Chapter 28
Trewoofe
If Trewoofe still had his tail, he would be lashing it with delight at the result of his human lessons.
Ashling had proven to be an excellent tutor.
The Wisp had guided him through a variety of tasks: rehanging the herbs he had torn from the beams with his horns, changing the bedding on the pallet, opening the shutters to air out the cottage, adding water and smoked meat to the broth, washing bowls, and sewing himself some clothes to wear from the ruined cloak and a spare chemise.
Now, as he sat on the pallet, the Wisp perched on his horn as he wove tiny flower crowns.
Offerings Ashling had explained, for the Faeries who would sing their magic for Avice when she danced at Spring Equinox.
It was a special ritual she undertook to bless the woods and fields, to make both more fruitful in the season of creation.
All the Gardener women had done it, and it had meant that the villagers of Lamorna never suffered with famine as Spring had been blessed by the witches every turn of seasons.
Trewoofe had taken well to the needlework and floral jewellery making.
Even in his Knucker body, his forepaws were thumbed and dextrous, and his clawed human hands were even more nimble.
Trewoofe glanced at the locked door. He hoped Avice would be home soon, that she would be happy to see him awake, and even more delighted he had tried to ease her burdens.
He daydreamed she may even relax against him on the pallet, safe and warm in his arms that night.
He examined the diminutive flower crown in his hand; hundreds of tiny red blooms each kissed with dozens of soft petals.
Its scent was subtle but pleasant, and Trewoofe thought it would look fine on the head of a Cap or Knocker.
He held it up for Ashling to inspect; each and every one had to be approved by the Wisp before it could pass Avice’s final inspection.
“Lovely!” the blue Faerie chimed. “It would look fetching on a Cap.”
“Thank you.” Trewoofe looked up, trying to spy the Wisp on his horn. “My thoughts exactly.” He dropped the crown in the overflowing basket of offerings.
“How are you feeling, Lord?”
Trewoofe patted himself, feeling the humming crystals through his bandages and tunic.
He turned up his sleeves, checking the wraps on his arms. The combination of Avice’s treatments – the stitches, bandages, herbs, crystals, healing waters, and nourishing food – meant he was recovering well, despite the odd tug of a suture and dull throb of pain.
After being so ill from the iron poisoning, he never expected to feel himself again.
“Fine.” He grinned. “A little hungry, but as you said, I will wait for Avice to come home before we eat. I look forward to sharing a meal with her.”
“I am sure she will—”
Their attention snapped to the clunk of the lock on the door.
Trewoofe’s heart picked up into a gallop.
Like some wild Winter goddess, Avice swept in, dropping her medical bag and a bolt of purple cloth by the door.
Her cloak glinted with ice, and her breath misted into the air.
Her hood was up, hiding her face, and she had not spotted him yet.
Trewoofe tensed at the smears of dried blood – human and Faerie – on her gloves.
She turned away from him and ran her hand over the tidied table.
Her head tilted upwards, to the rehung herbs, and dropped back to the tabletop.
She paused for a heartbeat before she finally spun on her heel to face him.
“Trewoofe!” she squeaked.
Delight spread a smile on his face, and he shot up, banging his horns on the ceiling beams. He quickly ducked, determined not to make a fool of himself again, and moved carefully towards her.
He stopped in front of her. “Little witch,” he whispered. His fingers twitched to hold her. “May I put my arms around you?”
“Hug.” Her voice cracked as tears washed away the dried blood on her cheeks. “We call it a hug.”
Trewoofe nodded eagerly and opened his arms. “Then, may I— Ooof.”
Avice threw herself against his belly and interlaced her fingers at the small of his back.
He ignored the twinge of pain from the squeeze against his wounds.
The way he felt right now, he thought his heart might burst from his chest. He curled his body over and enveloped her, keen to drink in her honey and lavender aroma.
Soft and warm against him, Trewoofe breathed her in. His nose wrinkled, she did not smell like herself, instead he scented: blood, horse, oils, fish, and the musky scent of a human male. He scowled at that last odour, and something ugly twisted within him.
