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And the Fae invade with bramble

Atta followed the voice, led by the moonlight through the treetops and a jumble of lights bobbing through the branches.

Ghost lights.

Wills-o-the wisp.

The woman’s voice faded away on the last word, dissipating into the mist and fog. Atta had made it to a clearing of moss and mushrooms, a lovely tea set laid out on a stone. Without thinking, she approached the teacup and felt its side, though she needn’t have done so because a tendril of steam curled into the crisp night air from the tea.

“Hello?” she called out, but she was only met with a chorus of giggles, a chorus of hisses.

She spun in a circle, enjoying the wood, the moss beneath her feet and the twirl of her nightgown. It was then that she saw the old, twisted hawthorn, the one visible from the bay window in the kitchen of Murdoch Manor. The one that whispered for her to come closer.

Here she was, and she answered the call, walking forward to press her palm against its trunk, the bark rough against her palm.

There in a hollow, where creatures had surely burrowed to protect their young, she felt a hum, deep in her bones.

Reaching into the hollow, the forest flickered, going barren, dark, and so very cold.

Atta started, but with a blink, it was the mystical grove once more. All she felt in the hollow was dirt, bramble, and the bones of small animals.

Dig, o’ child of the wood.

Dig, and bring us what she thought she could.

So Atta dug. She dug in the hollow until one of her nails broke, until her fingers hit leather, old and cracked. Standing on tiptoe, she reached down as far as she could and pulled out a tome. Forest green like the trees at night, pages limned in gold, and a spine cracked from use. She ran her filthy fingers over the title.Into the Faerie Wood.

She lifted the cover, the leather protesting, and the forest fell away again. Atta blinked, but it did not correct itself this time. Dark clouds blocked out the moon, the Wills-o-the-wisp blinking out. She moved away from the hawthorn, back toward home. Where was home? Fear licked up her spine as something flew past her face, gnashing its teeth. The tree branches bent, reaching for her, grasping at her nightgown, her hair.

Atta ran, her breath loud in her ears, the book clutched to her chest.

She tripped, landing with a thud in the dirt, banging her knee on a rock.

Something grabbed at her arm, talons scraping, fangs biting. Thousands of wings surrounded her until they felt like a gale of wind. The book was nearly tugged from her grip, but she wrenched it free, falling back into the dirt and sharp bramble. Her necklace, the bottle of Tears of the Grieved, clanked against her teeth, the pain reverberating up into her skull.

The tears.

Atta ripped the necklace free from her body and smashed it on a rock.

Hissing, steam, then silence.

And Atta ran.

Hard and fast.

Sonder

It was nearly dawn before he made it back to the manor to find thirteen sticky notes from Gibbs plastered throughout the house.

I fed Atta,on the kitchen door.

I’m not a maid,on a stack of discarded jumpers he’d folded.

I’ll pick up more milk, on the fridge.

Among other things.

A very detailed schedule sat on his desk next to a glass of whiskey and a fresh cigar Sonder had not placed there, along with a note that read:I’m not your fucking secretary.