“Oh!” Pansy’s mother said, one hand flying to her mouth, as if she’d forgotten the dagger even existed. “That’s probably a good idea. Honestly, I’ve been wanting to take that thing down for years, anyway. I never liked it. I was just waiting until I had something to replace it with. The sitting room would look soemptyotherwise.”
Pansy didn’t bother challenging her on this. She knew her mother’s relationship with her own mother had always been… complicated, for lack of a better word. Full of conflicting emotions, knotted together in the most perplexing of ways. Obviously, they hadn’t gotten any easier to sort through in the eight months since Angelica Underburrow had passed. In fact, the task had likely only grown more difficult.
So Pansy simply said, “I’ll go get Ren.”
There were tea and cookies waiting for them when Pansy and Ren made their way into the sitting room. So far, a much better reception than the last time she’d been here. Granted, the fact that Mrs. Millwood wasn’t perched on one of the sofas helped tremendously. Then again, her reaction in this instance might prove rather entertaining. Here was the goblin she’d lost her mind about only a few ten-days ago, sipping barley tea from an “obnoxiously halfling” – as Ren would no doubt put it – floral-printed cup. The irony of it all was downright exquisite.
Though not as exquisite as the butter biscuits her mother hadset out on an equally “obnoxiously halfling” plate, rimmed with delicately painted florals and vines. A sentiment Ren seemed to agree with, considering the speed with which they’d devoured their first biscuit. Now, they looked at the ones remaining on the plate, their stare full of longing as they sucked the last sweet crumbs from their fingertips.
“You can have another one, you know,” Pansy assured them with a soft chuff of laughter. “Honestly, I’m sure my mother will love it if you help yourself to as many as you want.”
Hearing this, Pansy’s mother, sitting primly in one of the adjoining armchairs, to the point where her back had become an unbreakable rod, jolted out of her otherwise guarded posture. “Do you like them?” she asked hesitantly, her gaze focusing on Ren with an uncommon intensity – one Pansy recognized. Although she and her mother were dissimilar in many ways, the quickest way to both of their hearts was an open appreciation for their cooking. Which, come to think of it, Ren had done with her, too.
“They’re delicious,” Ren said around a mouthful of biscuit. Normally, the lack of manners inherent in speaking with one’s mouth full would’ve prompted a frown or some other form of silent disapproval from Pansy’s mother, but evidently all could be forgiven by simply reaching for another serving.
“Wow!” Pansy said, eyes widening in mock surprise. “From the way you’re wolfing down those biscuits, I’m starting to think that you prefer them to mine.” She paused, a devilish gleam rising to her eye. “Well, do you?”
“Uh…” Ren paused mid-chew, eyes widening to near-perfect circles as a handful of crumbs dropped from their slackening jaw.
“Don’t say anything! It’s a trap!” Pansy’s father laughed.
“He’s right. I’m only teasing.” Pansy gave Ren’s thigh a gentle pat. “Enjoy the biscuits.”
“That being said,” Pansy’s mother said after a beat, her tone bordering on sly, “if youdoprefer mine, that’s perfectly fine too. I have plenty of food to go around. Oh!” She popped out of her chair. “You should try my apple crumble!”
“What?” Pansy’s father said, aghast. “You told me it’s for the festival!”
“It is.” Her mother sniffed. “Besides, you have no right to complain,sir. I know you swiped some earlier while my back was turned.”
Pansy laughed. So, she’d been right on that front. Her father, meanwhile, flushed anew, until his face was as red as his thieving hands. “It’s okay, Mum. We’re going to the festival later, so we can have some then.”
“And fight the entirety of Halvenshire for a slice? I think not. You’ll take your portion in advance. And if youdomanage to get another slice at the festival, well…” Her mother shrugged, already on her way towards the kitchen. “Call it the privilege of being family.”
Family. One that now included Ren. Because when her mother returned, she did so with two plates, each laden with crumble – though one proved a touch more generous than the other. That serving, which would normally be given to Pansy, was instead passed into Ren’s waiting hands. It had taken nearly three decades, but Pansy’s position had been finally usurped, and as far as she was concerned, it couldn’t have gone to anyone more deserving.
Pansy had nearly finished polishing off her plate – Ren, for the record, had already beaten her there – when her mother straightened up in her seat, eyes widening around the abruptspark of an idea. “Borage, darling,” she said, turning to Pansy’s father, “do you think we should give Ren the dagger? The one that was on the mantelpiece?”
Feeling Ren stiffen on the sofa beside her, Pansy pressed a hand against their shoulder and explained, “It was my grandmother’s. She won it during her time as an adventurer and brought it home with her.”
“And I should have it because…?” Ren’s voice had gone flat; no longer pleasantly neutral, but cautiously so.
“We think it was originally a goblin dagger,” Pansy said quickly, her heart thumping hard against her chest. She wanted to scream! Things had been goingso well. Ren had been enjoying themself, their ears pricked high for all to see. Now, they sat hunched over, knuckles blazing white around the plate in their lap, their ears gone flat against their skull.
“We understand that you’re not the original owner,” Pansy’s mother rushed out, her expression creasing with worry. “In fact, it’s unlikely you’re even related. I just thought that… well, a goblin dagger might be more at home with a goblin, instead of decorating a halfling burrow.”
“Can I see it?” Ren asked.
Following a quick, pointed gesture from Pansy’s mother, her father scrambled out of his seat, returning a minute or so later with the needle-like dagger, tucked inside a mossy sheath, its hilt, plain and unadorned, gleaming in the light. He held it out to Ren, who took it after another pause, the motion almost grudging.
“As a general rule, we goblins don’t like to fight,” they said. “We believe that violence isn’t a first resort, but a last. Unfortunately, there are people in this world who disagree. And, sometimes, when a goblin who has been stripped of absolutelyeverything cries out for help, it’s only those people who are willing to answer.”
“Dark lords,” Pansy murmured in understanding.
Ren nodded.
“I’ve often thought,” Pansy’s mother said, once the silence had stretched beyond the bounds of what was comfortable, “that a wizard is, in many ways, not too different from a dark lord. All they do is take advantage of another kind of desperation: the desire to be seen, respected, treated as an equal. I’d say they treat us like children, but we’re far too expendable for that.Wedie so thattheirchildren may live. It’s—” She swallowed, her expression tightening. “I don’t understand why we tolerate it. But perhaps I’ve already answered my own question: desperation.”
“It’s a powerful motivator,” Ren said, their voice soft.
