CHAPTER 28

The Woodcutter went straight at the crossroads. The chosen path left the Twelve Kingdoms, but provided a shortcut to the far side of the Wood. He felt the Kingdom end and the duchy begin the moment he stepped foot across the border. The colors were duller and the shadows were without mystery. It was a land without magic.

It was the Land of the Pure Ordinary.

The lowlands were no place for wheat fields and corn. The saturated peat rotted the roots of any plant besides the tall grasses and rice paddies. The natural iron that filled the bogs repelled any magic that tried to take hold.

Which is why he was startled when he first saw the butterfly.

Its wings were beating slowly in the mud. It was made of gold and encrusted with jewels. The Woodcutter bent down and lifted it from the mire, brushing off the filth as best he could. The butterfly rested for a moment and then took off, limping through the air toward the Wood.

The Woodcutter wiped his hands upon his trousers and watched it as it flew away.

The bejeweled butterfly was far from its home. It was far from the boundary of the Twelve Kingdoms and deep in the Land of the Ordinary for a butterfly.

It was not unheard of, but odd.

The Woodcutter turned back to the road, although the hollow wind made him uncomfortable and he did not like to be without the counsel of the trees.

Hours later, he saw before him a low-rising hill, which seated a stone city where the Duke of Plainness made his home.

The Woodcutter walked through the gates to look for a place to spend the night.

The city was bustling. A full cart of hay rumbled down the narrow street, making its way to market. The Woodcutter fell in behind, allowing the ox to part the crowds and lead him to the center of the city. As the buildings opened up to the central square, the Woodcutter stepped aside to view the area.

He stopped.

Every booth was filled with spinning wheels and hay. Every merchant had pushed aside his regular wares to make room.

The Woodcutter walked between the towers of spindles as people eagerly toted away the machines. He walked past a doctor hawking, “An elixir! An elixir to mend your twisted bones!” and past large bales people used to fill their carts.

He would have expected such behavior in the Twelve Kingdoms, but not in the other world, not in the Land of the Ordinary.

A water fountain was surrounded by a group of young ladies who gaped at something in the water and giggled.

The Woodcutter gently pushed his way to the front.

At the edge of the fountain sat a large frog.

The frog regarded the Woodcutter, and the Woodcutter regarded the frog.

And then the frog croaked, “Give me a kiss and I will turn into a prince.”

But the Woodcutter would not be fooled.

A girl with a straw-colored plait that hung down her back looked at the Woodcutter. “He says that, but no matter how many times I kiss him, he stays a frog.”

The frog gave the Woodcutter a wink.

The Woodcutter said to the girls as he turned to walk away, “The frog lies.”

The Woodcutter made his way directly toward the nearest village pub. There was at least one place in every town where information flowed freely, and in the Duchy of Plainness, it came beneath a wooden sign bearing a red fox.

The villagers were speaking loudly as he entered. One angrily spat, “Do you believe such madness?”

The Woodcutter walked past and settled himself at a table nearby.

A tavern keeper in a dirty gray smock came over and placed a meal and a drink before the Woodcutter. The Woodcutter placed two wooden coins upon the table. The tavern keeper eyed them warily but deposited them in a purse around his waist. As he moved to leave, the Woodcutter caught his sleeve. The tavern keeper glared at the Woodcutter but did not walk away.

“I am a stranger to this land,” the Woodcutter said. “And I have seen some strange things today. Tell me, what causes the people here to buy spinning wheels and bales of hay?”

The tavern keeper remained silent.

The Woodcutter placed another coin upon the table.

The man scooped it up and then said, “Seems the Duke has gone mad. Swears he met a girl who could spin straw into gold. She ran off, and now he says she’s been disguised by evil forces and he’ll marry whatever girl can spin gold out of a wheel. He’s calling them in by the dozens each day, just sitting them in front of him and asking them to spin. A whole lot of nonsense, if you ask me.”

The Woodcutter looked at him sharply. “I did not think such things happened around these parts.”

The tavern keeper grumbled angrily, “’Twas a strange winter. We had snow, but the snow was warm. Odd things started happening, and just when the strangeness started to fade away, the snow would come back and the whole nonsense returned.”

“I spoke with a frog in the town fountain…”

The tavern keeper pointed at the Woodcutter. “This is what I’m talking about. Frogs that talk and mice that sing. If I wanted magic, I’d’ve stayed in that infernal Kingdom. But a body wants some peace and quiet and finally finds a place without that fae racket and what happens? Talking frogs.”

The tavern keeper leaned his face in close to the Woodcutter’s. His breath reeked of stale beer. “If you ask me, it reminds me of when those pixies used to go running through the towns on Midsummer’s Eve. Everything is set to wrong here. Everything.”

The pixie in the Woodcutter’s coat pocket shuddered.

The tavern keeper took an empty plate from a side table. “But I say it’s shameful, those faerie folk coming over here and bothering us when we want nothing to do with their kind. You’d think they were trying to turn us on to magic. But the iron in our soul shall keep us safe from them. You mark my word. Their magic doesn’t belong here, and we shall not be made their slaves.”

The Woodcutter had lost his appetite. He pushed away the plate and stood. “Thank you for the information.” He threw the tavern keeper another coin. “I hope your days are magic-free.”

The tavern keeper grunted at him and stalked back into the kitchen.

The Woodcutter entered the inn and was greeted by a slender woman with hair streaked with iron gray. He followed her into the great room and noticed a young girl playing with some bits of straw by the hearth. Her neck held her head at an odd angle, and her legs twisted into clawed feet. Her red hair was the color of the flames.

“Poor duck,” her mother clucked as she saw the Woodcutter look at the child. “Pines away for the Duke. I keep telling her all she has to do is learn how to spin the straw into gold and he’ll see she is a beautiful princess, but she won’t listen to her mother. They never do.”

The woman continued on to the stairway.

The girl looked at the Woodcutter, and the power of her gaze made him step back.

There was something too interesting about her face.

The pixie stirred as the blue blood of the girl called out. The fae always recognize a familiar.

But there was something horribly twisted about this glamour.

The girl turned back to the fire, and the Woodcutter realized he had been holding his breath.

A blue blood in the inn. The glamour was not upon her mother, and the Woodcutter wondered how it came to be.