from the desk of Wendell Bambleby

"That's the one!" Niamh had told her about Shakespeare, and described his Queen Titania as the fairest of Faerie queens with a meddlesome husband Oberon. Áine would of course never put up with such disrespect from a consort but that was besides the point.

"Perhaps he has, perhaps Titania and Oberon were inspired by one of our ancestors." She reached for her brother's hands and squeezed them gently.

"And what about this dress of yours will conjure the spirit of Queen Titania?" he asks, giving her hands a squeeze. "Well, I'd much rather be related to her than Puck!"

Liath has always been fascinated by Niamh's stories of the mortal realm, with its strange customs and cultures. The fact that they have an entire field of study dedicated to them? That their home was considered to be one of the most dangerous places a mortal could travel to? He'd laughed when she'd said it and laughed harder when she said no mortal had ever returned from Where the Trees Have Eyes. Why, of course! Why would she ever want to leave?

"Unfortunately best dressed is subjective and eyes likely won't be on me, but... Yes, I think I will be the best dressed gentleman. You're right, as always." He's certain he'll be upstaged by one of their brothers purely due to to how they're older and not lanky teenagers so far back in the order of succession that they're barely worth a second thought.

“Those are not questions so easily answered.” The item she now held was a facsimile, a magically-conjured shadow of a tome written by human hands. It existed long before the original, and will exist long after it crumbles to dust. This false book came from her library, true, but from where the book originated was another matter altogether.

None of which she could say, of course, as it was all locked up in her throat, unable to be spoken without a fair exchange. “Three moonstones burning with ice-cold fire should do it.”

"Good Lord." Bambleby plops down in the seat opposite her dramatically, leaning back and pinching the bridge of his nose. "One step forward, two steps back is it? Not everything must be an amenable bargain. I gave you your book, I gave you a name, and now you're demanding moonstones? My God, woman. Does that not seem rather excessive? I am trying to have a genuine conversation with you, but you're making it rather difficult. I don't plan on being in your debt simply because I'd like to know what it is I've so graciously gathered for you."

He's on a roll now and in a proper bad mood as evidenced by how he's folded his arms across his chest as he glares down at the book. "Forget it. I don't particularly care about your strange, off-putting volume. I've completed my end of our bargain of retrieving it for you and I don't need to know its entire story." He shouldn't have asked in the first place. He was more interested in her strangeness than the book's.

Three moonstones burning with ice-cold fire. It isn't as though he's got those just laying about Cambridge. "How quickly are you expecting me to conjure up your moonstones? If I am to agree to acquire you moonstones burning with ice-cold fire, will you start answering all my questions? If I am to go out of my way to obtain someone most would consider a feat, I expect the terms to be equal."

The chemistry department surely has dry ice and there's opals for sale at a shop at the edge of town. He'll set them on fire himself before her very eyes if she's inclined to like spectacle.

"Of course you weren't, Liath." Áine smiled sweetly, he was fishing for compliments on his work, which of course was beautiful. She'd expect nothing less from her little brother.

"Of course I'm going to outdo you all, would you expect anything less?" She was their father's eldest, she could easily be queen one day, her dress for the ball would befit her role as a possible heir to the throne.

"Right." He smooths the front of his waistcoat, fingers ghosting over the silver thread he'd used to embroider a bluebell motif.

One would think the gossip about how the youngest royal took more after his maternal grandmother than the rest of his siblings would one day grow stale. He's done his best to ignore their whispers for years, but then he goes and disappears into his pristine rooms with only an needle and thread for company...

No, not just a needle and thread. Orga's somehow sensed his melancholy and has began to circle his lets in a shadowy figure eight, headbutting his calves for good measure.

Maude reappeared in the doorway a heartbeat later. Her critical gaze swept over the room, taking in Wendell’s agitation, the stained chair, the soapy rag dripping onto the floor. Her expression grew wearier than ever. She could guess what happened.

