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Chapter Text

Barefoot, and leap-frogging across patches of moss, that was the best way to steal something.

Aside from the utter silence of it, it was bliss on Neil’s feet. Swiftly, nimbly he crept closer and closer to the kitchen of the great manor – close enough that he could peer through the leaded windows and see an enormous copper pot that had been left on the hearth to slow-cook through the night. Perhaps even perpetual stew . . . Neil’s stomach almost growled, before he willed it to hush. Now was no time for sound, even though it had been days since he had enjoyed a steaming-hot, filling meal.

With practiced glances, Neil rediscovered the thing that had drawn him here in the first place: an open window, nestled in a crook behind a pile of barrels and other debris. The little thief appraised it for a moment before, with a sound like rushing water, the boy was gone, and in his place stood a ferret: its pelt a deep russet, its nose quivering as it checked the smell of the wind for danger. Nothing. He scrambled through the mess of wood and garden furniture, and poked his head through the gap in the window, to see a dark, empty pantry. Oh yes, he thought, this is what I’ve been looking for. This was just one of the reasons he loved spending time in the lands of the Autumn king: these fae always knew how to eat, but their stock would be especially gorgeous now that it was actually Autumn. Neil tried to ignore what else this implied; that winter was on its way, opting to focus on how the Autumn folk were always stocking everything from cured sausage, to peppered veal, to cornucopias of sweet fruit. He jumped smoothly onto the solid wooden shelving that lined the walls, and climbed down to the red-tiled floor, and again there was the noise like wind, and Neil-the-person was standing in its place. He rubbed his hands together lasciviously, eyeing up the offerings before he began. Something grabbed his attention. There was a tin in the corner that sang ‘cake’ to him, in gentle, dulcet tones. Upon prying it open, his instincts were proven correct, as they often were: a lovely, plump fruitcake lay nestled in brown paper, fairly glistening with berries. He cut a thick slice, and wrapped it in the leaves he had brought: he knew well that paper crinkled too much. What next? Ooh, nuts – he scooped some of these into his satchel, and they were soon to be joined by several cuts of dried meat, a handful of potatoes, two oranges (these made him smile), a flask of salt, and a loaf of bread. Neil sighed in satisfaction. This was the life. He had everything he needed, now, and it was time to go. He should really have left a few seconds ago to be honest – the brown-haired fae could always tell with these things. Yet . . . that shining copper pot on the hearth swam through his mind. The idea of resting his legs for one moment, and eating something warm, it was just too tantalising.

Brushing aside the quickening of his pulse, the young man tiptoed to the door of the pantry, and lightly rested his hand on its thick wood. Creaaak . . . the noise was quiet, but undeniable, and Neil’s heart skipped a beat . . . but he waited, and heard nothing in response. I can always turn into a bird, he told himself. birds are hard to catch. He moved into the kitchen, and towards the pot, the full moon providing enough light to see by. Swiftly, he lifted the lid, and took a deep whiff – rabbit. His eyes lit up, and a bright grin spread across his face. He looked around for a bowl, and –

“Are you lost?”.

In the darkness, there stood a short fae male, with pale blonde hair. Neil jumped out of his skin, but although he urged his body: bird! Bird!, he did not shift forms. With dismay, he searched for moonlight, only to see that it had gone behind the clouds. Just his luck. The old-fashioned way, then.

“Not at all”, he chirped.

There was a backdoor behind blondie – he could reach that. With a lightning-quick feint, Neil tried to sprint past the fae, but his reflexes were practically a match for Neil’s own: with precise aim, he socked Neil in the stomach, the blow knocking all the wind from his lungs. Even worse, his beloved satchel slipped off his shoulder, spilling its precious contents across the floor, making Neil's heart clench in horror. He folded over, and the blondie’s arms tightened around him like iron bands. Wheezing and kicking, he was dragged over to a nearby chair, where he was deposited like a sack of potatoes. An attempt to draw in air was met with debatable success, and Neil began to feel his hope of escape dwindle to zero as blondie began to efficiently unwind the long, leather bindings he wore around his wrists. Especially when they revealed two sheaths, twin daggers that clattered onto the ground with ear-shatteringly volume. Neil tried to stand, but suddenly the guy’s hands were on his wrists, drawing them behind his back to tie them securely to the chair. He just had to pray that the moon would come out from behind the clouds – his only chance of escape now was shifting. In the meantime, he had this codswallop to deal with. It wouldn’t be pretty, he knew that from experience. Funnily enough, fae nobles didn’t like it that much when filthy changelings raided their familial larders. It was for this reason that Neil hated that the guy was still behind him – that he was so quiet.

“Penny for your thoughts, Gov’ner?”, wheezed Neil. It was meant to be mocking, but he didn’t have quite enough air to give it bite. Regardless, if this guy expected him to grovel, he would be sorely disappointed.

Blondie circled in front of him again, much to Neil’s relief, and wandered over to a cabinet, opening the drawer. Neil’s teeth gritted of their own accord as he watched, trying to keep up his brave face. What would it be this time? Riding crop? Poison? There was no limit to the items other nobles had seen fit to 'teach Neil a lesson' with.

The fae’s hand dipped into the drawer, and drew out a candle, and a lighting-stick. That was a new one. Neil let his head fall back, screwing his eyes closed in fear. He wasn’t a stranger to pain, but this was going to be agony.

He listened as the door to the stove was opened, and the smell of charcoal drifted over, the sound of crackling logs. There was a sizzle as the stick lighted. Footsteps . . . the clink of the candle being placed on the table. He flinched slightly when the fae spoke.

“Open your eyes”.

Neil did. And immediately, felt himself relax and then tighten again. The candle was only intended to be a source of light. However, the fae who had lit it . . . his hair was even shorter than it originally seemed, shaved down to the skin so just fuzz was left. Unheard of for the fair folk, who prided themselves on long, silky hair filled with braids and baubles. His long, pointed ears were unadorned as well, as was his garb. He was dressed from neck to ankles in thick, black linen, and several black leather straps indicated he was carrying even more knives. Worst of all was the fact that he was smiling, a manic grin that Neil usually associated with coming violence. Blondie didn’t back down from Neil’s focused gaze. This was rare.

His next words took Neil completely by surprise.

“I can’t be bothered to deal with this”, he drawled, and moved past Neil’s chair to get to the pantry.

Working furiously, the changeling’s mind tried to figure out what this meant . . . and came up blank.

“Does that mean I can go?”, he asked, though he knew the answer would be no.

In fact, the answer was silence, unless you counted the sound of clinking as the fae dug through his cupboard. He emerged after a beat, holding a thick, amber-glass bottle of what Neil could only assume was hard liquor, and two horns.

He uncorked the bottle with a pop, and poured some out, and drank it all standing at the edge of the table. Then, he addressed Neil. “You want some?”, he asked, in a bored voice.

Neil considered for a moment, then “Why not?”, he said, suspiciously.

A measure was poured into the second drinking horn, and Andrew held it out to him.

“I’ll need my hands”.

“Take it or leave it”, came the dispassionate reply.

What on earth was his play here? The liquor couldn’t be poisoned, Neil had watched him pour it out, and slug it. Unless he had built up a tolerance? That was far-fetched, even by fae standards. Perhaps he was getting Neil drunk to get his guard down? In that case, it would be best to play along – lowered guards went both ways.

“In that case, I’ll take it”, said Neil carefully, and he raised his chin slightly.

Blondie touched the horn to Neil’s lips, opening them, and began to pour it into his mouth. The taste was divine – fiery, yet smooth and full-bodied, spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg. It had been years since he had tasted something like this. He tipped his head back, and closed his eyes as he lapped up the last rivulets, unable to suppress the brief sound of pleasure that escaped the back of his throat.

“Andrew?!”.

The voice made Neil jump, before mentally groaning in frustration. Another person – his chances of escape seemed to be knocking politely on the door to hell, at this point. He twisted in his chair, trying to catch a glimpse of the new arrival. He was an older man, with brown hair, a well-kept beard and spiky flame tattoos swirling up his forearms. Andrew, who hadn’t reacted at all to the man’s arrival, gave him a bored look.

“Caught this git breaking in”, he said, thumping the horn down on the table.

“Dangerous?”, asked the man.

“I’ll get back to you on that”, said blondie – Andrew, Neil remembered he was called - before walking away.

“Don’t think this is going to make me forget that you stole my spiced rum”, the bearded man called after him, and a second later, he appeared in front of Neil. He crouched down, putting himself level with Neil’s eyes, and asked “Who are you?”. His voice and his eyes were kind.

Neil swallowed. He had about a hundred names. Neil was the one he had been using for the past few moons, though, so that was the one he used.

“Wymack”, the man said, in return. “A pleasure to meet you”.

Neil gave a hesitant nod. “Likewise”.

Wymack gave a laugh. “I understand why you’re so scared, young man, but this is probably the one place you might actually be thankful you were caught. When was the last time you ate?”.

This was a tricky one to answer. The things Neil counted as food these days were often more food-adjacent than anything this Lord would view as an actual meal. “What are you defining as food?”, he asked, licking his lips.

The lord rubbed a hand over his face, and Neil wondered if he had upset him, until the man got up, and untied his wrists.

Gaping, the changeling could only remain seated, rubbing them slightly, though they strangely felt fine.

“You have two options”, Wymack began. “You can leave, right now, no strings attached. Escape into the forest again, to wherever you came from. Or, you can sit down and have some stew”.

Neil blinked in shock. “Some – some stew?”.

“Yes, some stew. This was likely your original plan, yes?”.

“It – it was”, it felt odd to admit it to the man who owned the manor, but Neil was feeling so disarmed he probably could have said anything. “If I just leave, can I take the things that are in my satchel?”.

“No”, Wymack scoffed.

“Worth a try”. After a moment of silence, Neil said “I’ll stay”. He would be a fool not to – a delicious, free meal by the warm hearth? He could make guarded conversation with this nobleman for DAYS if that was the price. As Wymack grabbed a bowl from one of their many shelves and filled it with gently-steaming stew, he asked Neil, inexplicably, where his clothes had come from. It was an easy question, and the changeling was grateful for it. He was even more grateful for the fact that the man grabbed the hunk of bread that had fallen on the floor and laid it to heat on the stovetop.

