Category: Grimmon Darkly

The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 10

Here’s a tip: If you happen to find yourself flat on your back with a menacing figure in armour standing over you holding a sword at your throat, don’t comment on how good they look. It just seems to make them angrier.

Suffice to say, at my words the frown creasing the brow of the white-haired woman grasping the non-pointy end of the sword became a scowl. I squirmed under her burning red eyes and tried to avoid staring at what looked uncomfortably like splashes of blood on her deathly pale cheeks. My state of mind didn’t improve when I noticed what I’d thought was rust on her black armour was in fact more blood. Dried this time.

If I’d had any notions Hettgur’s attitude towards me would soften, they were dispelled when she opened her mouth.

“I’m going to run you through like a toad on a skewer,” she said, her tone no less gravelly than before.

As you may have gathered, our paths had crossed some time ago in the very establishment in which I was lying stretched out, a puddle of sour ale seeping into my jacket.

Despite what Hettgur had said afterwards about that occasion, I don’t believe I had been rude. Not intentionally, anyway.

I mean, whose tongue wouldn’t be stirred into making a comment – perhaps, in retrospect, a rash one – at the sight of an armour-clad knight sat at a table in the company of inebriated dwarves and trolls swigging a pint of ale?

What followed after that goes to show how lighthearted remarks can be blown out of proportion.

The indignity to which she had subjected me when she’d manhandled me out of The Old Workshop’s door and ejected me into the street, was unwarranted. And yet, even in that desperate situation, I had lost not a shred of my customary magnanimity. Despite the cobbles which had pressed painfully into my buttocks as I’d hauled myself into a sitting position, I had taken the trouble to point out that she shouldn’t feel bad about her treatment of me because she couldn’t help the way she behaved – what with being who she was.

That had been the point where she’d threatened to kill me if I set foot in the alehouse again.

But I stand by my words. Hettgur is a Soldarius Amor Mortis who, you would know if you’d encountered one, take offence at the slightest thing.

Take for example the events that occurred when the castle materialised on her world a decade or so ago.

Our sudden arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed. Before you could blink, twenty Soldarius Amor Mortis’s were clanking around the opposite side of the moat eyeing the castle with hostile intent.

You might think they would have gathered together and attacked us all at once.

But, no.

One of them made a remark that irked the others and they fell on each other, swords swinging, fighting to the death. From dawn to dusk, day after day, they fought in ritual combat, only breaking for lunch.

After fourteen days, their number had been whittled away until only a single knight was left standing.

Hettgur.

Not pausing to celebrate, she’d plunged into the moat, armour and all, intending to swim across and scale the wall.

I have to confess, I’d been impressed she’d been able to hold her head above water what with the weight her armour.

But her plan to attack the castle fell apart.

Two weeks of fighting had taken it out of her, and she tired quickly once she’d entered the water.

To make matters worse, when she was thrashing wildly halfway across the moat, the castle jumped worlds again.

We arrived in a new world with an exhausted Hettgur paddling weakly, her face turning blue.

Grimmon, along with a couple of Denizens, had taken my rowing boat, hauled her from the water and brought her coughing and spluttering inside the castle.

Since that day, her code of chivalry has forbidden her from slaughtering the castle’s inhabitants as she’d originally intended. Something to do with us rescuing her, I believe.

For reasons I fail to understand, that code doesn’t seem to apply to me.

So – getting back to the matter in hand – there I was lying on The Old Workshop’s stained floor, staring death in the face.

Hettgur’s grip tightened on her sword hilt.

My mouth turned to dust. I shut my eyes, waiting for the razor-sharp steel to puncture my flesh.

“Oh, Hettgur,” came the musical tones of a familiar voice. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

I opened my eyes to see Hettgur’s long white hair swaying as her head tilted to the side. The point of her sword pricking my throat didn’t move a fraction.

“Good day, Trewla,” she said. “Just a moment. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve despatched this reprobate.”

My buttocks clenched.

Trewla’s beautiful face came into view as she leaned over me. “Has he been offensive again?”

“Correct. It will be for the last time, though. Once I’ve cut off his head, I’m going mount it on a spike outside the door.”

Trewla smiled sweetly at me. “That will certainly stop him being rude.”

My voice, which had been frozen in terror up to that point, returned.

“Release me at once!” I shrieked. “Don’t you know who I am?”

As if I hadn’t spoken, Trewla said, “I wouldn’t mind if you held off for a while, Hettgur.”

An eyebrow lifted on the knight’s pale brow. “Really? Why’s that?”

“I need him for something that only he can do.” Trewla’s gaze returned to me. Her eyes were hard, though the smile remained on her lips.

“Very well.” Hettgur straightened and sheathed her sword. “But I want him back when you’re done with him.”

“Of course.” Trewla watched me roll onto my side and push myself to my feet. “The thing is, I need your help too, Hettgur.”

I gave an indignant squeak. “Absolutely not! I forbid it!”

“It will be my pleasure,” said Hettgur, ignoring me again. “What would you like me to do?”

“I have need of your tracking skills. There’s a particularly slippery brownie I’m after.”

“And what is it that only he can do?” Hettgur nodded at me.

“Once we’ve caught the brownie, this fine man will persuade him to return what he took.”

