Page 60 of Casting Butterflies

I tried explaining who I was, and why I’d come, as the strangers marched me toward the mountain. While the Yeti absconded with a complaining Cedric, my captors took me through a secret door that blended in so seamlessly with the rock I would have never found it. No one replied to anything I said, but they had no problem shoving me roughly when my pace slowed.

The hidden doorway had led to a tunnel that bored through the mountain and emerged into a valley only slightly warmer than beyond the wall. The encroaching darkness didn’t let me see much, but I did notice buildings, their windows glowing with light, and the streets, bare stone instead of ice because of the heat running under them.

While my captors wore hats and balaclavas concealing their every feature—including whether or not they had pointy ears—a few curious faces glanced through doors as we passed, their silvery and platinum hair somewhat reassuring. It appeared I’d found Misha’s people, but the reception proved to not be what I expected, as they imprisoned me. Ironic that Misha, for all his grumpiness, turned out to be friendlier.

Being locked away, in a literal tower, with no answers had me pacing. It didn’t help I’d lost Cedric to the Yeti. Hopefully the cat fared better than me.

When the door suddenly opened, it revealed a female elf carrying a tray of food, her ears peeking through her long straight platinum hair. She looked to be about my age, so I smiled. “Hey, I’m Flo. What’s your name?”

She glanced at me but didn’t reply, setting the tray down on a dresser before scurrying out the door—and locking it. No mistaking the click.

As prison fare went, this ranked up there with some of my better kitchen creations. Some kind of soup, fragrant with chunks of vegetable. A thick slice of crusty bread slathered in butter, which I’d swear had been freshly churned. Before you mock me for even thinking that, I’d once been to a farm and eaten it right out of the crock. That store-bought shit? Not even close. The palm-sized pie, the crust golden and flaky, held some kind of minced meat and potatoes, again very delicious. For dessert, I had brandied peaches with cream.

The horror, I know.

Soon as I finished eating, I yawned and could barely keep my eyes open. I tottered to the bed and collapsed, waking in the morning to sunlight stabbing me in the eyes.

Argh. I might have stayed in bed, only the same elf as the night before entered with a new tray of food.

I eyed it suspiciously. In retrospect, my abrupt descent into sleep last night made me wonder if they’d drugged me. If they had, they didn’t seem to have done me any harm. No cuts, contusions, or sore spots, and I still wore the same clothes I’d passed out in.

Since I didn’t want to take chances, I stuck to the unpeeled fruit. Orange. Banana. The steaming cup of coffee tempted, but I stuck to water, dumping out the mug and filling it from the bathroom faucet.

I quickly showered and dressed in something from the wardrobe, fleecy pants and a woolen sweater. I put on some socks but skipped the boots, opting for some slippers.

Then I waited—not so patiently.

While I’d been treated decently thus far, I still really wanted to know what the fuck was going on. Like seriously. Misha had been so single-minded about getting here, seemed to think it was a matter of urgency, and yet no one had spoken with me. Could it because of the language barrier? I didn’t get the impression my captors spoke much English. Odd, seeing as how Misha had been quite fluent.

With no television or even a book to entertain, I spent much time at the window with its view of a courtyard that held a very dead-looking tree. At one time, its spreading boughs must have spanned more than thirty feet. The weather-bleached branches had splintered ends where the drier bits had snapped off. This had to be the tree Misha mentioned. Looked like it need more than magic to revive it though.

While the window offered me a view of the outside, it lacked action. No one entered the courtyard, which must be heated, given the lack of ice or snow. No one hung out on the scattered benches. Then again, who’d want to sit in the cold by dead leafless bushes, staring at the husk of a tree that would act as a reminder of what had been stolen.

As my stomach started grumbling, indicating the noon hour approached, a noise at the door had me whirling from the window.

“Hello.” The accented voice belonged to an older woman, her face creased with time, her hair a pure arctic white rather than platinum. Could this be one of the elders Misha spoke about?

Her greeting had me hopeful we spoke the same language. “Hi, I’m Flo, Florence Girard to be more precise.”

“Greetings, Florence. By the looks of your aura, you didn’t stumble across our location by accident. You carry the Anivivi.” It sounded more accusation than “Hey thanks for bringing it back.”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m here. Misha⁠—”

“You’ve seen him?” the woman interrupted sharply.

“Yes. We first met at my house when he came to”—I almost said steal—“ask about a necklace I bought at an auction.”

“I’m surprised he’s not with you.”

My lips turned down. “He was. But then our train got attacked by goblins that Valefor released from their underground lair, and then there was this giant bug, and⁠—”

“You encountered Valefor?” the woman interrupted.

“Yes, and before you worry, he won’t be a problem anymore. The humongous bug chomped him in half.” My lips twisted. “Ironically, that’s how the giant monster died, although it was the closing of the rift to the goblins’ lair that squashed him.”

“What of Misha?”

“In all the chaos, I’m not entirely sure what happened. Cedric says Misha was atop a train car fighting the tentacles of the giant bug, and then he was gone, most likely fallen into the chasm. I didn’t know, or I would have never sealed up the hole. And now he’s dead.” I whispered as I choked on the last part.