He stood straight, one hand on her shoulder, and another cupping her blood-smeared cheek. “Where did you go? Who were you with? What happened to you? And Nature’s blessing, are you hurt?”
Trewoofe surprised himself at the roughened edge to his voice. He was reminded of the Grim’s presence with a clatter of sticks over by the hearth. In his periphery, he saw Ashling land on the familiar’s head, his flames swirling from blue to purple and back again.
Avice tilted her chin up to him, her face pinched. “I do not like your tone.”
Panic bubbled in him. What is this feeling? I have not felt this way since I danced alongside the other Knucker male for Lindana.
Before he could explain himself – that it came from a place of concern and jealousy – she tore from his embrace, and he immediately missed the soft press of her curves.
Her expression sharpened. “Green is an ugly colour on you,” she hissed.
Trewoofe frowned and looked down at himself. “I am not green.”
Avice grunted and swept from the cottage. He watched, wringing his hands, as Bramble and Ashling darted out behind her. He scrubbed his face and sighed, wondering how it had all gone so wrong so quickly.
The Wisp floated back in and landed on his offered hand. “Avice is very upset at you. She has had a challenging time recently; today, most of all. Dealing with human males has always been difficult for her and today was spent doing that.”
“It was not my intention,” Trewoofe replied. “Words spilled from my tongue before I could think. I was worried about her. When I saw the blood, it muddled with my feelings of jealousy when I smelt a human male on her.”
Ashling fluttered to the open door. “Then you should tell her that.”
Trewoofe took a deep breath and stepped outside. His horns scratched the top of the door frame and a jolt of cold bolted up his legs as his soles met the frost. His heart broke as he studied Avice, furious at himself that he had done this to her.
She leant against the cottage wall, wiping tears away with one gloved hand, and the other scratching Bramble’s head. The familiar peeled his lips back as Trewoofe approached, and Avice looked at him with a crumpled expression.
“I am angry at you,” she stated simply.
“I know, and I am sorry. My tone was rude and accusatory. I felt a knot of jealousy, here.” He tapped his chest. “And it got tangled with my concern for you.”
A line appeared between her brows. “Jealous. Why?”
“You do not smell like you. You smell like a mix of fish and human male. I know you are not my soul-bound, but the thought of you being with another male makes me feel ugly on the inside.”
Avice scoffed. “I was with a man. John—”
Trewoofe prickled with envy and opened his mouth to speak.
She pointed up at him. “Wait! Let me finish. John escorted me on horseback into the village so I could attend to a patient. That is all.”
“So, you and John are not…?”
“No,” she chuckled. “Maybe, if he had fancied me back when we were younger. I would have liked him to court me, but John rejected me. He does not like me that way.”
For some incomprehensible reason, that made Trewoofe’s anger flare brighter. “He rejected you. What kind of fools are human males that they would refuse someone as wonderful, caring, beautiful, and fierce as you.”
Avice blinked up at him. “You think I am all those things?”
“Of course!” he exclaimed, tossing his hands in the air. “They are idiots if they do not see that. Why, if you were my soul-bound, I would tell you every day about how much I adore you, I would serve you in any way you wished, I would build you a nest, and we could have young—”
She reached up and grabbed his wrist. “It is alright.”
Her touch calmed his flames and reminded him of why he had followed her outside, to apologise and enquire about her wellbeing. He wrapped his fingers around her arm.
“Are you injured? You have blood on your face, your gloves, and I think I see some on your dress,” Trewoofe pressed.
“Not all of the blood is mine,” Avice replied.
A lot of it is though, Bramble piped up.
The midwife rolled her eyes at her familiar. “Some of it is.”
“Please come inside,” Trewoofe begged. “I have much to tell and show you. I long to hear your news, and I would like for you to be warm, fed, and comfortable.”
Avice’s eyes flicked from him, to Bramble, to Ashling, and finally settled on the open door. “I cannot believe,” she tutted, “that we have let all the heat out.”
Trewoofe chuckled. “Foolish of us, is it not?”
She nodded at him. “Come, I need to check your wounds as well.”