Hettgur leered at me. “And then the spike’s wait will be over.” She lifted her sword and sheathed it. “Until that happy moment, I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”

*** Continued in episode 11 ***

The Perils of Untying Love – Index of Episodes

The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 9

I’ve been into lots of alehouses, inns, and other watering holes on more worlds than I care to remember. Of all of them, The Old Workshop is the closest to home – what with it being located in the heart of Castle Silverhill’s bailey – but it is at the very the bottom of my list of Recommended Drinking Establishments.

Which is why, when we were as close to the alehouse as I dared to go, I stopped by a bay window of the house next door and released Grimmon’s arm.

All the while I’d been dragging him along the streets after we’d left the herbs and spices shop, I’d ignored his questions about why I’d turned myself into a rat, and what did I think I was doing frightening him and an innocent dwarf by changing back into a human in such an brusque, high-handed way.

“Right,” I said in a firm tone, cutting off yet another of his queries midstream. “I’ll keep watch out here while you go in there and fetch Trewla.” I pointed at The Old Workshop’s battered and stained door.

Grimmon frowned. “The alehouse? It isn’t dangerous. So, why did you say Trewla’s in danger? And what’s she doing in there? I thought she was more of a wine person.”

“She’s… ah… looking for someone.”

“Well, I suppose The Old Workshop is a good place to start. Popular venue. Who’s she looking for?”

“Oh, you know… Nobody in particular,” I said, examining my nails.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Come on, you can tell me.”

I ground my teeth. The last thing I wanted to do was tell Grimmon about Cosferas, the brownie who had absorbed the contents of an ancient spellbook. Locked away in Cosferas’ head was a set of spells that held the key to what makes Castle Silverhill hop from one world to another every couple of weeks. Who knows what Grimmon would do with that information. I mean, he might decide to help Trewla catch Cosferas and thus aid her in her quest to return to her own world.

I couldn’t have that.

“She’s on the trail of… of… um… a murderer,” I said. “Yes, that’s it. A murderer who’s murdered people. Lots of people. Dangerous. Needs to be stopped. That sort of thing.”

“Eh? I haven’t heard of anyone being murdered lately.”

“Ah, well that’s it, y’see. Um… The murderer’s crimes are as incognito as he is.” Without giving Grimmon time to think, I gave him my sternest gaze and hurriedly continued, “So, you see, Trewla is in a lot of danger. You need to go in there and bring her out, pronto.”

“I’m sure she knows what she’s doing. Are you sure she needs our help?”

“Yes! Because the murderer is a lot more dangerous than she thinks!”

I gave him a helpful shove towards the alehouse.

Grimmon stayed where he was and put his hands on his hips. “Why me? Why don’t you get her yourself?”

“Because I’m keeping watch out here. The murderer’s accomplices might come along any minute. I’ll fend them off and keep you safe.” I raised my fists in my best boxing pose. “Now go! We don’t have much time!”

I could see the doubt in his eyes, but when I cast my manly gaze up and down the street as though looking for bloodthirsty villains, he began to edge away towards the alehouse, coward that he is.

A creaking from behind me made him pause. I turned to see the front door of the house we stood next to swinging open. An ogre shuffled out, stooping to get his huge, musclebound body through the doorway.

“I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but yer voices carried through the window,” he said bending down and putting his huge face in front of mine. “It sounds like you could do with some help. If Trewla’s in danger from this ‘ere murderer wot you say is on the loose, I’m more than willing to keep watch while the two of you go in there and bring ‘er out. Safety in numbers, and all that. And to be honest, I’ll do a better job than you of taking care of the murderer’s accomplices.” He patted the enormous club hanging from his belt.

“No. No. Really,” I said, recoiling from his rank breath. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. We’ve got this in hand.”

The ogre squinted at me. “Hey… Aren’t you that supposed lord of the castle who thinks he’s better than everyone else?”

“Yes,” said Grimmon.

Like lightning, I clapped my hand over the treacherous goblin’s mouth before he could say anything more.

“Goodness me, no!” I said, my eyes wide with innocence. “I’m not as handsome as that magnificent fellow.”

The ogre was glowering at me in suspicion. There was only one thing I could do to defuse the situation and that was to take him up on his offer. I grabbed Grimmon shoulder and frogmarched him towards the alehouse.

“I’m grateful to you, kind sir,” I gabbled over my shoulder. “The murderer’s accomplices had better beware! I have every confidence you’ll fight them off while me and this deceitful goblin risk our lives to save the fair damsel in distress.”

I whipped open the alehouse’s door, pushed Grimmon through, and stepped inside.

Nothing much about the place had changed. It was as crowded with patrons as ever, and the stone floor was as littered with rubbish as the last time I’d seen it. Just above head-height, the room was crisscrossed by thick wooden beams which almost hid the vaulted ceiling. Weak daylight dribbling through a dirty window high on one wall, did barely any more to lift the gloom than the sickly yellow light from the oil lamps dotted around the room. The atmosphere was rank with the stench of unwashed bodies and the reek of spilled ale. Sitting at heavy wooden tables, and lurching unsteadily between them, were the usual mix of dwarves, humans, trolls, and humans with the odd banshee and pixie thrown in. As far as I could see the place was devoid of interfering ogres, which cheered me up.

“Where’s Trewla?” said Grimmon. “Can you see her?”

“No.”

