Kathryne Kennedy - Everlasting Enchantment

“He will forgive you,” said Claire.

Millicent turned and vaulted out the window. She wished she could feel as confident as her friend.

Gareth’s carriage finally cleared the miles of woodland surrounding Hobover House and the enormous edifice came into view. Rounded turrets of reddish stone reached for the sky. A long drive cut through a swath of green ground, broken by enormous yew trees with trunks so large it would take several men with outstretched arms to encompass them. Gareth suspected the branches sheltered more than a few tree nymphs, although he had yet to see one of the shy beings.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the arched stone doorway of the house and Gareth alighted from the coach before his man could pull out the steps. The butler managed to yank open the door before Gareth reached it though, and he shot the older servant a grin as he strode past him, straight for the ballroom. He noticed his new staff had been busy, for the marble tiled floors gleamed and the statues lining the hall lacked their previous cobwebs and coating of dust. Gareth had hired as many shape-shifters as he could, hoping their company would make Millicent feel more at home. Apparently they were grateful for the employment, and pleased that their new mistress would be one of their own kind, for they had set about their new tasks with enthusiasm. He had given the housekeeper full rein in setting the house to rights, and noticed vases of fresh flowers upon every table within the drawing rooms.

But he felt the most delight when he entered the old ballroom. The parquet floors of the spacious room had been polished and repaired, restoring the odd pattern of the blocks of wood. Gareth could not quite make it out, but he suspected the floor made up a larger picture… something to do with woodland and deer. The cavernous fireplace had been scrubbed clean, revealing a white sparkling stone beneath the soot, the mantel and sides carved with frolicking creatures that looked suspiciously like the one hobgoblin he had spied on his first visit to the place.

The branches and spices Lord Sussex had sent him had been carefully laid out next to the hearth.

Gareth could not recall instructing the servants to do so, and he had spoken of Nell only once within this house—with the queen, when she had pointed out the fireplace as the perfect place to build the nest.

The pile of branches crackled, releasing a scent similar to the sharp smell of pine, but with a spicy undertone Gareth could not identify. He did not know what sort of foreign tree could make such twisted branches, or create leaves tinged with silver. He could not imagine what sort of creature might have been living within them when they had been harvested…

…and might still be hidden inside them now.

Gareth flicked the lever that released the thin sword from his cane, and drew it silently from the bamboo sleeve. He took a step forward, eyes narrowed at the pile.

A small being emerged from the mass of twisted limbs. Not some foreign creature, but the hobgoblin of the house. Although Gareth had spied him only once, he could not mistake those little hunched shoulders and that crooked grin.

“Did ye bring them?” asked the small being, brushing a silver leaf off his head. He wore odds and ends of what Gareth imagined he had scavenged from the residents of the house: lace sewn to velvet sewn to brocade, tied with ribbon strung with gold buttons and glass beads.

“Bring what?” replied Gareth, surprised into answering.

Bushy red brows lowered over green eyes. A bulbous nose twitched, and a wide mouth frowned. “Why, the firebird’s ashes. As ye can see, I have prepared all in readiness for her.”

Gareth sheathed his blade. “You eavesdropped on a private conversation with the Queen of England.”

“Oy, ye best get used to it now, sir. There’s naught a thing that goes in within these walls that I am not aware of.” He strode forward, craned his head up to look at Gareth. “Besides, I think ye will be needing me. And I knows yer bride will.”

Gareth’s heart gave a little skip at the word “bride.” How he hoped to make it so. He sighed and dropped to one knee. He’d heard enough about hobgoblins to know they could make life miserable for the owner of a house: curdled milk, accidental slips, tangled laces. Gareth should consider himself lucky that the creature had taken a liking to him.

“Polite of ye to come down to my level,” he said as Gareth lowered his face to look the hobgoblin in the eyes. “I knew we would get along. Now then, do ye have them?”

“Why have you taken such an interest?”

“It’s been long and long since we’ve had such a being within the walls of this house. We shall be a grand place once more! Now show me.”

Those sharp green eyes lit with excitement as Gareth withdrew the leather pouch from his pocket for a moment, before stowing it safely back in his coat. But that brief glance appeared to satisfy the hobgoblin, for he grinned and nodded and turned back to the pile of branches, pulling out one of the smallest limbs with a grunt of effort.