“There were some paint-travellers from Catch passing through Anmarl-fen at the same time as me, and their son had just hit a growth spurt. They gave me his old clothes in exchange for some services – I speak Hichoch fairly well, and I helped them talk to the townspeople”.

Wymack laid the bowl and a spoon on the table. “Where did you learn Hichoch?”.

Simply lying, Neil said “My father taught me”. As soon as this was said, he lifted the bowl to his mouth and slurped its contents down eagerly. It was fantastic – an explosion of hearty, simple flavour that relaxed him down to his very soul. The warmth of it made him feel more full and satisfied than he had in weeks – a far cry from the single, hard parsnip he had stolen for lunch. He sighed with contentment, and wiped his mouth with a tattered sleeve.

The lord seemed thankfully unfazed by Neil’s dire table manners. “And . . . where is your father, now?”, he asked.

“Dead”, Neil lied again. “Has been since storm Alewyn”.

“Mother?”.

Mother. An image flashed through Neil’s mind of opal-white bones, their ends charred. Hands softly swiping damp sand over them until they were perfectly buried. Suddenly, he really wanted to blow out that candle next to them. He itched for that familiar smell of smoke that so reminded him of her. Instead, he stayed still.

“Long gone”, he said heavily. He stood up, almost without meaning to. “Anyway, I’ve leaned on your generosity long enough tonight – I should really be leaving now. I thank you”.

Wymack's response was swift, and casual. “You could stay here”.

Chapter Text

Neil padded oh-so softly up the stairs, and across the landing – the last thing he wanted was to wake that blonde-haired fae from earlier. In the corridor, his sensitive ears prickled, and he paused. It sounded like . . . there was more than one sleeper. A multitude of them, from the sounds of breathing, deep and shallow, and snoring of myriad patterns. Taking a mental note of this, Neil stole up the next flight of stairs, the ones Wymack said led to the top floor, and came to a handful of doors. The lord had told him to look for the midnight-blue one, and Neil found it quickly, without so much as lifting the lantern that hung uselessly at his side – Wymack has assumed that he would need it, and Neil had accepted it simply to keep up appearances. He knew that his eyes would have no problems in the dark. It was only on the inkiest, blackest of nights that the changeling could not see. Clutched in his other fist was a wine-red cotton tunic, and a pair of flowy, wide-legged trousers, given to him by Wymack. His inability to wear them was going to be harder to deal with than the lantern …

The room was high-ceilinged, and rounded, and small enough that Neil thought he wouldn’t feel too strange in it. Perhaps he would be able to sleep here. He had been toying with the idea of just flying through the window, and leaving these odd, kind-hearted people behind, but something made him want to stay. In which case, he needed to case every inch of this room – it had always been a source of wonder to Neil what secrets could be found tucked away in drawers, or nestled between leaves of paper. Then again, there was a certain hidey-hole just a few legs north of here where most of Neil’s
secrets could be found, squirming on the pages of a leather-bound book like wood-bound termites . . .

He started with the desk, opening all its little drawers, sifting through papers on land-management, and dusty quills; bobbins of thread and trivial knick-knacks. All comfortingly normal. Next, he turned his attention to the tall, dark wardrobe next to the window, frisking it from top to bottom. It was full of clothes – satins and silks, flowy dresses and handsome suit-robes. The hatboxes contained nothing but hats. He closed it with a sigh – he couldn’t care less about things of that nature. Last to examine was a heavy, elmwood chest at the foot of the bed, but on trying to pry it open, Neil found that it was locked. This wasn’t a big issue: Neil would simply have to retrieve his lockpicks and come back. He looked at the chunky keyhole, pondering its mechanism, and traced the raven that was wrought in silver on its lid.

So this house did have secrets.

Finally content that his hosts were just like an other noble family, he lay his satchel on the bed and sat down. However, he couldn’t bring himself to lie under the covers. This place was all too foreign, and yet too familiar. He had grown up in a house just like this one.

Instead, because the moon was out again (what a relief) and the floor was barred with its gentle light, Neil simply drifted into the form of a rusty-pelted lynx. It was one of his favourites for sleeping, his thick fluffy paws making something like a pillow, his teeth and claws sharp in case he needed to defend himself. He slinked under the bedframe, and curled up, falling immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

Voices.

There were voices in his room.

Neil’s eyes snapped open, his pupils narrowing to slits, but other than that, he kept his body completely still. It was early dawn, as the fragile light streaming through the window told him. His black-tipped ears flicked and twisted to take in every word that was being said above him.

“I told you, he’s not under the bed! There’s just a fur bag and some old hatboxes. Are you sure Wymack said it was this room?”.

“Want to check the others again?”.

“I’m just saying, maybe you dreamt him”.

This was met with an annoyed silence, which was broken by a third voice.

“Nicholas, just cast a finding charm. We don’t have time for this”.

“Oh, right!”, came the bright reply, which was met with an irritated groan. That was when a kind of gentle humming began, interspersed with soft muttering, and Neil began to panic.

Should he come out now, of his own volition? Should he use his claws, scratch, put up a fight? A gentle, unrelenting force began to pull at his hindlegs, trying to draw him towards the caster - impossible to wriggle away from - blinding fear started building in his chest, he had to do something –

He burst back into his human form, swearing when his head banged against the wooden slats under the mattress. A strong hand wrapped around his ankle and he was dragged out into the open, barely restraining a snarl. He sat up, his face as stormy as the bruise-purple sky lowering over the Cimmerian.

The caster, a fae with rich, olive skin and long onyx hair, said “I’m Nicky. Pleasure to meet you”. He was smiling very intently at Neil, and the changeling, as a rule, hated scrutiny. He looked away, making sure his eyes and his hair were the right colour.

Apparently, this wasn’t allowed. A hand tangled roughly with his hair, and Andrew dragged Neil’s eyeline back towards the three fae. “You’re right to hide your face. Wymack may have been fooled by your orphaned human act. I’m not so blind. I saw the way you moved last night. I’ll figure out what you are”.

Human? Was that why Wymack had taken him in?

Somehow, Neil managed to grit his teeth and stop himself from fighting-off Andrew’s hand. Just narrowed his eyes at the noble as he mockingly said, “I have no doubt. Once you’ve figured out that I’m human, you owe me a diamond necklace”.

This was met with a derisive snort, but the unwelcome fingers did slip out of his hair.

It wasn’t a reprieve.

“Grab him”, said Andrew calmly, and Neil tried to bolt, but he was shoved back to the ground by the mage and the third fae, a tall male with long, braided, blond hair who looked identical to Andrew. They had a vice-grip on his arms, but they seemed uncertain about what their ringleader was doing.

“Uh, Andrew?”, said Nicky in concern.

“I’m checking his teeth”, Andrew said. He broke into a manic smile. “Open wide”.

Neil twisted and bucked at this, but when the fae’s hands reached towards his jaw, he reminded himself that this could prove his innocence – he always kept his teeth rounded and human. The fae grabbed his chin and hooked a thumb under his top row of teeth, pulling his mouth open. Neil glared at him in fury as he ran a finger indolently over his canines and molars.

“Its not a glamour”, he said in Hichoch, removing his hands from Neil’s jaw.

“So he’s really human?”, asked Nicky in surprise.

The changeling felt shock ripple through him at the guttural, robust language he used to hear everyday. He hadn’t heard Hichoch in months. How did these prissy aristocrats know it? Fae nobility avoided the dwarves at all costs.

“He can’t be. He’s faster than me”.

“Not saying much”, said not-Andrew, coldly.

Andrew either didn’t notice this insult, or didn’t care. They all regarded him for a moment, in silence.

Neil waited a beat, calculating. He always felt much more flighty during the day – it came of being trapped in a human form, and of humans being so easy to catch. Because of this, he was nervous, but he couldn’t help letting out a small jibe. “Is this how you treat all you guests, or just the poor ones?”.

Strangely, this had no effect on the fae. Likely he was incapable of empathising with anyone who had never gone on a pheasant-hunt or suckled on a silver spoon.

“Just the ones who lie to my face”, said Andrew, brightly. He flapped a hand, and Neil felt the relief of the fae on either side setting him free. Surprised, he tensed up and waited for whatever would come next, but nothing came. Instead, blondie walked downstairs. Feeling slightly lost, Neil cast a suspicious glance at the fae he was left with, one light-haired, one dark. The mage’s mouth curled into a brilliant grin.

“If you’re not human, you must be one hell of a caster. Hey, how did you do that trick with the invisibility, under the bed?”.

Neil’s heart skipped a beat, but the lie jumped into his head as quickly as a hare. “No spell – I can’t do magic. I drank a potion before I feel asleep, and it must have worn off”.

The mage, Nicky, shared a look with the light one. “Why were you sleeping invisible?”, his tone became more teasing. “Scared we’ll bite? Which, for the record, I would love to, if you crack the nod”.

The blonde one wrinkled his nose in disgust. “If you could keep your lechery to yourself until I am out of earshot, that would be great”.

Bickering ensued, and it had the feeling of being familiar and well-worn. It also proved a good distraction from Nicky’s question, as the two headed downstairs. Neil was wrong if he though he was free, however – Nicky called to him from the hall, “Come on, we’ll give you a room tour!”, and Neil suppressing his groan, went after them. He couldn’t resist getting the layout of the rooms; possible escape-doors, possible valuables. Longingly, he imagined silver candlesticks and all the wonders he could trade them for.

The first door they stopped at was dark teal with a bronze decal of a man-o’-war ship. Its rigging was intricate and extensive, and its sails seemed to billow as if harnessing the winds of a fierce squall.

“This is Matt’s room”, said the mage, “He used to share it with Seth, but then… its just him now, so I imagine this would be your room”.

“My room?”, asked Neil, thinking he was hearing things.

“Yes. Foxes don’t tend to do that well alone”, Nicky replied, with a laugh. It seemed to carry something in it, like grass-seeds in the wind, but Neil couldn’t fathom what it was.

The door along from it was butter-yellow, with a stained glass artwork of a cherry-red dragon resting in a tree.