I have to admit, I was more concerned at that point about the other members of the alehouse’s clientele. A few were casting mean looks our way, but to my relief, nobody seemed to recognise me or appeared especially hostile.

Nevertheless, it pays to be cautious.

“I’ll stay here and guard the door,” I said. “You stroll around and find Trewla. Act casual. Don’t meet anyone’s eye.”

Grimmon gave me an odd look. “You really didn’t want to come in here, did you?”

“Nonsense.” I smiled and nodded at someone I pretended to know. “I come here all the time.”

“Now I know you’re lying. You rarely go into the bailey. You’re always banging on about how awful the people here are. You call them lowlifes.”

“Denizens,” I corrected him.

“And what’s more, all that stuff about keeping watch outside, and now guarding the door. It’s because you’re scared of something in here.” He raised one eyebrow. “Or someone.”

More eyes were looking our way. I threw back my head and laughed as though Grimmon had made a joke.

Out of the corner of my mouth, I said, “Shut up! You’re attracting attention. Go and look for Trewla!”

He was about to reply when the door behind me burst open, thudded into my back, and sent me sprawling face down on the floor.

Dazed, I rolled over to see a hulking figure standing over me, holding a sword the size of my leg inches from my throat.

A voice like gravel scraping across a gravedigger’s shovel said, “You’ve got some nerve showing your face in here again.”

“Hello, Hettgur,” I said. “You’re looking well. How lovely to see you.”

*** Continued in episode 10 ***

The Perils of Untying Love – Index of Episodes

The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 8

I’d long exhausted my repertoire of indignant squeaks and terrified squeals, and could do nothing more than poke my whiskery snout between the strands of the net dangling over Grimmon’s shoulder so I could see where we were going. By the time he came to the end of the alley and stepped out into a cobbled street, my tiny stomach was like a ball of lead. The thought of Grimmon’s pointed teeth sinking into my flesh made my skin crawl.

On he wandered, deeper into the bailey, humming a tune, his heels clicking on the cobbles as he ambled along.

The peeling paint on the wooden houses sandwiched side by side at the sides of the street, looked like a multitude of scabrous tongues. Scattered among the houses were occasional older buildings, the mortar between their weathered stones crumbling like a philanderer’s promises.

When the castle had been new, the bailey had been a large courtyard encircled by the castle’s great fortified wall. Back then, the open ground of the bailey was used for things like exercising horses, and drilling the castle’s soldiers. Around the base of the wall, there would only have been a handful of structures like warehouses, barracks, stables, and an assortment of sheds and lean-tos for blacksmiths, fletchers and so on.

But once the castle started roaming between the worlds, it picked up an assortment of hangers-on who, over many years, filled the bailey with the buildings and streets Grimmon – and, reluctantly, me – were wandering around.

Those hangers-on are the folk I refer to as the Denizens. A sorrier bunch of ne’er-do-wells I have yet to see, what with the way they lounged in doorways, leaned against walls, or shuffled aimlessly along the street. Most were humans, but among them were dwarves, pixies, trolls and even an ogre. The range of clothing colours and styles would have made a costumier weep, but a few of the more respectable Denizens didn’t look too awful, I suppose.

In the past, when I’ve mentioned to Trewla how ghastly the Denizens are, she’s told me in no uncertain terms to take a long, hard look at myself. I’m not sure what she meant by that. I take great care over my appearance and I’m always perfectly groomed and attired whatever the occasion.

Jiggling around in the net, it occurred to me that earlier that day Trewla had pointed out I’d spilled my breakfast down my shirt, so perhaps she meant I should keep checking how I look to save myself embarrassment.

I cast an eye over my body. I had a nice glossy coat in an attractive shade of brown, my paws were nicely formed, and my… Actually, my scaly tail wasn’t terribly appealing, but if you ignored that, I was a rather handsome rat indeed.

Resolving to tell Trewla next time I saw her that I had taken her advice, I faced forwards again in time to see Grimmon had turned off the street, opened a door and was entering a shop.

A confusion of odours assaulted my nasal cavities. The walls were hidden by shelves groaning under the weight of jars of spices, seasonings, and condiments. Bunches of pungent herbs dangled from the rafters.

Grimmon threaded his way past a bench overflowing with piles of dried berries, heaps of desiccated frogs, and pyramids of tiny bones, and approached a squat figure with an enormous mane of grey hair, his back to us, tidying a shelf at the back of the shop.

“Hello Siggrann,” said Grimmon.

“The figure turned around, revealing the face of a plains dwarf. His brow creased in a frown and the hairs of his vast beard twisted around his downturned mouth as he gazed at the goblin.

“What do you want?” he said.

“Come on. Is that any way to speak to your old pal?”

“You’re not my pal. Not after what you did last time you came in here.”

“I’ve already apologised for that.” Grimmon scratched his nose. “Anyway, I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m running an errand for Cook.”

Siggrann gave the goblin a suspicious look. “Really? You? Running an errand?”

“Yes. She sent me ask you for your recommendations.”

“About what?”

“Herbs, of course.” Grimmon raised his eyebrows, his eyes wide. “For a dish she’s preparing.”

Siggrann seemed to be a decent sort of fellow for his face was a theatre of expressions as his suspicions warred with his natural inclination to believe everybody has some goodness in them

He must have decided to give Grimmon the benefit of his doubt, for he said, “What dish is she cooking? Pheasant? Goat? Fish…?”