Gareth blinked. The creature had a tail. A furry tail, with a ball of scraggly fur at the end. It stuck out of the back of his trousers through a narrow slit, and waved jauntily at him. “What is your name?”

“Again, polite. I suppose I should have expected that from a once knight of the Round Table.” He looked over his shoulder. “Parsnip. And don’t laugh, or I will have to revise my good opinion of ye. Me dad had a sense of humor.”

Gareth kept his expression stony only from centuries of practice. He watched Parsnip drag over his branch and place it within the hearth, step back, eye it critically, and then reposition it.

Gareth rose to his feet. “You look like you know what you’re doing.”

“Methinks the queen knew what she was about when she gave ye Hobover House. We once had a phoenix living here, did ye know?”

“No, I did not. Nor do I think the queen did, either—or surely she would have mentioned it.”

“Oy. Well. It was long before her time… and long after yers. Heh. But betimes magic works in mysterious ways, and methinks this is one of them. Hand me that branch in front of ye—no, not the smaller one. That big one there. Now, place it alongside this one, aye, and twine it about until it’s tight.”

Gareth followed the hobgoblin’s instructions, lacking any of his own on how to go about building a firebird’s nest. Parsnip eventually took a seat on the parquet, crossing stubby legs in front of him, leaning back on his hands.

“So,” asked Gareth as he twisted another branch together, “did you see your phoenix reborn?”

“No. She was still alive when she left to marry a sailor.”

“Then how do you know how to build the nest?”

“I told ye. I know everything that goes on within the house.”

Gareth glanced over his shoulder. “You overheard a conversation about it.”

A mischievous grin flashed across those rounded features. “She told the mistress about it once. Lucky for ye. Now, take the entire mess and curve it around, aye, just like that. Now ye’ve got a nice circular nest.”

Gareth did as instructed, then stepped out of the hearth to admire his construction. The fireplace stood so tall he did not even have to duck to get in and out. “It looks… well, like a nest. What now?”

Parsnip scrambled to his feet, stepped over to the containers of spices, and began to sniff. “This is the tricky part. Ye can add only so much of this, and then so much of that, and the proportions have to be right. Fortunately I have a good memory for nearly everything I overhear.”

Gareth filed away that little tidbit of knowledge for future reference.

Parsnip pointed at a yellow container. “That smells like the myrrh. Take two pinches—only two, mind. And toss it in the middle of the nest.”

Gareth took the granules, which resembled yellow tears, and did as instructed.

“Now this one,” said the hobgoblin, “is frankincense. Take four handfuls and sprinkle it on the branches. And the last here”—he laid a small, knobby hand on a red container—“is dragon’s blood. It is the most important ingredient. Take the whole pot, and spread it in the middle of the nest.”

Gareth picked up the pot and removed the lid. Another strong scent, this one. It made his head spin as he poured the reddish powder into the middle of the twined branches, then carefully spread it out. He rose, wiped his hands on his trousers, staining them with crimson.

“Yes, just so,” murmured Parsnip approvingly. “Now, then. Place the firebird’s ashes in the dragon’s blood.”

This time, Gareth hesitated. He could not go back from this point on. “I am placing a lot of trust in a conversation you once overheard.”

The hobgoblin scowled. “Did this Master of magic have a better idea of how to go about the rebirth?”

“Lord Sussex said I would have to improvise.”

“Oy, then consider us improvising.”

Gareth removed the bag of Nell’s ashes from his pocket, placed it carefully in the center of the branches, atop the dragon’s blood. At least Nell would be honored here, even if this did not work… “Come back to us, ladybird,” he whispered.

“Now stand aside,” warned the hobgoblin.

Gareth stepped back over the hearthstone, watched in surprise as Parsnip raised his stubby arms, the glow of fire lighting his knobby fingers. A slender column of flame snaked from finger to branch, and the nest they had carefully created lit in a blaze of glorious color.

Parsnip curled his fingers into fists and extinguished them, although the fire in the hearth continued to burn. “Do not look so astonished, Sir Gareth. How can a hobgoblin care properly for his home without a wee bit of magic?”