“This is the girl’s room -”, started Nicky, but the door flew open before he could say more.

A brown face popped out, with short, natural hair wrought into an array of little twists. Her bright eyes and toothy smile screamed mischief. “Neil”, she said, like she was testing out the word. She looked at Nicky, and said “I see Andrew didn’t kill him. And he’s not even maimed! How lucky”.

Chapter Text

New things could be learned all the time. Currently, Neil was learning how difficult it was to subtly sniff food for poison when you were surrounded by snooty nobles. With sweet tea on his lips, and a buttery, almond-based biscuit in his hand, Neil felt utterly lost. Sitting at a breakfast table felt more untethering than all his years drifting across the stray towns of the fay wilds had been. The biscuit, he layed aside – almonds perfectly covered the smell of cyanide – and the tea he drank, but not before taking a deep inhale when his nose was hidden by the green glass. Unpoisoned.

To make matters worse, Neil was prevented from just sitting and staring at his hosts to figure them out, too busy batting away questions with careful lies.

“Where were you living before now?”, asked Dan, eating a spoonful of something that looked smooth and vanilla-flavoured.

“Before now?”, asked Neil, confused.

“Yeah, before you stumbled into our kitchen last night. You have short term memory loss or something?”.

Anxiety fluttered through Neil's stomach into his heart. “You make it sound like I’m living here”.

Dan rolled her eyes in exasperation, and Neil saw some of the others hide smiles. “You ARE living here, for as long as you like”.

Wymack grunted. “Not for as long as he likes. I’m not letting you out of here until you got a full set of clothes and some meat on those scrawny bones”.

Abruptly, Andrew stood up, his chair scraping loudly on the floor, and left the table – Neil looked after him in concern, but the conversation didn’t so much as lull.

“Hey Don, is Neil going to join the hunt?”, asked Nicky excitedly.

“I’m not sure he’ll be able to hold onto a horse, but if he’s as crazy as you lot, he’s more than welcome”, replied Wymack.

Neil kept quiet. He loved riding maybe more than anything else in the world, and he had spent a lifetime soaking up the thrill of the hunt – creeping through undergrowth as a lynx or a fox or a wolf. To experience a mounted hunt once more… Neil repressed the fire of his excitement, and then threw a bucket of ice water over the embers. Under no circumstances could he join them – he would be hooked, and he would stay at Foxhole manor, and then he would be a dead man.

“Do you ride, Neil?”, asked Matt, curiously. He was a male fae with chestnut skin and a warm, calm demeanour, something that seemed somewhat rare in this manor. His hair formed thick locs that spiked up above his head, making him look even taller.

“No”, whispered Neil, slightly hoarse. He had to leave, soon: he couldn’t afford to get on a horse, to hear the horn sound the start of the hunt. Lord Wymack could bluster all he wanted about not letting him leave, but keeping Neil locked up was like trying to grab the clouds.

“Okay?”, was Matt’s uncertain reply, before he rallied with an easy “We’ll teach you”.

They really thought Neil was their new permanent resident. How mad.

“No thank you”, he said bluntly.

Their confused faces waited expectantly for a further explanation, so Neil said “I am… afraid of dogs”.

“Oh that’s, okay”, said Renée, a fae woman with pale-blonde hair that shone with faint rainbows. “If you want, we can ride in the field by the orchards – its far from the kennels”.

“I’m even more afraid of horses”, he said resolutely.

Matt and Nicky both looked like they didn’t believe a word of what he was saying, and Nicky spoke up first, repeating his words incredulously. “You’re even more afraid of horses?”.
They wouldn’t let him rest until he gave them the truth, he realised with annoyance, so he did the next best thing and gave them a beautifully convincing lie. “I was hunted off a property, once, when the residents found me”, he said.

“Who did?”.

The conversation went deadly quiet, and Neil thought for a moment he had won, until he realised the depth of the silence was too intense.

“I don’t know their names”, guarded Neil.

“Try”.

The changeling glanced at their focused stares and knew he had to give them something, however small. But even small was too much, when it came to ravens.
“An estate in the winter court. Their heraldry was black, the details red”.

Dan and Matt exchanged a glance, and the others looked generally moodier. He was worried for a moment at what it would mean for him that their rowdy cheer had been disrupted. Thankfully, they turned the conversation, very purposefully, to other things: an upcoming hunt, and the latest gossip from the other Courts.

It was either a show of empathy unusual for aristocrats, or they had some kind of bone to pick with House Moriyama. This possibility was interesting, and Neil didn’t know whether It made him more eager to stay or run. He wolfed his food down, sniff-checking it subtly all the while, and excused himself when he was done. If they found this impolite, the foxes didn’t show it on their faces, and Neil slipped away to investigate every inch of the manor. Nobody came to escort him.

***

Foxhole Manor was a luscious mess – Neil stalked into a cosy salon, snug and tied together by a plush, intricate rug. Tapestries brought warmth to stone walls, and their depictions were as thread-bare as they were whimsical. Unicorns in tree-sheltered paddocks, men on horses in fiery regalia – oranges and whites, reds and golds. It was depicting the festivities following an alliance, Neil was sure. He knew that regal red and gold – the hue of Trojan heraldry. One of the most illustrious Houses of the Summer Court. It didn’t look ancient, either. How did this small, faded Manor manage to secure ties with the Court of Gold?

He moved on, his nervous brain turning this piece of information over and over like a pebble. Entering the hall with its grand staircase, he surveyed it and moved onwards, into an enormous, formal dining hall. This was where feasts would take place. Flags held the full crest of the court: it was straightforward and beautiful, depicting a fox, head high, between two oak leaves. There were other embellishments of course, but Neil had long since forgotten the more boring complexities of fae heraldry.

Instead, he opted to focus on the rafters, far above, and the long, regal windows. They had little merit: he couldn’t see any latches.

“Planning your escape route, thief?”.

It was Andrew. Neil whipped around, to see his hair illuminated blindingly by the shaft of light he was standing in. His face was calm, as always, but his eyes… Neil had seen a wolf once, the morning after a harsh, barren snow in the Winter Court. Its eyes had been strained and blood-red, ringed and hollow and full of fury, corners black and membranous. The fae in front of him had eyes just like that.

Neil suddenly felt utterly translucent: he hated this fae and his knowing stare.

“No”, he lied, and made to move past him, but the fae put out a single arm against the doorframe, and Neil was forced to stop. Clutched in his fist was a jumble of clothes, and he pushed these into Neil’s chest.

“What are these for?”.

Andrew’s smile was sharp and threatening. “I need you out of here as soon as possible”.

Neil remembered Lord Wymack’s comment: I’m not letting you out of here until you got a full set of clothes and some meat on those scrawny bones. He scowled, and tried to shove past, but Andrew’s arm was an unyielding wall. He was built like a brick shithouse, with thick muscle and a broad chest, and Neil knew he would never get past him without a sword.

He took a step back. “Why? Scared of one little human?”.

“You’re about as human as a fucking cranberry”, replied the fae, emotionlessly.

Neil went still with shock, before his hands balled into fists. They stared each other down until Neil purposefully reached up and wrapped a rough hand around the clothes.

Andrew let go, slowly, but didn’t move an inch. He was close enough to Neil that the changeling could see the faint flecks of brown in the fae’s icy blue eyes.

“Don’t let me catch you in those tatters again”.

He turned to leave, but Neil, against his better judgement, called after him. “I can’t take these”.

Andrew apparently did not have time for this: he spun away from Neil, his face bored, and kept walking.

The changeling’s fists re-clenched at his side, but he just watched, silent, as shorn, luminous hair disappeared through a darkwood door.

This was going to be hard to explain. He was quickly realising that this strange situation - whatever it was, why ever it was happening – was apparently going to last for a while. And these aristocrats wouldn’t leave him in peace until he was wearing a set of fine, unblemished clothing. He sighed. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea. Winter would be harsh this year. Neil could feel it in his bones, and these clothes would be snug and warm, allowing him to spend more time as a human. The idea of wearing shoes, however... he shuddered to think how a pair of those clumsy, clobbering things would tamper with his stealth

There was another thing: he had never performed the ensealing ritual without his mother’s help. Then again, he knew it off by heart. Really, it would aid his survival, in the end...

That night, he decided, he would sneak out into the woodland behind the house. It had been a clear day, and the moon was waning, but it wasn’t gone. There would be light to shift, light for the ritual. What else did he need? He tried to remember. A sword, to cut the tether between his soul and his current garments. Washed clean by dew – there should be dew, on such a clear, calm night, that wouldn’t be a problem. A papery chrysalis, which he had to hold in his mouth. That had been creepy the first time, but he was unbothered by it now.

There was a familiar burst of fear as he questioned what this would mean, but he shook it away before it could really begin. Clothes can’t tie you to a place, he told himself. Just as before, at the slightest scent of danger, I will cut loose and run.

His mother would have beaten him black and blue for that, but she was dead. He clutched his tunic, absently, right over his heart. The ache in his chest crushed the breath right out of him, and he tried his best to get air in until it subsided. Grief was such a hollow, hungry thing: sometimes it seemed nothing could ever satisfy it. The smoke usually helped, though.

He padded up the flights of stairs to his bedroom, and dug around in his bag for his lighter – it was a lovely, silvery thing, and the only thing he had belonging to his mother – but it was not there. Hastily, he upended his bag and dug through the contents, to no avail. He tore through the bureau, as if there was any chance he would ever have placed it there so casually. Breathing shallow and rapid, he began to rummage through his memories instead – he had rubbed his thumb along it for luck, right before he entered the manor last night.

Suddenly, without a shadow of a doubt, he knew that it had been stolen.

And he knew who had done it.

Chapter Text

The door with the brass ship was locked, but Neil didn’t even waste a second before bending down and taking out a hatpin. He made short work of the lock, and threw the door open in rage.

Aaron and Nicky were sat on the floor surrounded by playing cards, and Andrew was sat on the window ledge smoking home-rolled tobacco.

“We locked that”, whispered Nicky in Hichoch, not quite a question.

“Stay out of my things!”, Neil yelled.