“Rat.”

My world lurched as Grimmon swung the net, with me inside it, from his shoulder and thumped it down onto a nearby bench.

The dwarf leaned over and cast an eye over my body quaking under the strands of the net.

Siggrann snorted. “Cook doesn’t do rats. The herbs aren’t for her after all,” he said in a matter of fact tone. “They’re for you, aren’t they?”

“You have found me out.” Grimmon placed a hand over his heart. “I cannot lie. Cook has appointed me as tonight’s chef.”

My mouth dropped open.

Outrageous! Cook was about as likely to ask Grimmon to cook a meal as she would be to put a drooling werewolf in charge of a flock of lambs.

But Siggrann fell for it hook, line, and sinker. With a puzzled look in his eye, he said, “So, why did you say you were running an errand for her?”

Siggrann shook his head. “So, why did you say you were running an errand for her?”

Grimmon shuffled his feet. “If I’d said it was me who wanted your advice, I thought you might not want to help me… You know, after last time’s little incident.”

“Water under the bridge,” said Siggrann. A cloud of dust erupted from Grimmon’s jacket as the dwarf clapped him on the shoulder. “So, what sort of dish are you planning to put this wee fellow in?”

“I usually roast them, but seeing as this one’s rather scrawny… I’m not sure. What do you suggest?”

“Hmmm…” The dwarf stroked his beard. “Let’s have a better look at him.”

As you can imagine, I’d been frozen in horror by the proceedings up to that point. But when Grimmon reached into the net, grabbed hold of me and lifted me out by the tail, I squeaked and windmilled my legs like a miniature four-legged cyclist.

My heart hammered as Grimmon raised me to eye level.

Siggrann’s face grew enormous as he bent towards me. “Not much flesh on him. I think a casserole will be best. Add some vegetables to bulk out the dish. His meat will be vinegary, so you’ll need something to counter that.” He plucked a jar from the shelf behind him and showed it to the goblin. “Sweet basilisk tears should do the trick.”

Grimmon pursed his lips. “Vegetables? I’m not fond–”

His tongue froze as a flash blazed from my torso.

A cloud of mauve smoke engulfed me and I shook like a leaf in a gale.

When the smoke cleared, I found myself lying face down on the floor. Lifting my bruised head, I looked at my hands.

I sighed in relief. They were human.

I’ve mentioned Drucher’s modification before. It’s the process that automatically reverses transmogrification spells after an hour. Fortunately, the one I’d cast had the Drucher modification built in.

“You beast!” I said, glaring at Grimmon as I clambered to my feet. “You were going to eat me!”

He huffed. “You wouldn’t have made much of a meal anyway.”

“How dare you? I’m sure I–”

I broke off at a tugging on my sleeve. It was Siggrann.

“Does this mean you don’t want the basilisk tears?” he said.

“No! What’s more, I will never set foot in this emporium again!” I grabbed Grimmon’s arm and propelled him out of the shop. “Come with me! We have to find Trewla! She’s in terrible danger!”

*** Continued in episode 9 ***

The Perils of Untying Love – Index of Episodes

The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 7

I don’t mind telling you that being turned away by a troll with bad breath and an attitude problem got right up my nose. There I was, lord of the castle, barred from crossing a measly bridge in my own domain unless I crossed his hairy palm with gold.

It’s not that I don’t have any gold coins. I keep a handful in a chest in my rooms, but besides those, there’s a secret vault under the castle’s keep brimming with treasure. All ill-gotten, by the way, and accumulated over the centuries by my greedy ancestors.

No, my annoyance had more to do with being treated like a commoner. And to make matters worse, the unfairness of making me pay a toll, while allowing Trewla to cross without paying a penny.

Which is why, after being denied entry to the bailey, I didn’t head to my rooms for a gold coin as I’d originally intended, but to my studio.

You may recall that my studio is at the top of the castle’s tallest tower, which in most buildings of that kind would mean I’d be out of breath by the time I got to the top. Not so with mine. What with a warp in space-time caused by a misfiring spell, which I may have cast some years ago, climbing to the top of the tower entails going down the tower’s spiral stairs.

Suffice to say, instead of being breathless, I was overflowing with energy upon entering my studio. Without hesitation, I marched to my desk, seized my book of spells, and leafed through the pages until I found the one I sought.

Filled with righteous indignation, I stabbed a finger at the page and recited the magic words out loud.

With a pop and a puff of smoke, I turned into a rat.

This was no accident, I hasten to add. You see, as a rat I could scurry along the castle’s drains and thus bypass the beastly troll. Another advantage was, as a rat I wouldn’t be recognised. I’d have a free run of the bailey and I’d be able to poke my little twitchy nose into every nook and cranny. Cosferas wouldn’t stand a chance of hiding from me. After an hour, the spell that had transmogrified me into a rat would wear off and I would transform back into my normal strapping epitome of manhood.

My whiskery lips pulled back over my chisel-teeth as I imagined my human self heroically grabbing Cosferas by the collar and frogmarching him to wherever Trewla was. She’d be so grateful I’d found the pesky brownie, her opinion of me would improve a hundredfold.

With a bounce in my step, I scampered out of my studio.

