The Tattling Whisperwoods

Nemython House, Drake’s Bend, England. 

Late Spring



The screech pierced Fern Oakby’s skull as effectively as an iron pin thrust through her ear. She tumbled out of bed, landing on the floor in a heap of bedding as she uttered colourful curses taught to her by local lads. While her brain caught up with her body, she scrabbled on her hands and knees to grab her dressing gown. Then she jumped to her feet, shoving her arms in the sleeves of the green floral robe as she lunged for the door.

“Millie!” Fern called out, yanking on the latch. 

Fear slid through her. Had her new friend’s horrid brother snuck into the house to kidnap her and spirit her away to Bedlam?

Out in the hall, George took long strides towards their guest’s door, his hands curled into fists and clad in only a hastily donned shirt. Fern uttered a silent prayer that the garment was cut with sufficient length that it covered his rear end, and her confuddled brain only had to deal with his exposed hairy legs. 

Ambrose hurried behind in his patterned yellow silk banyan, clutching a cavalry sword. He had, briefly, enlisted. Until he discovered that while, yes, he did look incredibly dashing in the uniform, army life wasn’t anywhere near as romantic as he thought. George had rescued him by pulling the last string that connected him to his noble family.

The three of them converged on the door to the guest room, ready to burst in and confront whatever villainy was being committed behind the solid wood. Before George could reach for the handle, Mrs Millicent Carlisle flung open the door. The young woman was clad only in a fine lawn gown with a delicate lace edge, her dark hair in disarray, and her eyes wild.

“He’s alive!” she shouted and thrust out her hands.

Fern gasped at what the other woman held.

Squib, the little origami dragon, reared up on his hind legs and flapped his wings. He trumpeted a cheerful tune. Paper had been made flesh once more by the previous night’s storm. He wasn’t identical to his previous form. Fern thought he looked a little taller and his wing span a bit broader. The letters written with love over the paper formed scalloped purple scales that gave him a distinctive regal air.

“Squib! We are pleased to see you again, little fellow,” Ambrose said, and he stroked under the dragon’s chin.
“
It worked, just like you said.” Tears shimmered in Millie’s eyes, and passing her small companion over to Ambrose, she flung her arms around Fern’s neck.

Fern hugged her back. “I am so glad.” 

She should probably tell the horrid Lord Drakeman that he had been right. But before she visited the reclusive alchemist, she would call on the Moray sisters. Fern needed to thank Morda for telling her that another magical storm would pass through their village. Without the rare clash of elements, Squib might have remained inanimate paper for another thirty years.

“Good,” George huffed, then he turned and walked away. 
“Coffee and trousers are called for, I think,” Ambrose said as he watched his partner’s naked behind returning to their room. He raised his hand to Millie’s shoulder so the pixie dragon could return to his mistress. “George will be intolerable if we don’t placate him with coffee and bacon.”

“I am ever so sorry for screaming, Mr Reid, and disturbing you all. I simply couldn’t contain my excitement when Squib blew warm air over my face.” Worry tugged at Millie’s expressive eyes, and she sucked her lips together as though she were trying to call back the screech that had so rudely awoken the household.

Ambrose patted her arm. “Perfectly understandable, my dear. We all have moments in our lives when we scream from sheer delight. Why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll all meet in the kitchen to marvel at the return of Squib?”

“It was a rather effective wake-up alarm.” Fern crooked her finger and stroked the tiny dragon’s face. “I am so sorry for what I had to do to you, Squib. It was the only way to destroy the vine without also destroying you entirely. I hope you can forgive me.”

The little dragon stretched out his neck and narrowed his gaze at her. Then he folded his wings against his sides in a gesture that reminded Fern of someone crossing their arms. She had the distinct impression he was considering whether or not to hold a grudge.

“I would have simply died if you had been slashed to tiny pieces and burned up with that horrid plant!” Millie rubbed her cheek against his soft hide. 

His mistress’s distress settled the internal debate for the pixie dragon. He blinked and huffed warm air towards Fern. With each puff, some of the guilt she carried at having to erase the magical words from his hide vanished.
“
Thank you, Squib,” she said and placed a kiss on the top of his head. “I shall see you both downstairs shortly.”

Fern returned to her room to dress and splash cold water over her face (her brain and body were still shaking off the vestiges of deep sleep), and then she headed down to the kitchen.

Mrs Bentley stood in the doorway, her favourite knife clutched in her hand. “What was that terrible scream? Is Mrs Carlisle unharmed?”

“Everyone is fine. It was a scream of excitement, not one of alarm. Sorry to worry you, Mrs Bentley.” Fern had forgotten that the housekeeper might already be in the house, preparing breakfast.
“Mr Hawkins will need extra coffee this morning.”
The housekeeper’s gaze turned upwards for a moment as though she could sense George stomping along the hall. 

“I think we will all need something a bit extra this morning. Like a stronger brew of tea for Ambrose and Millie.” Fern opened the cupboard and fetched the small wooden tea caddy containing an expensive brew that Ambrose reserved for special occasions. After swirling a splash of hot water into the pot to warm the porcelain, Fern measured out the fragrant leaves.

Soon, everyone was assembled. George hunkered over his tankard of coffee and held his silence. Ambrose sipped his tea and sighed with pleasure. Millie sat beside Fern, a mix of excitement and relief lighting her eyes.

Squib marched up and down the table, showing off his purple scales and flapping his wings as he glided from the candelabra (thankfully unlit, so he didn’t scorch his hide) to the milk jug.
“
It is quite marvellous how he has returned to you, Millie. An act of magic, wouldn’t you say, George?” Ambrose teased his partner.

George huffed and drank his coffee. He preferred rational and scientific explanations for how things worked. 

Fern kept her silence. There was no point in prodding the bear. 

“I think his new form is more magnificent than his previous one,” she said.
In their short association, she realised the pixie dragon approved of compliments. Besides, she still needed to make amends for erasing him and turning him back into an origami figure.

“Oh, yes. He was marvellous before, but now he is simply perfect. I believe it is because I wrote a story just for us and poured all my hope and longing into the words,” Millie said as she nibbled her buttered crumpet.

Story. The word bounced around in Fern’s head. Another sip of coffee and cold dread trickled down her spine, and she nearly dropped her cup to the table’s surface.
“Millie, what sort of story, exactly, did you write?”
Fern half-rose to stare out the window at her garden. She needed to inspect for storm damage, but would she also need to arm herself in case a man-eating monster was clinging to the wall? A Helix mortifera better not have taken over her lunanavis!

“Oh, nothing like that! As a writer, I could see that my previous story had gone in an unexpected direction. This time, I considered every word most carefully before it was inscribed onto my dear friend.” Millie beamed at Squib, who twisted and turned to examine the writing that covered every part of him.

That didn’t reassure Fern. The Stormborne Serum had distorted the previous story to create a monstrosity. How could Millie be sure it hadn’t happened again? 

The heart of this story is different, she reassured herself. Millie no longer sought escape but a place to belong. The gothic novel had turned into something cosier. Hopefully.