“Every day I wish I could hurl that thing down a well more and more,” she muttered. “Don’t fret over washing anything. I’ll handle it later.” Along with the broken door. And the claw marks on the wall.

Half-hidden behind her, Bran peered around her arm, curious about the commotion despite the pallor of his face. Both hands grasped his mug of tea before his chest, appreciating it more as something warm and stable to hold than something to drink.

Maude guided Bran to a clean chair before leaning against a wall across the room, taking a sip from her own mug, too restless to sit again. Moreover, this spot gave her a better view of both Wendell and Bran.

Bran sat and set his mug on the table, shaky fingers still wrapped around it. He found it easier to stare at his tea than meet Wendell’s eye. “Are you alright?” A tentative question. His gaze flitted to the professor for confirmation. “It didn’t hurt you? The hound?”

He wonders how Feld would look stuffed. He could have him posed with a tiny teacup in his claw and with a little bonnet on his head. That would be the perfect revenge, wouldn't it?

When Maude reenters the kitchen, Wendell is obsessively scrubbing the chair and mumbling to himself angrily. For perhaps the very first time he looks disheveled, with his jaw clenched and a mop of hair in his eyes. "I can't not fret about it. I need..." Damn bird and it's damn mess and damn him and his ancestry making him so damn obsessive about cleanliness. "No, please I'll make it right or else I'll go insane because..." He finally glances up to see the boy poking his head around her and stops his scrubbing. He'll have to finish his task later.

He takes a seat in the chair he'd been cleaning, sitting on the edge of it to avoid staining his clothing with whatever remained of the bird's dirty mess. Wendell thought it best not to mention that the chair had made him less alright than the appearance of the hound, especially with Feld lingering in the walls and most certainly eavesdropping on their conversation.

"I'm quite alright and I'm very glad it didn't get to you, despite how desperately it tried. I don't think it expected to have to go through me. It's always nice to have the element of surprise." A pause. "And a sword. Can't forget about that."

I’d love to hear how you managed to do that. Ada’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach, her shoulders falling and her gaze fixing downward again. She knew she had only herself to blame for the life debt that bound her to the court, and the reminder made her feel even smaller than usual. The rest of his words escaped her, and she did not realize he’d stood until she heard the brushing of his hands on his trousers.

Ignoring the tightness in her chest, she slung her satchel over her shoulder and pushed herself to her feet as well. Her own dress did require dusting, dirt and leaves clinging to the fabric. She brushed them away as she listened to the other continue.

No, that reasoning would hardly sway him at all. It would only serve to make him smile, actually. Oh how he hoped the Huntmaster was shocked when his beloved hound fell. He imagines it must have fouled his mood on whatever hunt he'd deemed more important. Underestimating one's enemy certainly can ruin one's day.

He did not mean to offend her with his comment and his distaste is aimed purely at the monarchy of this blasted realm. He would have apologized for making her relive whatever terrors had caused her to come to court had he noticed her discomfort. Stories of indenture to a crown in faerie are common enough, after all. He does not think any lesser of her for whatever dealing had led to such a fate.

Her question does surprise him. The Folk so often terrorize mortals for their own pleasure, so he never thought there could be some other reason behind this all. "I would very much wish to know, yes." A curling mop of blonde hair falls across his furrowed brow. It would do no good to storm the castle if the boy had done something serious to offend. He'd be better off apologizing on his behalf than starting a war.

"Yeah, obviously," he says, trying to nonchalance as he adds a little shrug to the statement. No, there's nothing weird here, officer. You absolutely don't have to worry about a camp filled with demigods just over the hilltop. "I would just--walk away from here," he adds like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Gods, he needs to learn how to manipulate the Mist. It would make his job so much easier.

Simply walking away from here does not seem to fit the accounts from the publication. Then there's the fact that the kid is being intentionally vague in his reasons for traversing the forest alone and his destination if he were to walk away, well... "Obviously."