Like much of the castle, nobody had ever bothered to improve the ancient drains. They were still the same uncovered, stinking channels they had been when the castle was new. But they made wonderful corridors for rats to roam about the place.

I darted along the alley leading to the bailey, and when I came to the open drain, I slipped into it long before nearing the troll’s bridge. Trying to ignore the stench, I scuttled along the ledge next to the trough carrying the effluent.

When I came to the bridge I skidded to a stop. Beneath the stone arch of the bridge, sitting on the same ledge I was on, was the troll. If I’d had hands, I would have slapped my forehead. In my excitement I’d forgotten that trolls live under the bridges they guard.

My plan to bypass the troll by going under the bridge instead of over it, lay in tatters.

I was about to turn around and run away when the sound of snoring came to my ears.

The troll was asleep.

I gritted my teeth, jumped into the sludge flowing along the drain, and with my heart in my mouth, paddled towards the bridge without making a sound.

As I passed under the bridge’s arch, I nearly lost control of my bowels when the great hairy troll snuffled and stirred. My legs froze, and my body began to sink until all that was above the surface was my tiny pink nose, my ears, and my eyes bulging with terror.

I was sure he’d seen me, but as I floated past, he settled back and was soon snoring peacefully again.

I drew a lungful of air in through my nostrils. Movement returned to my legs, and bright-eyed, I paddled onwards until I was far enough away for the troll not to hear me as I dragged my soaking body back onto the ledge.

I shook the drops from my fur, and on light feet, I scurried along the ledge, chuckling to myself. All was going well. I was safely in the bailey, and in a minute or two I’d leave the drain and begin searching for Cosferas.

My joy was short-lived. A flash of movement came from above and in an instant I was tangled in a net.

“Got you,” said a voice.

I was yanked into the air and found myself dangling in front of a familiar green face.

“Not as fat as I’d like,” said Grimmon, poking me through the net with a yellow fingernail. The points of his ears twitched. “But you’ll make a tasty snack.”

He grinned. I wan’t comforted by the sight of his sharp teeth coated in grime. Judging by the tiny clawed toes wedged between his incisors, his last meal had been a rat too.

“Release me at once, you idiot! It’s me!” I shouted. But instead of words, all that came out of my mouth was a stream of indignant squeaks.

“My, you’re a feisty one,” he said. “All the better. Anger will make your flesh so much sweeter.” He swung the net over his shoulder. “I’m looking forward to nibbling on it, but before I do, I have an errand to run.”

With that he set off into the bailey with me squeaking with rage, trapped in the net bouncing against his back.

*** Continued in episode 8 ***

The Perils of Untying Love – Index of Episodes

The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 6

A warm breeze stirred Trewla’s hair, and sent petals from the cherry tree scurrying along the flagstones of the terrace at the top of the castle’s wall. Across the ruffled surface of the moat, the landscape looked as welcoming as when I’d first clapped my eyes on it. It seemed a nice world, and once again I wished we could stay there forever.

I’d been worrying that I’d lose Trewla if she was successful in reversing the spell that moves the castle from world to world. But it occurred to me at that moment that it didn’t have to be like that. Once she’d fathomed how the spell worked, instead of her returning the castle to her home world where she’d leave and I’d never see her again, what if I could persuade her to undo the spell entirely and stay where we were now?

I drew clean, fresh air into my lungs and gazed longingly at the beautiful vista.

Gently sloping hills undulated to the horizon, some blanketed with trees, others with lush grass. A stream meandered between willows and beech along the bottom of the shallow, grassy valley the castle had appeared in.

There were no signs of habitation anywhere. No houses peeped from the trees. The hilltops were free of wizards’ towers, castles, forts, or even shepherds’ huts. Not a single elvish settlement graced the valleys, riversides, or slopes. As far as the eye could see, there was a complete absence of tell-tale columns of smoke that might give away the location of distant farmhouses, villages, or towns.

Completely free of annoying people. I sighed. Who wouldn’t want to live in a world like this?

And with only me to share it with, I was sure she’d be happier than a troll in a mud bath. Just the two of us.

I grimaced. Well, apart from Grimmon, Cook, the poltergeist and the motley assortment of Castle Silverhill’s Denizens, that is.

But still… I mean, Trewla and I could pretend they didn’t exist as we lounged in tranquil meadows, the sun dappling the soft grass. Under the spreading branches of oaks, we would dine from an endless flow of picnic baskets I would arrange for Cook to send to us daily.

I frowned. That would mean I wouldn’t be able to ignore Cook. Or the person she used to send the picnic baskets… I made a mental note to tell her she wasn’t to use Grimmon for that purpose. He’d find a way to ruin things.

I relaxed my clenched fists and glanced at Trewla. She had her back to the landscape.

Matching her pose, I turned around, leaned my elbows on the balustrade and concentrated my gaze on the collection of buildings that made up Castle Silverhill.

My studio, atop its tower, rose above the roofs of the kitchen, the laboratory, and the keep. Beyond them lay the mismatched halls, houses, forges, barns, barracks, stables, and storehouses huddled cheek by jowl in the bailey. Dotted around the wall were six squat fortified towers that had been built when the castle was new. Most were in a state of disrepair, and looked like broken teeth sticking up from an old man’s almost-toothless gums.