“My good fellow, what on earth are you talking about?”, said Andrew, in a plummy, mocking voice.

“And you”, Neil narrowed his eyes, ignoring the fae’s words, “Give it back”.

“You’re not in a position to make demands right now, stranger”. His face was menacing now, his smile cold and bright. He motioned a hand towards Neil’s body. “I told you to change your clothes”.

“And I told you I can’t. So piss off”.

He made to turn around, but found he couldn’t. He looked down to see silver ropes snaking around his ankles. “Don’t you dare”, he spat, but it was too late: Nicky had an ancient spell book open at his side, and as he intoned the charm, the ropes slithered, tightened, and brought him to his knees. He hissed as they caught his wrists as well – now he was kneeling on the floor of their bedroom, his hands tied behind him. He tugged at the restraints, but found them just as sturdy as Andrew’s had been. Damn everything, damn everyone.

Andrew approached, and reached a hand for Neil’s chin, lifting it sharply so the changeling had no choice but to look him in the eyes.

“Fuck you”, Neil seethed.

As ever, blondie remained impassive, except there was a funny look in his eyes. “I’m going to make a deal with you”.

“Like hell”, panted Neil, jerking out of his grip. “I know how humans end up after making ‘deals’ with your people”.

“Happy as a clam, if they make the right deal”, chirped Nicky, helpfully. Neil couldn't help but notice there was a certain nervous undertone to these bright words.

“There is no ‘right’ deal” – Neil shifted, trying to twist his hands free. Worryingly, all this did was widen some of the holes in his already ragged clothes. “You’re all monsters”.

For some reason, they all smirked at this, except Aaron, who was staring intently at Neil’s eyes. The changeling panicked. Damnit, he must have let his control slip. He ducked his head and focussed on removing the sparks of icy blue that he could feel appearing in his brown irises.

When he looked up again, Aaron was still looking at him, disturbed. “Brother” – he began, but to Neil’s utter relief, their door opened again. Thank god, a distraction, perhaps even a witness if it was one of the sane ones.

Nothing could have prepared him for who walked through.

“No”, said Neil softly. A thrum of terror went through him.

The fae was tall, and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and hazel-green eyes. On his cheekbone, a small tattoo: the roman numeral two.

For the first time in many years, Neil was looking at Kevin Day.

And he had no wings.

Hastily, Neil lowered his head, letting his brown curls falls over his face. He prayed the fae didn’t recognise him. He knew that Day had been exiled from House Moriyama a couple of moons ago, but had he truly ended up here? It seemed inconceivable. Strangest of all was the absolute gap, the lack, the missingness of his wings – for years, Neil had followed this fae hungrily, seeking out any scrap of information he could find, and through it all, he had had his wings. Dark and glossy, a trait from his mother’s side of the family, there had always been this strong anchor behind him. Now he looked practically naked. The only possibility was that someone had cut them off.

The fae didn’t react at all when he saw what was happening, just pushed through the room and sat down on one of the beds. Neil’s legs started to feel fuzzy.

“This won’t affect his ability to ride, will it?”, asked Day.

“Kevin, can you forget about the hunt for like half a second?”, exclaimed Nicky. “He won’t be any help to us if it turns out he was a spy for the Raven Court” – Neil jolted at this, and Andrew’s mouth curved – “Claims he can’t ride, anyway”.

“Matt and I will teach him” – this put a thrill of unwise excitement through Neil.

“Not before he’s been properly vetted”, tutted Andrew, with a psychotic grin.

The fury that had abandoned Neil came back in full force, and he had to try hard not to snarl. They thought he was a spy? For those filthy, evil bastards?

This strong reaction didn’t go unnoticed. Blondie was looking down at him, from the corner of his eye, with that gut-wrenching, knowing look again.

Andrew spoke again, and Neil almost fell over from surprise at his words. “Everyone out”.

“What?”

“But Andrew - ”.

“I have to have a little talk with old Neil, here. Alone”.

“What abou - ”.

The fae flicked his wrists, and suddenly the two vicious daggers from the night before were back in his hands.

Nicky visibly paled. “Alright! Everyone out”, he said, grabbing Aaron by the back of his collar, and urging Kevin out behind them. “Lets give the little ones some privacy”.

The door slammed shut after them, but somehow Neil didn’t feel any fear. Which was probably very bad.

“I won’t make a deal with you”. It would get him discovered immediately. Deals with humans were one-sided, while a deal with Neil, who’s father was as fae as they come, would be two-sided. Andrew would feel the threads of the deal settling around himself, just as much as Neil would feel it. It was only a short leap from there to realise he was a changeling, and from there to realise who he was.

“Oh, don’t be boring, Neil. Keep up. This isn’t about the deal. Can you guess what it is about?”.

The ropes suddenly felt particularly tight on his skin, which was hot and prickly. “No”, he said, his mouth dry.

“Liar”, he said, casually. “Kevin came in, and you hid your face. Why?”.

“I have a phobia of the number two”.

For his smart comment, the hand returned to his chin, fixing his head in place. “Such a quick mouth”, murmured blondie. He stroked his thumb over Neil’s lips, and was met with a look of pure anger. Their gazes were interlocked, neither willing to back down. The hand dropped, and then suddenly the fae’s finger’s carded through his hair, sending shudders all the way down the changeling’s spine. Neil had rarely been touched. Crushing hugs after near-misses, these infrequent spates of contact were all he was used to. Not this, feather-light and overwhelming. It made him feel feverish. “Ah”, said blondie, with a delighted grin. “Interesting”.

“Fuck you”, Neil said again, but it came out breathy. Lacking the harshness he had shown before.

Blondie did it again, more firmly, his fingers sweeping all the way down, and then onto his neck, pressed against his pulse. He had to grit his teeth against the sensation, against the longing warmth it put in the bottom of his stomach. “What do you want?”, he managed.

“The truth”. The bastard combed his hand through again, and left it there, gripping Neil’s hair. It was so sickeningly sweet, it made him want to rip Andrew’s hand off. “How do you know our Kevin”.

He closed his eyes, and counted to ten and back in Hichoch. “A childhood acquaintance”.

“A lie. You’re not bad, but going to have to improve if you want to survive here”.

“Fine!”, Neil snapped. “My father was a minor noble. Of the Winter Court. I met Kevin when my father attended the Moriyama banquets: we learned how to hunt under the same quartermaster. Count Tetsuji Moriyama”. It was still a half-truth, but it seemed to have worked.

“You hunted with the ravens”, stated Andrew. His gaze was no longer focused on Neil, and he let his hand slip away. A shiver traversed Neil’s skin – the fae’s hand had been warm, almost fiery. He felt its absence keenly. “Accomplished liar, accomplished thief. And how did you go from ribbons and fripperies to a rough little beggar?”.

“I’ve given you your truth. Now let me go”.

There was a moment where he surveyed Neil. “As you wish”, he said. Neil was too shaken up to feel relieved or grateful. He just stared at Andrew as the fae walked out the door, letting it slam behind him.

Next thing he knew, Nicky was bustling in, and reading a few slippery-sounding words from his book. Then he offered Neil a warm grin, and he felt the ropes relax, and release him.

He rubbed his wrists and glared at the dark-haired fae.

Nicky had the decency to look mildly ashamed. "I'm sorry, but it was for the good of the other foxes. I'm supposed to be his guardian, and Andrew doesn't trust you one bit, and when that happens, its best to stand back. You wouldn't believe one elf-sized psycho could produce such large crossfire. Best not to get caught in it". When this was met with silence, he switched tacks. “Is it true? That you were raised alongside the Ravens?”.

This sorcerer who had rendered Neil trapped did not deserve any kind of response. But if he said nothing, the others would assume he was some kind of die-hard member of Court Moriyama.

Coldly, he replied “If that’s how you would describe hunting with them one month a year”.

Nicky winced. Again, he said "I'm sorry". He shifted his weight to his other foot, and added, "What happened to you to make you end up like this, by the way?” – his brow furrowed – “And what’s up with your hair?”.

All the sorcerer received in response was a blank stare. “Don’t tie me again”, Neil warned, striding across the room and opening the door onto a mercifully empty landing.

He was too drained to even feel panic at Nicky’s comment, he just hurried upstairs and checked his head in the tarnished bathroom mirror. There was his hair, chocolate brown. With a few long, finger-thick blazes of red, like fireworks in a night sky. Shit.

He really could have used a smoke, but that lemon-haired prick still had his damn lighter.

***

Not even a grizzly bear could have dragged Neil to lunch that afternoon, and he spent the rest of the day outside, roaming the grounds and the forest beyond. It was a beautiful, bright day, and it wasn’t hard to ignore the occasional colder gusts squirreling their way through the tears in his clothes.

Foxhole estate was full of surprises. The more of it he discovered, the more it became clear that not too long ago, it had been in a dire state of decay. Behind a wall of tall-grass that was growing higher than Neil, there was a long, stately greenhouse. Its glass was foggy, certain panes cracked. He wanted to go inside, but a murmur of movement caught his eye - there was someone in there, gardening. Moving low to the ground, he adjusted his view, and saw one of Wymack's many children - the fae woman with the colourful, incandescent hair. She hummed to herself softly as she watered a small smattering of plants. Deeper in the glasshouse stood a cauldron bubbling away over a merry fire. Neil only had to see the steam before he was away, melting into the woods. Fae were bad enough: even worse were fae witches.

Neil was quite far into the woods when he stumbled on a sunken garden. The shrubbery and great floral hedges were overgrown, and the walls in obvious need of repairs, but the grass looked frequently-trampled. There were two netted goals on either side – it must have been a sports field of some kind. A shawl lay tossed by one of the nets, and when he saw it, Neil moved quickly along. Its wool was bright and unweathered: it clashed with the forgotten, crumbling nature of the brick walls.

More than once, he found murky glass bottles half-submerged in fragrant soil, and it was after following a tenuous trail of such bottles that he saw it. A behemoth, creaking vaguely under the strain of its years. Its roots bubbled up from the ground, and its trunk slipped into dark hollowness under silent cloaks of deep, thick moss.

