I waved the torch. “Whether wight or sprite, I said begone!”
Its amusement turned to indignation. “You offend us with such erroneous monikers.”
“Are you a Folk beastie?” Curiosity tangled with instinctual loathing. I’d never encountered a Folk creature like this—neither in the flesh nor on parchment.
“Beastie?”
“Well?” Now that I knew I wasn’t being haunted, I regained some measure of my composure. Compared to a restless spirit, the Folk were a known quantity. Something I hated but understood. “Are you the brùnaidh of Dún Darragh? You’ll find no crusts of stale bread nor rancid cups of wine here.”
“Brùnaidh? Oh, no. Horrid, meticulous little creatures.”
“Then what are you?”
“We are broken hearts and old sorrows,” said the carving, with some glee. “We are crumbling rocks and empty glasses and forgotten hallways and the tolling of the bell in the highest tower.”
Riddles and nonsense—it was like talking to Cathair, but worse.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, brisk. “Leave me alone, and I’ll try not to kill you.”
I made my way back toward the main door. The carved face gave a small wail, then went silent and still. A flurry of motion leapt from carving to carving, animating a thick-tusked boar, a moon-faced gruagach with crystals for eyes, and a squirrel with its heart gripped in its paws. I watched the…spriteout of the corner of my eye as it followed me along the walls.
“Alone?” The sprite bellowed from one of two twin heads carved in bronze on the door, squat and puff-cheeked, haloed with ivy. “But we’ve been too long alone as it is! We long for a sweet, dark-haired maiden to sing us lullabies and pick us posies of flowers.”
I snorted. “You’ve got the wrong maiden.”
“Fine,” said the other head, sly. “Then we long for a foul-tempered, sharp-tongued wench to plague and torment us.”
“Wench?”
I opened my mouth to tell the sprite I’d show it what torment was, but Rogan chose that moment to tromp through the door, carrying an armful of firewood. He threw it down into the cold hearth, then stretched out his back and looked around.
“This place is a dunghill,” he grumbled.
“And bedeviled by spirits,” I added, gesturing with my torch at the living carving, who winked at Rogan more salaciously than strictly necessary.
“The carvings are eerie.” Rogan huffed a laugh, his eyes barely skimming the animated head before traveling along the walls and toward the ceiling. “But not all stories are true, changeling.”
He ducked back out into the night for more firewood.
I looked at the carving. “He can’t see you?”
“He wasn’t looking at the right time,” said the sprite, sticking out a long tongue studded with new leaves. “He might have seen us yesterday. Or tomorrow.”
“So you intend to harass only me?” Frustration scored my words. “Whatareyou?”
“We are just us. When we’re cross, we call ourselves Corra. You can do the same, if you fancy.”
Corra.The name seemed innocent enough. All the Folk were deceitful and wicked. But other than possibly annoying me to death, it was hard to imagine what harm this strange spirit could do me.
All I could do was tolerate it. Or ignore it.
I chose the latter.
I bent to the firewood, arranging the haphazard pile into a neat stack. I struck golden sparks with my flint and steel, then blew across the smoldering kindling. But the light fizzled out. I lifted my flint to try again and—
Whump!
Hungry blue flames burst crackling from the hearth, rushing over the firewood and collecting yellow edges. I jumped away from the blaze, careful with the ends of my braid and the fringe of my mantle.
