In the months that follow, word spreads among the new-made steadings: the fey are abroad, invisible, of course, as told in the stories, but also nothing like the stories, for they seek bright iron. She listens to them, unseen, and smiles to herself as they whisper that no man may leave an awl or a chisel for a moment unwatched, or it will vanish; no woman may leave her basket untended, or the yarn, with its needles and shears, will melt into the air like mist in the sun. And sometimes they leave out a hunk of cheese or a cake of barley bread, and speak aloud a favour, and she will find their
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She’s so cute