A few covert glances confirmed to Neil that he was entirely, pressingly alone, and he skulked over to the immense tree like a prey animal. And dipped inside. It was warmer, inside the tree, and smelled delightfully of richest earth. For some reason, someone had dragged a single, wonky chair inside. Next to it, carved directly into the trunk, was a shelf stacked with all manner of bottles, from clear and large, revealing every drop of golden whisky, to small and misshapen, or rounded and olive-green. Leaves of paper sat in the corner, under a very strange paperweight - the two halves of a large cocoa pod. The beans within were mature and as dark as nuts, and Neil couldn't fathom why it was there. They only grew in the summer courts, the borders of which were three day's ride away. A few colourful tins lay scattered about, proclaiming ‘The finest tobacco in all of Autumn!’, or ‘Marl’s high-quality pipe-weed’.

Oh, he thought. This is Andrew’s place.

He immediately searched around for the lighter: running his hands along the higher nooks and crannies, climbing to the ones that were higher still. At last, he ran his hand along the divot behind a twisty bole, and hit something cold and small. His hand closed around it, and he drew it out.

It was a lighter, but much to his disappointment, it wasn’t Neil’s. It was smaller, and lacked ornament, except the three initials engraved on its side: T. I. M. Interesting. He pocketed it, and walked back to the manor with a mixture of trepidation and excitement – this was obviously some kind of personal artifact. Perhaps he could use it to get under Andrew’s skin.

Unfortunately, at that moment, his stomach rumbled quite severely, and he decided his most immediate concern should be finding food.

Chapter Text

The table was blissfully quiet when Neil arrived, with half of its usual residents gone.

“Where are the others?”, Neil asked, as he sat down.

“The monsters are running an errand with Renée and Wymack”, replied Allison, absently twirling her food around her fork. “Monsters minus Kevin, actually. Rare”, she added, stabbing a brussel-sprout.

The monsters? That must have been what they were all so amused by, up in their room – Neil had stumbled onto some kind of nickname. Stumbled onto some kind of rift as well, by the sounds of things.

“What kind of errand needs five people?”, queried Neil.

Allison’s fork stopped, slightly. Matt shifted restlessly in his seat.

The answer came from Dan: “Reconnaissance”.

“Spying? On who?”, Neil asked.

“Its nothing you need to worry about”, said Matt, shooting very meaningful looks at the girls.

Dan seemed to agree with whatever he was saying. Not so for Allison, who rolled her long-lashed eyes and said “He’s going to find out about the ravens eventually, Matt. In fact, if I remember correctly, he already has! Didn’t he say that… what was it… oh yeah! Multiple times they’ve hunted him out of Evermore like an animal?”.

“Allison has a point. I mean, if we keep him in the dark, he won’t be able to see whatever’s coming. And something is for sure coming. Riko was in classic form at last moon’s banquet – did you see what he did to that poor messenger boy during the Evenchoranta?”.

“yes”, said Matt quietly, darkly.

Allison leaned into Neil, trying to keep him clued in. and whispered “You know about Riko’s abilities?”.

He nodded. He did, he know all about them. Firsthand, in fact. Riko Moriyama had an extremely unique fae gift, delicate and evil. With a thought, he could trace whatever he willed onto a person’s body, written in their blood: in the parting of their skin, to be precise. Most of Neil’s scars were from a lifetime of never quite outrunning his father. His most creative scars, however - these were Riko’s personal adornments. The obsessive, fence-like rows of tiny number fours, for example, which made a chainmail of his lower back.

“Riko left him looking… you can probably guess”, Allison said. “I just thank the fates he can’t remove skin fully or take it away or anything”.

Matt repressed a shudder, and Dan’s expression darkened as they considered these fell words.

An urge filled Neil, at that moment, to distract these strange children-of-Wymack from the anxieties that had suddenly taken away their relaxed mirth. But it was a rusty piece of machinery, Neil’s empathy, and it couldn’t creak to life without awakening some other, sneakier, part of him. So came an idea that would allow him to kill two birds with one stone.
First, he needed to get them back to the subject of the monsters.

Even though he knew the answer, he asked “What you mentioned earlier - why is it rare for Kevin to be away from those twins, and their sorcerer?”.

“Their sorcerer”, murmured Matt, “I am so telling Nicky you said that”.

Louder, Dan replied “Kevin used to be a raven – raised at their hold-fast, brother-of-Riko-level raised. He’s not used to being alone”.

Neil remembered Nicky word’s form that morning – ‘Foxes don’t tend to do that well alone’ – and idly wondered what was wrong with the rest of them. If they were all damaged in some way, what kind of father was Wymack?

“So who is he paired with?”.

“Andrew”, snorted Matt.

Allison made a face. “Can you imagine what that must be like?”.

“At first, Kevin didn’t dare go half a league from his side. In the end, Andrew made some kind of deal with him, and now they part sometimes”.

“They’re both still off their rockers though”, said Dan with a shake of her head. She addressed Neil “You’ve been doing a good job of it already, but just so you know; stay away from Andrew. He’s not safe”.

“He’s in danger?”.

“Blimey! ‘Is he in danger’ he says. He’s completely fine, it’s us misfortunate souls living with him you should be worried about!”.

“He doesn’t experience emotions, except maybe anger and boredom, and that’s a dangerous combination”, explained Matt. “Can you pass the salt?”.

Neil obliged, and watched in horrified fascination as Matt lavished his vegetables with seasoning until it seemed his carrots were experiencing a light frost.

“Yeah, I know”, sympathised Dan, seeing his expression. “He came this way”.

“That’s a lot of salt”, said Neil sagely.

“‘Is he in danger’ ”, Allison was still musing on the words from earlier, slightly dazed. “I can’t believe it. Have you talked to him yet? That must be it. You should go and talk to him”.

“You should NOT go and talk to him. He famously does NOT enjoy being talked to”, advised Dan.

“Too late”, said Neil.

“What?”.

“He talked to me earlier today”.

“About the weather?”, asked Matt weakly.

“About my loyalties”, corrected Neil, lightly.

Matt put his head in his hands. “You’re just a human”, he groaned. “A small human. I’ll kill him”.

The changeling, recognising this as his perfect moment, piped up. “We could do better than that”. They all turned to him, curiously – wondering what the scrappy, quiet little mortal could have been suggesting. “They’re all away right now… their room entirely empty…”.

“They lock it whenever they leave”, said Matt, staring at Neil like he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

Neil gave them a little smile.

Oh, their faces all said in unison, as the knowledge crashed on them like a wave that he was a thief, and he knew how to do thief-like-things, as in for example break into the rooms of their troublesome housemates.

“Lets do it”, breathed Dan.

***

Everything seemed to be perfectly in order for the ensealing that night. There were wisps of cloud, but nothing with enough matter to block the light of the moon. It was fresh, it was calm. The air smelled perfectly of night: warm ground cooled by the crystal-clear onset of dusk. There would be an abundance of dew.

Now all Neil needed was a sword.

He folded his soon-to-be clothing, and tucked it into his satchel. The moonlight fell in thin planks across his floor, and he almost felt like he could kneel down and collect them as he snuck across his room and descended the stairs.

Bare feet softened against wood under each new footprint he pressed to the polished floor. Every breath seemed to rustle, loudly, as if he was setting off a ripple that would roll against the ears of one of Wymack’s many children. He entered the dining room. The sword was against the far wall: mounted under a plaque detailing some long-forgotten battle. How to get it was the question – it was high up, by about the length of a ladder, which he very much didn’t have. With a moment of thought, his shape flowed into that of a large, blazing-russet eagle, and he beat his wings to fly up, and swoop in a fierce loop towards its leatherbound hilt. He half-landed on it, before taking off, its weight making his flaps fast and frantic. He transformed when he was close enough to the ground, melting back into human-shaped Neil, stumbling with the momentum. A beautiful ceremonial sword was in his arms, its handle seemingly encrusted with sapphires. He felt his eyes widen slightly. Oh, what this would sell for at the night market. But he didn’t need to… he was well-fed, and content to weather this odd place for as long as he could. He shook off fond dreams of theft and walked out the door - and headlong into Kevin Day.

He managed to choke back his cry, letting out simply a muffled “eck!” noise.

Andrew looked at him, and in the fae’s dark eyes, Neil saw how he must appear to the monster. The malnourished thief who used to hunt with ravens, creeping about the manor in the dead of night, sword in hand – the whole situation reeked of murder. Andrew started forwards, and Neil almost fell over trying to stumble away, but Day halted the monster in his tracks.

He stared unerringly at Neil as he spoke. His green eyes were black, in the darkness. “You claimed to be a raven, but I don’t recognise you”. It was a question, even if it was not phrased like one.

“I was never a raven. I hunted with them ”.

“There is no half and half”.

Neil would have reached back and rubbed the scars on his back, if it wouldn’t have gotten him killed. “I know that well”.

Kevin was regarding him as if he was a particularly stubborn puzzle-box begging for brute force. Andrew, meanwhile… Neil’s sharp changeling ears could practically hear the joints creaking in his tightly clenched fists.

This wasn’t good – he needed to give them some kind of proof, but the only ones coming to mind could get him killed. Yet, surely it was okay to break a survival rule, in the name of survival? He would show his true face, he decided – Andrew had already seen the true colour of his hair, how harmful could it be? Something about that rhetorical question put a blank pit of fear into his stomach, which he ignored.

Slowly, so as not to startle them, he let his hair grow slightly ruddier. Shade by shade, almost hair by hair, he let it become that rusty, coppery ginger again. It seemed to blaze like fire in his periphery. At the same time, he lightened his eyes, like a deep lake freezing over in the winter. When he made eye-contact with Day again, they were cold and blue. A few faint, silvery scars wound their way over his face again, and his eyebrows became thicker. He always hid them – his mother used to say they made him look angry. Neil knew it was worse than that. They made him look like his father.
When Day’s breath audibly hitched, that was when Neil knew he had been recognised. Beside him, Andrew stood with his arms crossed, his eyes dark, his face unknowable.
Suddenly, Neil felt deep, itching, tearing rage. He tossed the sword to the floor, heedless of the clatter it made, and snatched his face out of their sight, letting it seep back to brown hair, brown eyes, human features.

