The Visitor
Eyes narrowed behind a tattered velvet curtain.
“What’s he doing now?” Brinna asked, stroking her beard like a scheming cat.
Kellen squinted through the smudged glass. “It’s that blasted pointy-eared princeling again. Sniffing our flowers like they owe him money.”
Brinna groaned. “Not the calendulas. They’ve only just recovered from last time.”
“Aye,” Kellen muttered, watching Onorfin crouch gracefully in the herb bed, nose twitching like a fae bloodhound. “He’s got that look again.”
“The one that ends with levitating fruit and emotionally compromised garden gnomes?”
He nodded solemnly. “Better hide the pineapples.”
Brinna marched to the pantry. “I told you not to let him near the citrus ley line. You said it was contained.”
“And I believed that at the time,” Kellen replied, with the confidence of someone who absolutely hadn’t.
Outside, Onorfin twirled a dandelion like it had secrets. Somewhere, a mushroom vibrated in existential fear.
Brinna peered back out. “Maybe we should contact that nice werewolf lad. What’s his name? The broody one with the nudist gremlins.”
“DarkPassion,” Kellen said, reverently. “Good lad. Strong jaw. Smelled like soul trauma and cinnamon.”
Brinna slammed the pantry shut. “Well I’m hiding the rum then. You and him got philosophical last time. We nearly burned down the goat shed.”
“That was one goat and a slightly aggressive sonnet, Brinna. Let it go.”
From the garden came a faint whoosh and the unmistakable sound of fruit doing ballet.
Brinna stared.
“Too late,” she muttered. “The pineapples are already dancing.”
“What’s he doing now?” Brinna asked, stroking her beard like a scheming cat.
Kellen squinted through the smudged glass. “It’s that blasted pointy-eared princeling again. Sniffing our flowers like they owe him money.”
Brinna groaned. “Not the calendulas. They’ve only just recovered from last time.”
“Aye,” Kellen muttered, watching Onorfin crouch gracefully in the herb bed, nose twitching like a fae bloodhound. “He’s got that look again.”
“The one that ends with levitating fruit and emotionally compromised garden gnomes?”
He nodded solemnly. “Better hide the pineapples.”
Brinna marched to the pantry. “I told you not to let him near the citrus ley line. You said it was contained.”
“And I believed that at the time,” Kellen replied, with the confidence of someone who absolutely hadn’t.
Outside, Onorfin twirled a dandelion like it had secrets. Somewhere, a mushroom vibrated in existential fear.
Brinna peered back out. “Maybe we should contact that nice werewolf lad. What’s his name? The broody one with the nudist gremlins.”
“DarkPassion,” Kellen said, reverently. “Good lad. Strong jaw. Smelled like soul trauma and cinnamon.”
Brinna slammed the pantry shut. “Well I’m hiding the rum then. You and him got philosophical last time. We nearly burned down the goat shed.”
“That was one goat and a slightly aggressive sonnet, Brinna. Let it go.”
From the garden came a faint whoosh and the unmistakable sound of fruit doing ballet.
Brinna stared.
“Too late,” she muttered. “The pineapples are already dancing.”
