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since she had been here. No carriages passed on the road, no peddlers selling trinkets came knocking at the door. It was cozy

and safe, and she was loathe to plunge back out into the uncertain world beyond the gate.

But the day of her departure came, and with it, a deepening sense of finality.

Clara broke her fast with a bowl of boiled potatoes, mashed and served with smoked sausage. It was strange to think this was

the last meal she would eat at the wooden table, the last time she would listen to Jan and Tryn good-naturedly bicker over

cups of tea. It had only been a fortnight, but already this place had indelibly imprinted itself on her heart.

When she was finished, Tryn packed a bag for her with some apples and cheese, a blanket, and her old clothes which had been mended and ironed. On the front step, the clouds slid over the sun, and a rooster crowed from beyond the yard.

“A fine day for travel,” Jan remarked, squinting up into the sky. “Clouds in the morning is always a good omen.”

Tryn elbowed her husband. “Now, don’t be putting it off any longer. It’s time we told her.”

Jan was suddenly red in the face, making a show of examining his pipe with a deep frown. Clara looked between them. “Told

me what?” she asked, a prickle growing along her neck. “What is it?”

Jan gave a heavy sigh. “Very well.” Plunging his hands into the pockets of his rough trousers, Jan faced Clara. “Child, there

is a reason you cannot stay with us. A reason why you must find your own way.”

Clara waited for him to continue, but it was Tryn who cut to the heart of the matter. “What do you know of the Old Ones?”

she asked.

Clara opened her mouth, closed it again. “From the stories?”

Tryn gave an impatient huff. “So you do know of them, but you think they exist only in tales?”

“Come now,” Jan said to his wife. “How would she know? They aren’t like us, they don’t teach their young the way of things.”

Clara watched, confused, as he fumbled in his pocket for his tobacco and prepared another pipe. “We have not told you a single

falsehood, but neither have we told you the truth,” he said to Clara, his creased blue eyes boring into her over the curling

smoke of his pipe.

A strange feeling began to spread in Clara, and she looked at her friends closer, as if seeing them for the first time. Had

Tryn always been so small of stature? Was Jan’s beard always so white, so long? They both had an almost... sparkling quality

about them, as if they had bathed in starlight and dewdrops.

A rare smile spread over Tryn’s lined face, her eyes sparkling emerald green. “That’s right. Don’t just look at what is in front of you. Use your eyes, your heart, to see us.”

The rooster had left off in its crowing, and even the breeze seemed to hold its breath. There must have been a name for what

Tryn and Jan were, but if Clara knew it from her childhood tales, she could not find it now.

“Kabouters,” Jan helpfully supplied as he tapped out his pipe. “That will be the word you’re looking for.”

Clara jolted at his uncanny ability to know what she was thinking. “Kabouters,” she repeated in a numb whisper. The funny

little characters from Helma’s stories that lived beneath the roots of trees or in windmills, and were seldom seen by human

eyes. Jan and Tryn certainly looked human enough, and they were far larger than the little beings that were supposedly only

a few inches tall. But then, who knew what sort of charm they might have cast to make themselves appear larger? Who knew what

was real on the farm and what was the product of magic?

“It is not our custom to trifle with the affairs of humans, but you found us somehow. No one has ever found this place,” Tryn

added with an appraising look.

“And then you began speaking about a flood...”

“And we knew that we must help you.”

Clara availed herself of the stone step, sitting down heavily and cradling her head in her hands. Jan and Tryn continued to

offer her unbelievable explanations, and peppered her with some of the most confusing advice she’d ever been given.

“Take care around anyone you meet on the road, especially if it is night and if they come asking you for assistance. Never

enter into a bargain or accept a gift unless the giver first offers to repeat the terms of the deal to you.”

“Don’t make new acquaintances on Sundays. And for God’s sake, stay away from water, especially during the full moon.”

“You are a clever girl,” Jan said. “You will be fine. But before we send you off, we give you three wishes as a token of our thanks for the work you did on the farm.”

“I... I don’t understand,” Clara said, finally looking up. Jan helped her to her feet and gave her hand a warm pat.

“Whether you believe us or not, here we stand before you, offering you three wishes.”

Clara blinked at the smooth stones sitting in Tryn’s small hand. If they were telling the truth, if these stones really did

possess the power to grant her anything, she could wish for her old life back. She could ask for her family to be spared,

for the water to have never risen. Pim. She could ask for Pim. As if sensing the turbulent thoughts roiling behind her eyes,

Tryn said, “You cannot wish for someone to be brought back from the dead, nor the past to change its course. Magic has its

constraints.”

“They need not be used all at once, either,” Jan added. “Perhaps you would like to save them?”

Clara managed to nod. Taking her hand, Tryn pressed the three smooth, round stones into her palm and closed her fingers over

them. “You keep those somewhere safe. When you are ready, you will know what to do.”

The stones sat heavy in her hand, humming with magic. She had no choice but to believe now, didn’t she? Here were magic folk,

just the kind that Helma used to tell her about. Whatever doubt—or rather, hope—that she had been nursing about Maurits had

to be given up. He had told her as much, but even after everything that she had experienced, she had been unable to accept

the fact that he was not human. If Helma was to be believed, then the Old Ones and magic folk were not to be trusted. Well,

she had certainly learned that the hard way with Maurits. But what of Tryn and Jan? They hadn’t just treated her kindly, they

had saved her from certain death on the road. She had to trust them.

Clara finally managed to thank them, and, pocketing the stones, gathered her things and readied to take her leave.

Jan was still watching her with shrewd eyes. “Another piece of advice, though you did not ask for it? There are folk who use

their cunning as a weapon, and those that use it as sport. Sometimes it is impossible to tell the two apart. And humans have

not been good to the land or the water, and those same folk have no qualms about teaching a human a lesson. If something appears

too good, too perfect to be true, it probably is. So be on your guard, and when in doubt, hold your tongue and put your head

down.”

“Has it always been thus?” Clara asked. “Why have I never seen someone like you before?”

Jan cleared his throat. “Have there always been magic folk? Yes, of course, and I daresay you have seen some but did not know

it at the time. But there is something coming, and—”

“Jan!” Tryn said sharply. “That’s enough. No need to frighten her.”

“She ought to know. You said yourself that we ought to tell her the truth.”

“What is there to know?” Tryn argued back. “Nothing for certain. Leave it be.”

“Don’t mind us,” Jan told her with an apologetic smile, his mismatched teeth flashing. “You are a clever girl, and you will

do well in the city. Now, off you go, before it grows too late. You should reach Amsterdam before nightfall if you can find

a ride with a farmer or trader.”

As if speaking one into existence, the creak of wheels sounded around the turn, and soon Clara found herself bundled into the back of a jostling cart, bearing her toward a new life in the city.

A farmer in a wide-brimmed hat idly flicked his reins on the hump of his bull, barely sparing Clara a glance as she settled into the straw.

They were almost to the turn in the road when Clara looked back, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the cottage and commit it to memory.

But as the wheels trundled over the rutted dirt, all the remained of the little farm where she had spent a fortnight was an overgrown clearing, and a faint wisp of smoke trailing into the overcast sky.