“Nathaniel”, Day whispered.

Neil broke into a sprint: Andrew tried to catch him, but the strip of cloth he managed to snag with his fingers fell right off, and Neil was gone like the wind through the entrance hall, under the stairs, and into the kitchen. There was no hope for them to overtake him: the changeling had never met anyone faster than himself. He yanked at the doors out of the kitchen, that would take him into the sweet forest – and they were locked. Locked from the inside. He rattled them a few more times, dazedly.

He glanced back, but Day and Andrew could see him from across the hall – he couldn’t shift. He slammed a fist against the door for good measure, and turned to face the two fae nobles who were silently approaching.

Day called out “Do it again”.

“Excuse me?”.

He entered the kitchen, and stopped a few feet from Neil.

“Drop your mask again”, ordered Kevin. “The light was bad”.

“Go to hell”, Neil said, clenching his fists.

Day frowned. “I have to be sure that its you”. He looked close to panic, the whites of his eyes far too visible.
It was that terror which made Neil fold. He didn’t know why: there was always fear in Day’s eyes, if you looked hard enough, it wasn’t anything new. Maybe Neil had never been the sole cause of it before, and he hated it.

“All right”, he breathed. Andrew was at the door of the kitchen now, and he leaned against it with his hands in his pockets.

Neil turned so his back was to them, and lifted his t-shirt halfway up his back. There was no sound, but a moment later, Kevin’s fingers were moving softly over Neil’s mesh of scars. The changeling jolted but gritted his teeth against the sensation until he could let his hem fall back down.

“I didn’t realise you had been chosen”, whispered Day.

Neil rolled his shoulders as if they were stiff. “That’s why I had to leave. My father was about to make a deal with Tetsuji”. If there was anyone who knew what Raven deals were like, it was Kevin . They were like titanium prisons: with Riko’s abilities, House Moriyama were able to carve contracts into skin, written in blood. Every fae contract was unbreakable, but raven contracts went beyond that. “How did you get out?”, asked Neil.

Day paled and shook his head, but over his shoulder, Andrew mimed hitting a nail with a hammer, his lips mouthing: Tap. Tap. Tap. Whatever that meant, the changeling truly didn’t want to know. Had they nailed him to the ground by his wings? He shuddered in revulsion.

Kevin must have seen Neil’s horrified expression, because he turned on Andrew, snarling “Its not your secret to tell!”.

Ever bored, Andrew answered “Somebody has to”. His look sharpened as his eyes slid over to Neil. “Or this house would collapse under the weight of all its secrets”.

Kevin looked away from him, sharply, turning his attention back on Neil. “What are you?”, he demanded.

It was a fair question. On that one month a year when Neil hunted with the ravens, his mother had always instructed him to look fae. Now, his ears were very round and very human, and Andrew had already informed Day that it was not a glamour.

Neil didn’t have a lie they would believe, so he didn’t say anything at all.

Blondie ended up saying it for him. He tilted his head, and said “You’re a changeling”.

Kevin’s eyes widened. Catching on immediately, he quietly added “That’s why you’re still wearing those rags”.

There was no tale he could spin that they would believe. That was the thing about the truth: it was so damn illuminating, it left no shadows to weave into lies. The jig was up. Somehow, Neil didn’t feel as terrified as he had expected to. He shrugged, and let his mask drop completely. His ears changed shape, growing longer and lamb-like, floppy with soft russet fur. They couldn’t see his teeth, but they changed too, becoming longer and sharper. He would have to be sure not to smile, in his unchanged form. His true smile was a ghastly thing.

The expression Kevin was making was hard to describe: Neil placed it as some mixture of appraisal and mild ideological revulsion - the fae disdained changelings just as much as they feared them. His polar opposite, Andrew’s grin was the widest Neil had ever seen it, like some psychotic cheshire cat. “Oh, you and I are going to have such fun”, he grinned.

Chapter Text

Neil’s foot snagged on brambles and occasional roots as he weaved towards the chrysalis he had spied on a passing branch. A belligerent Kevin and an unbothered Andrew were following him, having insisted on accompanying him for the ensealing.

It was an unusually warm night, for Autumn, and the air smelled bizarrely of strawberries.

“I can’t believe you’re actually making us - Ach!”, yelled Kevin, a distinctly squishy sound accompanying his cry.

A smile quirked at Neil’s lips as he forged through the moon-washed undergrowth – they were tromping over a patch of VERY ripe wild strawberries. Neil had gone barefoot all his whole life, and his soles were leathery and unfeeling. His companions on the other hand… this was fifth or sixth time Kevin had stepped in something squishy and moist. Andrew hadn’t said a word, but Neil was sure he had also seen the fae wince once or twice. Still, they had believed his mischief about ‘maintaining the organic sanctity of changeling rituals’, so it was really on them, at the end of the day.

Andrew drew closer, until he was flanking him, and whispered “I know what you’re doing”. He didn’t look angry: his eyes were half-lidded and relaxed.

Finally, a game Neil was happy to play. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about”, he said primly.

“Your ‘one with the forest’ horseshit. For such a pathological liar, you can’t seem to hide your smile”.

Faintly, the changeling touched a finger to his own lips. It was true. “Ha. Then why did you play along?”.

Picking through vines a while behind them, Kevin emitted a faint ‘Eurgh!’.

Now the blonde was fully grinning. “Oh, it’s a little curse”, he said. “Whenever he’s barefoot, and there’s something foul on the floor, his feet are drawn to it. Splat”.

Neil gaped at the fae. He had though himself sly, but it seemed Andrew was two steps ahead. “Seems too petty to be a bloodline thing. Was it a witch or a creature?”.

“Neither. Dan traded Nicky three sepel for it”.

Now Neil couldn’t help it – a stifled, choking chuckle slipped out his throat. He didn’t know a sound could be so truly rusty – he hadn’t laughed in seasons and seasons, and it showed. Andrew stared at him, his unhinged expression taking on a fierce, bright light. Then he jerked his gaze away, and slowed to fall in with Kevin again.

They only had to take a few more steps before they were looking at the kind of place Neil’s mom would have called a fáinne sí, or an elf circle. The floor was soft and rustly with many Autumn’s worth of leaf-fall. Peaking through were a scattering of full-grown fly agaric mushrooms, their red caps bright; their speckles fleshy like thick, white crumbs.

He set to it immediately, slinging his satchel off and taking out the bottle of dew he had collected earlier that night, and taking the ancient Foxhole sword from Kevin’s hand. The dark-haired fae was looking intently at the mushroom ring, trying to soak up every detail. “Old magic”, he said. It was a little bit like a question, and there was a certain edge of hunger to it.

He had always been obsessed with archaic fae history. ‘Old magic’, as he called it. Once they had discovered he was a changeling, it had been mere seconds before he had put the pieces together, knowing enough obscure lore to recognise that a changeling ritual was about to occur. Stubborn git, as well – once he had sunk his teeth into the idea of watching, he hadn’t let go until Neil said he could observe the entire ensealing.

“I guess you could call it that”, replied Neil. He was a little busy, taking out a vile of deep burgundy powder form his satchel. It was utterly precious: his only source of the ingredient for miles. The gastrolith of a phoenix, a bird whose range had shrunk over the centuries. Now their only habitats were in the Summer Court. He shook a little mound of it onto a leaf, and funnelled it into his bottle of dew, before stirring thoroughly with a little wooden spoon nicked from the kitchens. With shaking hands, he went around to the mushrooms and anointed each of them with a few drops of this tincture.
Kevin was watching the proceedings with such rapt attention, Neil worried he was about to start taking notes. The smell of tobacco drifted into his nostrils, throwing him off, and he looked up to see
Andrew had opened a little case of his home-rolled. A thought tugged at him… before the fae had even put it to his lips, Neil slipped out the lighter he had relieved from Andrew’s tree, and struck its catch, letting a lick of flame out.

The blonde froze, staring at Neil with dark, lethal eyes. “We’ve been touching things that don’t belong to us again, I see”.

“’Could say the same for you. Want to trade?”.

Andrew grabbed Neil’s wrist, and gently pulled his hand, and the lighter it held, to the tip of his cigarette. His face was transformed in the orange glow of the flame. Every part of him was softened, made less certain. It caught, and he released Neil’s hand.

“I'm not interested in that slip of metal. And what could you possibly give me, borrower?”.

It was a good question. Neil had very little he could spare. “Fine” – he flicked the lid shut – “Guess I’ll keep it for now”.

This was met with a deeply unimpressed expression, before Kevin interrupted, in a serious tone: “What comes next?”. Two blank faces turned to him. “I’ve read accounts of a similar ritual, but the next step used the crown of a deposed ruler, and I don’t see anything like that in your equipment”.

Neil blinked at him for a moment before he bent down and carried on with the ensealing. Where was he? He jolted. Where was the moon in the sky? It was rather low… he was cutting it a little close. Best get to it. The next element involved the sword… and cutting the old clothes off his body. Perhaps if he explained it to Kevin, he could use him as a kind of ritualistic manservant…

“No. No impeached monarch tiara. The next step is to cut my clothes off”. The onlookers stared at him. “Er… do you mind turning around?”.

A frown came over Kevin’s face. “But you said we could watch the entire ritual”.

Neil began cutting through his tunic with the sword.

When he looked up, Kevin was already facing the other way. Next to him, Andrew arched an eyebrow but acquiesced, spinning to face the dark, emerald-dense undergrowth.

He trailed the blade lightly over his clothes, trying to ignore the strange presence of the two fae males on the edge of the glade. Thankfully, even after years of disuse, it was still frighteningly sharp, and they quickly fell away from him in thick ribbons. Now came the part that Neil used to find creepy – he scooped up the chrysalis-husk and placed it in his mouth. It had no strong taste; it was the feeling of it that was disturbing, and the knowledge that it was nothing but crisp, dry caterpillar skin. It was already beginning to dissolve.

Now, the tricky part. He nabbed the garments form the pile he had been given, and, starting with the fine linen tunic, put them on backwards and inside out. He thanked the fates that there were few buttons on the clothes – garments would only enseal if he was wearing them when the cocoon dissolved.