I don’t know if you’re familiar with twelfth-century English castles, but in case you’re not, a castle’s bailey is like an oversized courtyard. The bailey is within the castle, seeing as it’s inside the castle’s curtain wall, but unlike the keep, which is the large building where the aristocrats dwelt, the buildings in the bailey aren’t usually fortified.

Trewla hissed and folded her arms. “Cosferas is here somewhere. He has to be.”

“Not necessarily.” I pointed over my shoulder at the viaduct spanning the moat. “He might have left the castle.” I smiled, and added slyly, “It’s such a lovely world. Don’t you wish we could stay here?”

“He won’t have left the castle. Brownies like to be around people.”

I ground my teeth. She’d ignored my question.

Nevertheless, she was right. Brownies live to play pranks, and pranks need victims. The only place in this world Cosferas would find any of those would be within the walls of Castle Silverhill.

I swallowed my frustration. There would be other opportunities to sound her out about not leaving.

Rubbing my hands together, I said, “Right. Let’s begin. We’ll start in the kitchen.”

“No. You only want to go to the kitchen so you can sit on your backside and stuff your face. We’re going to the bailey.”

“But–”

“There are no buts. Cosferas won’t be hanging around the keep, the kitchen, your studio, or the laboratory. He’ll be where the most people are. And that’s the bailey.”

“I don’t like going there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She narrowed her eyes. “Oh… I get it. You don’t like rubbing shoulders with the hoi poloi.”

“I’m not a snob. But you have to admit, the Denizens… they’re… you know… uncouth.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Says the man who walks around with his breakfast spilt down his front.”

“What?” I looked down. Sure enough, a large grease stain ran the length of my shirt.

My shoulders slumped. “All right. The bailey it is.”

I buttoned my coat to cover the stain as we walked along the alley that led to the area where the Denizens dwelt. It had been a long time since I’d been that way – probably years – and as I strode along a few paces behind Trewla, something about the alley prodded at my memory. Then it hit me, and I halted as we approached a small stone bridge crossing an open drain.

“What’s the matter?” said Trewla, turning around.

My eyes grew wide and my pulse raced. One of her feet was already on the bridge. “I forgot to mention…”

I tried to hide my anxiety as a creature emerged from the drain and clambered onto the bridge, blocking the way. Two yellow tusks protruded from his lower jaw, their tips almost touching the tiny eyes peering from under his lowered brow.

“…the troll,” I said, belatedly.

“What about him?” said Trewla.

“He won’t let us go past unless we pay a toll. A toll for the troll, as it were.”

Trewla gave me a puzzled look. “I’ve been into the bailey many times before.” She faced the troll. “Hello Cedric. Do you mind if I cross over your lovely bridge?”

The troll grinned, revealing a row of pointed teeth. “Oh, it’th you, mith Trewla. Of courthe I don’t mind.”

He stood to one side and allowed the elf to pass.

I strode forward, but the troll straddled the bridge again, and held his palm out towards me. “Not tho fatht! It’ll cotht you a gold coin if you want to croth my bridge.”

“But I didn’t bring any money with me! In any case, you let Trewla off! So, you should let me off too!”

“I let her off becauthe she ith nithe and polite. You’re not. You never are.”

“But… But…. It isn’t fair!”

On the other side of the bridge, Trewla stared at me and shook her head. “Look. Just go back and get a gold coin. I’ll start searching in the meantime. We’ll meet later at The Old Workshop.”

Before I could say another word, she trotted off and vanished around a corner.

I glared at the troll. He folded his arms and glared back.

Pretending I wasn’t intimidated, I turned back. 

“…meet at The Old Workshop,” I muttered, as I made my way to my rooms where I kept my money chest.

My heart sank. The Old Workshop was an alehouse. The last time I’d been there someone had tried to kill me.

*** Continued in episode 7 ***

The Perils of Untying Love – Index of Episodes

The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 5

The spellbook Cosferas had appeared from was still lying open on the table when Trewla and I entered the library. She strode over and picked up the book, her frown deepening as she leafed through the blank pages.

Her breath hissed between her clenched teeth. Dropping the book, she picked up a handful of the loose lengths of string scattered on the table, and bunched her fist around them.

“I know you think it’s my fault the spells have gone,” I said, waving my arms about. “But, it isn’t. I told you what happened.”

Trewla threw down the string and covered her face with both hands. After several deep breaths, she dropped her arms and subjected me to a hard stare. “You obviously could never have been bothered to study magic properly. If you had, the instant you’d seen the words moving about, you would have stopped reading, knowing that if you carried on they would all be whisked off the pages and end up inside a brownie.”

I pulled my shoulders back and folded my arms. “I’ll have you know, I applied myself diligently to my studies.”

“I don’t believe you. Like I said, if you had, you would have realised the book’s owner had cast an anti-theft spell over it, and stopped reading before you did any damage.”

She had me there. I hadn’t been the most diligent of students. I used to skip classes whenever boring topics arose. Any hint the next day’s lesson would be about health and safety, or taking precautions, or anything of that ilk, would see me slipping quietly across the viaduct at dawn to explore whatever world the castle was visiting at the time.

My tutor had cottoned on to this. Whenever he fancied a day off, he’d lay it on thick about how tedious the following day’s lesson would be. Those breaks became quite frequent, as I recall.

But, I wasn’t going to admit that to Trewla.

“My tutor is at fault here, not me.” I gave her a mournful look.

