Whether this was a good or a bad thing, Ren didn’t know. But as they looked from the skull to the various decorations Pansy had filled the living room with over the past several ten-days, from the colorful, crudely knitted doilies stacked atop the log-side table to the painted glass baubles that dripped from the ceiling on near-invisible wires, Ren started to suspect that it was most likely the latter.
“What are you doing?”
The sound of Pansy’s voice, coming up from behind them, nearly sent Ren shooting right up into the rafters. They fumbled with the skull for a moment, miraculously managing to keep their grip on it, before shoving it into their pocket. Couching themself in their best attempt at nonchalance, they turned around and said, “I thought you were outside.”
“I was,” Pansy said, with a knowing sort of slowness as a familiar dimple dug into her left cheek, “until approximately thirty seconds ago. The pumpkin is looking splendid, by the way. But what areyoudoing?”
“I’m…” Ren floundered, their gaze darting around theroom, frantic as an animal scrabbling for purchase atop rain-slick stone. “I’m looking at your books!”
The words slipped out before Ren could stop them, their mouth thick with the cold slide of panic. It took everything in them not to grimace, knowing that they’d only managed to secure their own downfall. The first excuse that came to mind rarely was the best – or even good, for that matter. So why had they seized on this one without a second thought?
Ren braced themself for the inevitableWhy are you looking at my books if you can’t read?A question for which they’d have no answer. And yet, the question didn’t come.
Instead, Pansy hurried over to Ren and the bookshelf situated behind them, her expression a scintillating beacon of delight. “Which books?” she asked, not so much gesturing as flailing. “Was it this one?Ooh, it should be! This one’s the best! All the Wolf Banefoot books are good, mind you. But he goes up against a dragon in this one! Hard to get more exciting than that, don’t you think?”
“I… suppose,” Ren answered haltingly, their eyes flicking over to the book in question, bound in a dark green leather that had been embossed with a scale-like pattern; an attempt to mimic dragonhide, no doubt.
“Have you started reading any of them?” Pansy asked, undaunted in her enthusiasm. Did she really not know?
“No, I—” Ren cut themself off with an aggrieved sigh, their fingers closing around the skull, still hidden in their pocket. They couldn’t lie to her. Not about this – or, well, anything, it seemed. “I can’t read.”
For once, Pansy’s expression was inscrutable. She blinked. “What?”
“I can’t read,” Ren repeated, hating the way their face startedto burn at the admission. They had no reason to be ashamed. Goblins didn’t use paper. Never had. Why would they, when it would simply molder in their underground homes, damp and dark as they were? And still, when they told Pansy all this, it wasn’t to inform, but tojustify, as if their inability to read was a fault for which they needed to apologize.
They couldn’t even blame Pansy for it. Her tone was entirely neutral when she nodded her head, then asked, “What do you do if you want to communicate with someone far away? I assume you don’t send letters because, you know, paper.” She laughed.
“We use ravens,” Ren explained, the tension pulling across their limbs unwinding just a fraction. “They’ll repeat any message, provided it’s not too long.”
“Really?” Her eyes widened. “That’s amazing! I had no idea ravens could speak. But what about when you want to record something like a story? Surely, even the shortest ones are too long for a raven to repeat.”
Ren snorted out a laugh, the gentle curve of their mouth softening the otherwise harsh sound. “Do halflings not have storytellers?”
It was now Pansy’s turn to flush. She ducked her head, tucking a stray curl behind one rounded ear as she looked up at Ren through lowered lashes. “When I was younger, my grandmother would read these books out loud to me at bedtime, but I suspect that’s not quite what you’re talking about. She was rather good, though; she did voices and everything.”
“Voices?” Ren arched an eyebrow.
“Yes. For all the different characters. It was”– Pansy’s blush deepened – “very entertaining. As a child.”
“Then perhaps a goblin storyteller is not too different from your grandmother. Every story they tell they tell frommemory – and with more than just a few voices to help bring the tale to life.” Grinning, they waggled their fingers in what was apparently a universal sign, given the way Pansy’s eyes immediately widened.
“Like… with magic?” she asked, her voice a barely restrained whisper.
“Or a variety of illusory potions.”
“Wow,” Pansy breathed, her expression going slack, as if entranced. “Do you think, maybe – that is, if it’s all right; I wouldn’t want to impose…”
Ren pressed their lips together, smothering a laugh. Honestly, it was almost cute, the way she’d twisted herself into knots over a simple request. As if Ren could ever tell her no; that much had been an impossibility, even from the start. “There’s usually a storyteller at the Goblin Market.”
“Which will be…?”
“Soon.”
“Ugh!” Pansy deflated, all of her bright-eyed hope and excitement whizzing out of her in an instant, replaced instead by a petulant scowl. “That’s what you said three ten-days ago.”
Ren shrugged again. “I have about as much control over the market as I do the weather. Complaining to me won’t change anything.”
“I know, I know,” Pansy grumbled. The scowl, however, didn’t budge. “I’m just – impatient, I suppose.”
