s a serving boy?”

I don’t have an answer to either of those questions, but I’m afraid we’re going to find out. With a lazy grin that’s focused on Clover, the man tucks the platter under his arm and makes his way to us.