Page 90 of The Filigree Key

Leaving the horse to crop the pathetic grass outside, I searched the surrounding area for a print but found no depressions in the frozen earth. Of course. My boots made hollow thunks as I climbed the worn steps and pushed open the door to the mill. Careful of where I stepped, I searched through the dust left behind by the grinding of corn, barley, and red wheat for the footprint I sought. With all the citizens of Redbud being turned into animals, it wouldn’t be hard to distinguish a small boot print amongst them. If I could just find one.

Birds twittered on the windowsill, its shutters broken from when I assumed Wystan had forced his way in. From the marks on the floor, the birds had come in to glean from the floor along with the mice. At my arrival, they’d all returned to the sill to debate whether or not I was a threat. Their shadows skittered along the floor as they hopped on the sill, chattering. When my search moved me closer in that direction, they took wing. The sudden vanishing of their shadows revealed the exact print I was looking for.

Crouching down quickly, I extended my hand and pressed a glowing fingertip to the center of the boot print.

“Soft as feathers and a firefly’s light,

follow the steps of the walker this night.”

Day, night, whatever. The footprints still glowed a faint green—hard to see in the daylight, but I was going to manage. I followed them outside, remounted my very accommodating horse, and tracked them as far as they went. They weren’t fresh, so the Tracking Spell could not sustain itself, and it was easily confused by any masking sand or similar spells, but at least they pointed me towards my next clue.

And when there were no more footprints, the Scouting Spell, to some small effect. Even the Seeking Spell, as Wystan was Fair Folk with magic permeating his whole being. The Hunting Spell would’ve been invaluable here, but I hadn’t been willing to risk its and the bleached tourmaline’s discovery by returning to my old room. Not until I had to.

My dappled gray horse eventually stopped at a split-rail fence marked by a sign reading RescueLove Animal Shelter. On the other side of the split rails there seemed to be a tiny village ringed in chicken wire. Chicken and turkey coops were brightly colored with steep roofs that brought to mind the witch’s candy house from Hansel and Gretel. There were even flower boxes embellishing the windows.

A guinea pig sanctuary resembled a Dutch windmill village, ringed in faux tulip flowers. There were even little plaques above each of the doorways naming the owners of the windmills: Dozer and Punkster, Clove and Pip, and many more. Beside the village, the gray plank barn for Daphne’s nanny goats was built to resemble a miniature Irish castle. There was a little stink of farmyard manure, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Daphne had been a slave to their proper upkeep even after becoming a horse.

I assumed the other buildings had once housed dogs and cats waiting for their forever homes, but no doubt they’d been banished when Ossian had come into power. The only dogs I knew of in Redbud were the Lancaster brothers and the Alder ranchers, and of course cats were forbidden.

My attention drifted to the Irish castle as Daphne’s words from a few days ago resurfaced: The coyotes have been sniffing around the animal shelter more after my nanny goats. One of the kids got taken.

If Ossian had banished the dogs, he’d probably done the same to the local coyote packs. Dismounting with a frown, I crouched down in the center of road into the animal sanctuary and pressed a glowing hand against the gravel.

The Scouting Spell released a firm ping, and the signatures of every creature within the myriad buildings appeared in my mind’s eye. Including the bright one that had no business hiding in the hay barn.

I supposed old habits die hard. That’s where he’d used to sleep when he’d been a hob on Sweet Cider Farm.

With a jerk, I dug my fingers into the gravel.

A second or two later, all the seeds that had blown there over the course of the year sprouted to life. I’d added the magic of my aunt Peony, turning them into my own version of her dandelion helpers. Birch and autumn olive saplings grew to the height of a man and ran off towards the hay barn, blue chicory and purple echinacea and oxeye daisy helpers chasing after them.

The hens and turkeys went wild, excited for the floral prey. That set the guinea pigs off, all of whom exited their Dutch windmills in hopes of fresh greens. If the hobgoblin was alarmed, he didn’t panic. No doubt he thought that if he stayed small and quiet (very much like a hob), he wouldn’t be noticed.

He thought very wrong.

The hobgoblin emerged from the hay barn upside down with a birch and an autumn olive sapling each holding an ankle. The flower helpers pranced under him, jumping up to snatch off his hat or pull on his ears or yank his greasy brown hair. Someone had deprived him of his club and one of his shoes, and the hollering hobgoblin twisted in the air much like he had when the pixies had carted him off.

He sobered as the saplings came to a halt in front of me, his dark brown eyes widening. “Y-you!”

“Hello, Wystan. Can’t say it’s a pleasure to see you again.” Using the fence, I mounted my dapple gray and gave the hobgoblin a cold smile. “But it will be eventually. For me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

From the ruckus created by the townsfolk as they followed me back to the castle, you would’ve thought Redbud had just beaten Tussock out for the Jewel of Patoka County title for the tenth year in a row. Whatever worries about the food shortages and the unseasonably bitter weather had fled, replaced with celebration.

The bogeyman who had stalked them for weeks was finally apprehended.

The birch and autumn olive saplings had grown on the journey; they now stood twelve feet tall and had Wystan strung up between them like a banner. Acting as minstrel heralds, the floral helpers danced ahead of my horse and played little reed flutes. Behind me, the citizens of Redbud hooted and cheered. They’d all raided Emmett’s trading post for the pots and pans, using them as drums with the aid of wooden spoons.

Four stone-faced Brothers waited for me in a wedge formation at the opposite side of the bridge. When they didn’t move out of the way, the chicory, echinacea, and daisy flowers kicked them in the shins and stomped on their feet. Not that they did any damage, but it was the thought that counted.

Wystan gave them a wild, pleading look, but he didn’t speak. Maybe a spell bound him so he couldn’t out his affiliation with them. The Brothers’ mood darkened until each bore a hostile scowl on his face. They could no longer use the hobgoblin to prey upon the Fair Folk and supes of Redbud; they were wholly dependent on Ossian now, and he wasn’t in the sharing mood.

“Would you look at these sourpusses,” Cody hollered. “What’s got your teeth grinding like you’re chewing cud, eh? That milady accomplished in a day what y’all couldn’t do in weeks? Ha! Three cheers for milady!”

As the townsfolk cheered my name, the Brotherhood was forced to abandon their post or get crushed. The parade with all its music and clamor poured into the grand foyer and swept to the left towards the great hall. The double doors were already open, so I rode right in.

To find Ossian seated on his throne with my cat in his lap.