“Done”, he yelled, fully dressed again, and set himself immediately to the next task. This was the most precarious, and sometimes painful. He wound one of the ribbons around his hand, a sort of rough protection, and took a sharp inward breath. “Stay out of the way”, he told Kevin and Andrew, as he rubbed a dollop of the tincture on his chest, feeling the fabric stick to it slightly. Neither moved an inch, until Andrew took a step back. When Kevin showed no signs of moving, he dragged Day back by his collar.

Meanwhile, Neil’s feet found their own way, slinking out of the centre of the mushroom ring of their own volition. This part was utter focus: he tried to blink away his memories, but the scent of smoke was working its way through his bones and every other ensealing was welling up with it. He saw a bare, snow-covered world, a jungle awash with blue moon-shadows, he felt his mother next to him: her back straight as a knife, her movements tight and unyielding. Now, move to the first toadstool. Dip your finger against the drops of dew you left, yes lad. Tap it to the heart-water, son, now the next one…

As Neil braided in and out of the mushrooms, he felt nature pressing against him like a swelling tide. He swallowed and kept moving, beginning to feel the soul-lines taking form. They were like fresh spider-silk, or like the thin, sticky strings when you draw your fingers away from bread-dough. He made sure not to touch them yet – he knew they were fragile. When every fly agaric had been gathered
into the tangle of soul-lines, he returned to the centre of the fáinne sí, and they began to glow like they were drenched in moonlight.

This part was so, so tenuous. The threads shimmered and trembled as the changeling gathered them around his hand: they felt liquid, warm, ethereal. The sound of rushing wind filled the clearing, but not even a leaf was moving. With every muscle clenched, he pushed his hand into his chest, until it was enveloped beneath his skin. Skin that had transformed into a puddle of bright, rippling light. One of the two watchers, probably Day, let out a gasp that Neil expertly tuned out. He wrapped a hand around his heart-string, and, ever so slowly, drew it out of his body. It was thicker than the others, like a gathering of stems. At the other end of it, still buried in his chest, was his soul. Suddenly, he knew that this was a terrible, terrible idea. The two nobles, watching, they shouldn’t have been there. He had already gone too far, telling them he was a changeling, letting them gawk at him as he went about the quiet, sacred process of ensealing. Was he going to bare his soul to them, too? Offer up the shape and colour and movement of his rawest essence? Absolutely not. Men had shown less of their spirits and still been enthralled by sorcerers. If these toffs scurried back to their magician and described Neil’s soul, and Nicky fancied having a manservant, Neil could entirely lose his autonomy. He cursed himself for his forgetfulness, for being swept up in the giddy feeling of trusting someone again.
He let go of the heartstring, and it delved back towards his body, wrenching a cry of distress from Neil’s throat. Yet it did not submerge back under his skin. Huffing sharp pants of air, he bent over, holding his knees. The pain was sharp and fiery, burning all along his chest. It was a struggle not to fall unconscious – he felt waves of darkness and nausea threatening to overcome him. Unfortunately for the changeling, black-out was not an option. If Andrew and his pet idiot attempted to disentangle him from the heart-lines, at best he would end up dead. He looked down – glimmering, searing into his skin, the heartstring refused to re-enter his body. Fuck. It seemed the only way out was through. Eyes screwed shut, he yanked at the thick gathering of luminous strings. With a feeling like vertigo, his soul slid free from his body. With his other hand, he raised up the sword and cut the thin, trailing attachment that anchored it to his old clothes. He heard a sound like the woosh of fire, and then… nothing.

He balked. Had the ritual failed? After all that...

Distraught, he cast his gaze to the two watching. Kevin’s face was pale; even Andrew had a certain tension in his body.

Then, the changeling felt an icy pop, like knuckles being cracked, and when he looked down, his finery was no longer inside out, but perfectly arranged. An enormous sigh of relief left him. And then he crumpled to the floor.

The silence that consumed the glade after that was cavernous, before it was broken by the sound of rustling leaves underfoot, and a curious Andrew crouching into his field of view. Wordlessly, he pressed a finger to the centre of Neil’s chest. When he saw that the changeling did no more than flinch, and there was no blood seeping through his tunic, he gave a blunt nod to Kevin.

“He’s alive”.

“Thank the fates. He needs to tell me every step of that ritual”.

Part of Neil was still lively enough to feel mild hatred at that, but the effort to talk was not worth wasting on a fight. He didn’t even have the energy to speak, let alone walk.

They both seemed to understand this, and they wasted no time looping his arms around their shoulders, and taking most of his weight as they left the clearing. He faded in and out, and as by the time they had entered the house and laid him on a couch, they were half-carrying him. Unfortunately for them, their foray into the woods had not gone unnoticed. While Day was tidying Neil’s floppy limbs among the cushions, Wymack was standing in the unlit doorway of the study, watching them scuttle around. In the moments between his presence being registered and being recognised, two cruel daggers exited Andrew’s sheaths, and melted away again, under Neil’s watchful eyes. Thank the fates the blondie had laid them aside – Wymack was fuming. His voice was low, and it had to be quiet for fear of waking those sleeping upstairs, but it absolutely seethed with threat and rage.

“What did you bastards do to him? If this is a repeat of Columbia, I swear I’ll have you on perimeter duties for the next three moons”.

“Its nothing like that”, interceded Day with graceful urgency.

“Our newest fox is lying crippled on the bloody chaise-longue”, he said with a false softness that had Neil trembling – his only comfort had been that the back of the sofa was a barrier between him and the older man, but if the lord of foxhole knew exactly where he was… he couldn’t take it. Neil knew fear to the marrow of his bones when it came to men his father’s age, when their voices started to rise, when the flash of steely rage came into their eyes.

“You” – Wymack said in a clipped voice, presumably to Andrew – “I told you, I said ‘Matt would be the last one’. What the hell is this?”.

“Aw, Don, don’t tell me you’re disappointed in me? How touching…”.

Their quiet, terse argument faded into the background as Neil rolled off the couch, entirely unnoticed, and crawled with all the dexterity of a handcuffed felon under the low table and across the carpet. He was almost in the clear when Day snapped at Wymack, “Look at him! He doesn’t have a single bruise on him, you’ll see”.

In unison, three sets of eyes turned towards an empty couch, and then onwards, to a bare foot poking out from beneath the tea-table.

“Neil. What the fuck are you doing”, said Kevin, deadpan, possibly wondering what decisions had led him to this place.

Neil dragged himself out, with great effort, both physical and emotional. “I fell”.

“You fell. And then crawled under the table?”.

“I have a passion for woodworking”.

“For the love of…”. Wymack pinched his fingers to the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath. “Kevin, Andrew, hit the road, before this kid has to say something even dumber”.

A deep spike of fear skewered Neil’s heart at this, but there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t give them some part of his past. He had already said far too much – he hated the idea of letting even another drop of personal knowledge hit their ears. Andrew flicked out his tin of home-rolled, and walked up the stairs without another word. It certainly wasn’t obedience: it was apathy, but it struck Neil the wrong way all the same. Kevin trailed after him with a parting stare at Neil.

Now the changeling was alone. With Wymack. He knew that the lord was a kind sort, and lenient, but his nostrils were flaring and his eyes were dark with anger that set Neil’s teeth on edge. Wymack took as step towards him, and even trying to control every fibre of his muscles, he couldn’t stop himself taking a step back.

Understanding flickered over the man’s face, and he opened a little bit of distance between them, which gave Neil an almost immense level of relief.

“I’m not going to pussyfoot here, kid. Tell me straight. They do anything to you?”.

“No”, said Neil, honestly. “They wanted to watch me do some magic in the woods”.

The lord raised an eyebrow. “And then?”.

“I overestimated my abilities slightly. It ended up going wrong”.

“How wrong?”.

“Nothing is damaged, and there wasn’t an explosion or anything. No bright lightshow to attract unwanted guests”.

Wymack sighed, and put his hands to his temples again. “Did I ask you for a landscaping-report? I meant are you injured!”.

Neil tried and failed to hide his flinch at Wymack’s tone as he replied “I’m fine”.

“Bullshit ‘you’re fine’. Let Abby look at you. I’ll be damned if any fox under my roof goes limping around for a week like a stepped-on rat”. He paused in his tirade, and looked at Neil frankly. "Another thing - I'm a grumpy old man. Sometimes I yell, or throw my hand around, but I promise I would never, ever do anything to hurt you. Not in any way. Do you understand?".

Neil nodded uncertainly. "I understand", he said, before bursting out with “But really I don't need to see Abby, I’ll be fi - ”. Wymack was already dragging him out of the room by the strap of his satchel, as opposed to his clothes, so Neil could easily slip away. It was a careful, perceptive gesture, and while it didn’t make the changeling distrust him any less, he found himself feeling slightly more comfortable towards the gruff noble. They went through the corridor outside the kitchens, and beyond, to the East wing, where Neil hadn’t been – it was the lord and lady’s private quarters, and he was full of trepidation.

Chapter Text

The lady of the manor was petite, with frizzy, dark-blonde hair and spectacles. She was impressively alert for someone who’d just been woken up in the small hours of the morning. “Neil! I’ve heard so much about you! I thought Wymack would never introduce you – but, oh, are you okay?” – her tone switched to concern as she noted her husband’s grim expression.

“I’m fin - ”.

Wymack grunted disparagingly. “He claims he fucked up a spell of some kind. I could believe that, but Kevin and Andrew were with him, layin’ him out on a sofa. He seems dizzy, he could barely stand upright. Would you mind givin’ him a look-over?”.

“Of course not – Neil, did they take you to Roland’s?”.

“No”.

Abby looked to her partner.

“I believe him”, said Wymack. “Midget #2 and the enabler weren’t with ‘em”.

“Okay. What kind of spell was it, that went pear-shaped?”.

“It was a …” – he searched his mind for something that wouldn’t be suspicious – “Simple cleaning spell”.

She paused. “Outdoors?”.

“Yep. Trees in the way” – this earned him a strange look. Was that wrong? He wished he knew more about fae magic. Was it even possible to shift trees with a cleaning spell? “Branches. Leaves. Leaves were in the way”, he amended. Shit.