“Yeah, right.”

“Anyway, how can you be sure this is the book of spells Geoffrey stole?” I picked it up and cast my eye over the cover. “It doesn’t look like one to me.” I was thinking of the spellbook I’d inherited and kept in my study. It was a thing of beauty, what with dozens of magic symbols, skulls, and a dragon drawn in gold ink on the outside. Trewla didn’t need to know it was me who’d added the dragon.

“All the clues were there before I’d even clapped my eyes on this book,” she said, like she was talking to a small child. “When you found it, you said it was bound all about with string and bore a label warning anyone with an ounce of sense, that the book should not be read.”

“Yes, but–”

She took the book from me. “My suspicions were confirmed when I saw this.” She opened the volume and pointed at something scrawled inside the front cover.

I squinted and leaned closer.

Ye Book of Magick Spells

Propertie of ye Grayt Wizard Wenzel”

“You didn’t notice that before, did you?” she said.

“To be fair, the writing’s quite small,” I said, straightening up.

Trewla raised an eyebrow. “That’s the closest I’ve ever heard you come to saying you’ve made a mistake.”

“Not a mistake, as such…” Hoping to divert her away from an uncomfortable subject, I said. “How come the anti-theft spell didn’t work when Geoffrey read the spellbook?”

“That bothered me too, at first. But the most logical explanation is that Wenzel must have only cast the anti-theft spell when he discovered his spellbook was missing. He was too late. Geoffrey had already read the book, so the spell didn’t do anything. That is, until you came along.”

While we had been talking, my mind had been racing. The last thing I wanted was for Trewla to reverse engineer the magic that moves the castle from world to world. I’ll lose her forever if she does.

“Oh well.” I shrugged. “The book is useless now. Nothing we can do about it.” I patted Trewla’s shoulder. “Never mind. Perhaps you should forget about spells for while, eh?”

“Absolutely not! Now I’ve got Wenzel’s spellbook, I’m closer than ever to getting back home!”

My eyebrows lifted. “I don’t think so. The book’s blank. The spells have gone.”

“Correct. But you’re going to get them back.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

“We’re going to find the brownie – Cosferas, you said his name is – and you’re going to persuade him to return every last word.”

*** Continued in episode 6 ***

The Perils of Untying Love – Index of Episodes

The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 4

The air in the castle’s laboratory was thick with the reek of what smelled like burnt straw and wet dogs. I paused in the doorway, pressed the crook of my arm to my mouth, and breathed through my sleeve. The midmorning light coming through the windows sprinkled a pale sheen across the jars, bottles, and gourds crammed on the shelves lining the walls.

My eyes were drawn to Trewla who was standing at the scarred and stained workbench, its surface cluttered with an assortment of containers and chopped pieces of what looked like bone. She hadn’t seen me, and I gazed silently at her, my mouth stretching into a fond smile, as she waved her hands over the mixture in an iron pot which was probably the source of the noxious stench corroding my nostrils and burning my throat.

My heart skipped a beat as a green glow burst from the mixture. At a snap of her fingers, vapour curled up from the pot and wove around itself in eldritch patterns.

She moved her hands away, then lunged forward and grabbed hold of a gleaming shape wriggling in the coils of green mist.

It squeaked and tried to squirm free, but pinched hard between Trewla’s forefinger and thumb, it didn’t stand a chance.

“At last!” she exclaimed. “Got you!”

The vapour around Trewla’s hand melted away, revealing a tiny green figure which was kicking her fingers and beating them with its fists. Squeaks came from its downturned mouth and sparks flew from its eyes.

She held it aloft, her eyes glittering. As she opened her mouth to speak, the tickling in my throat got the better of me and I coughed.

Her head snapped around and she stared wide-eyed at me. The little green creature in her hand screeched, tipped its head forward, and sank its tiny fangs into Trewla’s thumb.

She yelped, and dropped the wriggling thing back into the pot.

With a gurgling like dishwater pouring down a drain, the vapour vanished and the mixture turned brown.

Trewla growled and turned the full heat of her stare my way, holding her injured thumb in her other hand.

“You idiot!” Her eyes were like chips of ice. “Do you know what that was?”

I shook my head. My mouth was too dry too talk so I pointed at my throat and the pot to indicate it wasn’t my fault because if it hadn’t been for the awful smells coming from said pot, I wouldn’t have had the need to cough.

Ignoring my attempts at mime, she said, “It was a retrospective sprite, that’s what! Finally, after a year of trying, I caught one.”

I had no idea what she was going on about, but I raised my eyebrows and nodded thoughtfully as though I did.

She must have seen through me, for she said, “Retrospective sprites can see into the past! I was about to question it about the spell, but then you went and ruined everything!”

The spell she referred to was the one cast centuries ago by my thieving ancestor, Geoffrey. It moves the castle from one world to the next every couple of weeks. A year ago, it had plopped the great fortified pile of crumbling masonry on her world. She and her fellow elves had been curious about the castle – moat and all – that had materialised in their landscape and she had volunteered to investigate. While she had been engaged in that task, the castle had moved to the next world, taking her along with it. The rest of us too, of course. But that’s always the case. For Trewla, it had been the first time.

Ever since then she had longed to return home.