Abby and Wymack were exchanging a look. She was a witch, he remembered – she would be able to tell that the excuse was utter bullshit. Damn.
“Its honestly nothing serious – I should go – you need to sleep”. He tried to get up from the chair they had pointed him to, and felt a searing pain all through his chest. He fell, shaking, to his hands and knees.

“Hmm”, scoffed Abby, helping wrestle him back up. “We don’t need anymore lies in this cursed country. Let me give you a check-up”.

“Okay”, he said shakily.

“Great! Was that so hard? Now, you don’t have to tell me what the ritual was. How did it go wrong?”.

“I’ll rephrase that: what did Andrew and Kevin do?”.

“Nothing”, answered Neil weakly. “What do they usually do?”.

Wymack regarded him in silence. After a beat, he said, “That’s Matt’s story to tell”.

“Where does it hurt?”, interrupted Abby gently.

“My chest”.

“Okay. Would you mind taking off your tunic so I can see if there’s any visible damage?”.

He paled. “Yes”.

“Yes, you would mind?”.

Neil shut his mouth and looked resolutely out the window. A moth was bouncing off the window pane, attracted to the lantern sat on the sill.

There was a heavy sigh, from Abby, and she said, “Neil, everyone deserves privacy. But we won’t let you evade care like this. Never. Its one of the few things around here that we can’t allow. If I can’t see where it hurts, I won’t know if there’s a wound, bruising, blood-poisoning, I won’t know if it backfired into a curse, I’ll be going completely blind”.

Chewing on his lip, the changeling tried to tamp down on his rising panic. To reveal himself to two strangers was already far, far too many. Even if Kevin had known him as a child. Especially because Kevin knew him - it meant he knew Neil’s real name, his father’s true work. He clamped a hand over his mouth, but it wasn’t enough – he rushed to the tin waste-bin in the corner and dry-wretched paper-white liquid. The pain in his heart was only getting worse. Survival was his tenet, the aim that had guided his life. The toss-up here seemed to be: what will kill me soonest? Neil slumped over the bin. He should never, ever have stayed here. Then again. Then again, where would he be right now, if he hadn’t had company for the ritual? On the floor of the forest, quaking: dying with only the rustling leaf-litter to witness the slow flicker-and-quench as his life was extinguished.

A quiet end in woods would be kinder than whatever Nathan Wesninski had in store for him. The butcher. His father.

But, if Neil was honest, even the thought of an ocean of his own blood couldn’t pry him away from this place now.

The new priority was ensuring the fewest number of people knew his secret.

“I won’t stop you”, he whispered, “but can we shut the curtain? And sir, I mean Wymack, if you – I’m sorry to ask, but . . .” Neil struggled to get his words out.

The lord shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Just accept some damn medicine”, he said, and shut the door after himself as he left.

Now he just had to worry about Abby. “You have to promise not to ask me about them”.

The herb-witch bit her lip. “Neil . . . I can’t promise that without knowing what ‘them’ is. Anything could be medically relevant. I don’t care if you’ve done drugs, injected potions. I do need to know”. When he still made no move, she added, “I’ve seen it all, Neil. Not much can surprise me”.

“Promise”.

She shut her eyes, sighed. “I promise”.

"Then I'm fine being examined".

“Excellent!”. Abby turned to draw the curtains closed, and Neil bit the bullet. He pulled his shirt over his head – halting when pain flared in his torso – and waited, still standing, eyes firmly averted. He heard the moment she saw the scars, her sharp intake of breath. Saw as she held her hands over her mouth.

“Oh, Neil”, she whispered, probably before she could help it. “Those . . .”.

“They’re healed. They don’t matter”.

“But . . . I - ”.

“You promised”, he said, more fiercely.

She stood still, like a deer before headlights, unable to look away from the absolute mess of his skin. There were many nicks, slashes, silvery-pink little marks from a life on the streets, on the run. They were rendered almost innocent in the face of his larger scars. The twisted tissue at his side, where an arrow had knocked him off his horse; a ridge across his shoulder blade from a meat-cleaver. His father’s men had been waiting for them, that time, at an inn in Moynuiri. There was the brand on the other shoulder, or rather the slightly hollow scar where his mother had removed the brand. That one was faded and stretched, because it was from when he was nine, and he hadn’t been quiet enough when the Autumn king’s soldiers had come to investigate. Supposedly. His father usually used it on the Pegasi at the ranch, but it was evidently fit for his son as well, in the butcher’s eyes. On his lower back, there was a spider-web effect where a poisoned dagger had dug in. The veins had to be removed by a hedge-witch with filthy hands. That was the encounter that had changed everything. His mother had escaped, but she couldn’t escape the poison the arrow had been laced with. Worst of all were the ones from Riko. They were utterly stark in their calm, intentional, detailed nature. The fences made by rows and rows of small fours; the circles of ancient script. There were drawings as well. Those had no wider, grand plan to them. They were just humiliating – the kinds of things a bored child would write in the margins of a schoolbook.

Abby stared. Then, she jolted into action, activating the medical side of herself.

“Sit down”, she ordered.

Checked for visible signs wasn't hard - deep plum-coloured marks covered the centre of his chest. She sketched the lines and pattern of the massive bruise forming over his heart, poked and teased the air for invisible pain and bustled with almost spartan discipline, filling the yawning hole his scars had created in the room.

She stopped, tutted, went to a chest of draws and drew out some potions. They felt cold and soothing when she applied the salve to his bruises with a soft paintbrush. After that, she looked at him, and then gave him a big hug. Neil froze, his heartrate rocketing. Then he relaxed. She smelled of green tea and soap, and the changeling felt his eyes prickle, a tear fall. He had forgotten what this felt like. The last person who hugged him had almost certainly been his mother. When she moved away, he gave her an awkward nod, hoping she could interpret the thank-you.

“Am I going to live?”, he asked.

She didn’t laugh, which probably wasn’t a good sign. “Neil . . . you’ve pulled a few of your intercostal muscles – those are the muscles in between your ribs – and bruised some of the ribs themselves. Your sternum has a hairline fracture - try not to get into any fights for a bit, okay? I know its hard with the lost souls Wymack keeps around this place”. Her face was tired.

“That’s not so bad, is it?”.

“I’m getting there” – she scrubbed a hand over her eyes, and left a hand on her chin as she looked at him – “It’s the magical damage that worries me. Whatever you three did out there – no, don’t worry, I’ve realised its pointless to ask – whatever you did, its seriously affected the fabric, some people call it the weave, of your soul”.

“What does that mean?”.

“Practically? Depends how it heals. What direction, what depth, how long it takes to mend, that kind of thing. You might find your vision changes. You might find yourself intensely vulnerable to certain kinds of magic. We’ll know more in the coming days. Do you want me to talk to Nicky and the other magic users?”.

Neil’s heart skipped a beat. “No”. If they knew, it would only make him a greater target. “I can avoid conflict” – that was a big, fat lie – “does that mean I can go now? I don’t want to keep you up”.

“Yes”, said the nurse reluctantly. “If you feel steady on your feet, you can go”.

He stood, and he was at the door in the blink of an eye. “Thank you”, he said quietly.

Abby gave him a warm smile. “Be careful”, she told him. Sternly, she added, “Stay away from the monsters”.

He nodded, and slipped out, into the dark hall. His feet padded silently down the wooden halls, even more silently on the lush carpets. He passed Wymack, who was conked out one of the sofas. Neil felt a swell of guilt as he moved up the stairs, but it was probably kinder to let him catch some sleep.

Dawn light wasn’t far off, when he looked out of the window in his room. The furniture was fuzzy and dark blue, but he could make out the shapes of dresser, of cupboard. The dregs of moonlight were still present, so he turned into a gecko, to aid his healing, and scampered up the wall. This turret-room had a wonderfully high ceiling, and he ran all the way up to the heights before falling asleep, almost upside-down.

Chapter Text

Neil prodded his chest with a toe-pad and winced. It didn’t just feel tender, it felt macerated, as if someone had chewed on his muscles, including the ones in his heart.

It was still night, technically – for another hour, perhaps. Sleep had completely evaded Neil, which was why he was here, resting on the terracotta shingles of Foxhole Manor, between two turrets. It would be an easy climb even as a human, a narrow window with a black ladder fixed right next to it, presumably for roofers to fix leaks. It went right up to the angular world where Neil was watching the woods, and the horizon they formed. The view was much more strange through the eyes of a gecko, in some ways sharper, yet half-formed, like a masterpiece taking shape. It was strangeness he loved, even if it meant he kept getting distracted by the enticing pattern of moths in flight.

His slit-pupiled eyes followed one, a lovely, fluttering thing, and found that it was joined by others, smaller and larger, all circling in a mad dance around some kind of light, some gentle glow, which he was only aware of by the way it illuminated the side of a turret. He crested the roof, and looked down to see a figure, smoking, perched with knees tucked up by his chest. He was smoking a tortoiseshell pipe; through its more translucent splotches, an amber glow emanated.

It was difficult to recognise faces, as a gecko - curious, he ran up to the fae, who noticed him.

A swirly ring of smoke puffed out of his mouth: he followed it with a few more, and then reached out, offering Neil the back of his hand. He always felt invincible in the moonlight, so he didn’t think much of shimmying up and being lifted before eyes as black and inscrutable as the sky. A few stars reflected in the pupils, which seemed vast. It was Andrew, he suddenly realised.

Abby’s words, ‘stay away from the monsters’ echoed briefly in his head.

His muscles felt relaxed and dreamy, and he stayed.

The fae extended his index finger and, ever so gently, began to stroke down Neil’s back. It was a glorious feeling, warm and very tingly, and he found himself becoming melty. He lay down, his entire body flush against the hand, his arms beside him. His heart still ached, but something about the heat and the petting soothed it deeper than the potions had. His cares were floating far from him, they seemed as distant and ephemeral as the wispy moths around them.

After a while, through a gauze of dream, Neil felt Andrew place him on his neck, and climb down. With the steady, smooth nature of the fae’s movement, the gecko was lulled easily into a deep, unfathomable sleep.