I’m not sure if the castle has ever been to the same world twice. Trewla hoped it would visit hers again, but just in case, she spends much her time in the laboratory trying to figure out how the spell works. If she’s successful, she plans to tweak it so that it takes her home. It wasn’t a prospect I was keen on. She’ll leave and I’ll never see her again.

“Sorry,” I croaked, trying to work saliva back into my mouth.

“Sorry? Twelve months of effort destroyed, and all you can say is sorry?”

“Well… I, um…” Hoping to distract her, I flapped the page I’d torn from my notebook. “I wrote you a poem.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You challenged me to write one, remember?” I said. “Well, here it is.”

“I can’t believe you thought that was important enough to interrupt my work.”

“It’s a good poem.” I held out the sheet of paper towards her. “The best.”

She dropped her head so her chin was on her chest, leaned forward and put her hands on the workbench. Her shoulders heaved as she took deep breaths. After a few long seconds, she raised her head once more.

“The best, huh?” she said.

I smiled and nodded.

“The only way it could be the best would be if you had help.”

My face reddened. “As a matter of fact, I did have help!” I blurted.

Those words had come out before I could stop them. Inwardly, I cursed. I’d hoped to steer her towards believing the poem was all my own work.

“Ah. It was Grimmon who helped you,” she said.

“Don’t be ridiculous! What would a goblin know about poetry?”

“Who then?”

“A book in the castle’s library. It told me what to write. I mean, it helped me. Not that I needed any help. I just, sort of…”

“So, you copied a poem from of a book you found in the library?”

“I didn’t copy it. There was someone locked in the book – a brownie, I think – and he may have helped me a little.”

Trewla frowned. “You’re telling me you found a brownie locked inside a book? A poetry book?”

“Well, not a poetry book exactly. It was more like a manual about how to write, um, romantic poetry.”

Trewla snorted. “Really?”

“Yes.” I waggled my finger in the air. “And it gave off a pink glow when I picked it up, so I knew it was about romance and stuff.”

By the odd look in her eye I could see I had her interest. Better still, she seemed to have forgotten about being angry with me.

“A glow…? That’s unusual. What was the title?” she said.

“I’m not sure. It was hidden by all the string wrapped around the book. And a label which was pasted over the top.”

She stared at me and said in a quiet voice, “What did the label say?”

“Oh… I don’t know. Some sort of warning not to read the book.” I gave her a smug look. “Obviously put there by one of my unromantic ancestors who didn’t like poetry.”

“And you ignored the warning…” She shook her head. “How so like you.” She looked into my eyes. “I take it you cut the string and opened the book. What happened then?”

“The words kept moving around on the pages… They wouldn’t stay still and I couldn’t read them, and after a while, there was a flash and all the pages became blank because the words had gone inside a brownie who’d appeared.” I looked down my nose at her. “Who, I might add, is called Cosferas and is very nice.”

Her mouth dropped open. “I don’t believe it…”

“It’s true! He is nice! And helpful.”

Trewla’s eyes misted. “All that time I’ve wasted in the laboratory when the very thing I needed was in the library all along.” She glared at me. “You have no idea what you found, do you?”

“A poetry manual. I told you.”

“No.” A sigh escaped her lips. “It was the book of spells Geoffrey stole. And you’ve let every one of those spells escape.”

*** Continued in episode 5 ***

The Perils of Untying Love – Index of Episodes

The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 3

With my pen poised over my notebook, I cocked an eye at the strange little man standing on the table alongside the book in which he’d been imprisoned. It isn’t every day you see a slightly grubby, scruffily dressed person with pointed ears materialising out of the text written on a page. With all those words in him, along with the rosy glow that had emanated from the book, I was confident he must be extremely wise when it came to matters of the heart. A walking, talking guide on how to write brilliant romantic poems.

What’s more, he’d said he was at my service.

I supposed that must be because I’d released him from the book… A bit like rubbing a lamp and getting your wishes granted by a genie.

Seeing my eye on him, Cosferas began idly kicking loose pieces of string onto the floor while stroking his chin between forefinger and thumb, like he was pondering the request I’d put to him a minute ago.

The more I gazed at him, the more my expectations grew. As far as I was concerned, he looked exactly how a poet should with his wild hair, deep-set eyes, and general air of seediness. Perhaps a little shorter than I imagined, but still.

“So that’s why you released me, eh?” he said, squinting at me with one eye. “You want me to write a poem about love on your behalf?”

“Yes, exactly. I want to prove to Trewla – the object of my desire – that I am as gifted at poetry as I am at… um… everything else.”

I threw that phrase object of my desire in there to show him I knew a thing or two about romance and thus warn him I’d know if he tried to pull the wool over my eyes with half-hearted efforts.

He narrowed his eyes. “Trewla? That’s an elvish name.”

“So? She’s an elf. What’s that got to do with it?”

“Well… elves are tricky.”

“Are you saying you’re unable to write a gloriously heart-pumping poem for Trewla?” I glared at him. “Who, I might add, is not tricky at all!”

While those last words were leaving my lips, my brain was mutinously telling me that Cosferas might have a point.

It’s not that I think tricky is a description I’d apply to Trewla, but I have to admit, my every attempt to impress her so far had failed.

But not this time. No, this time I was secretly getting help from someone more expert than even me. What could possibly go wrong?

“Not at all,” said Cosferas quickly. “I meant elves require a different approach. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

“Write this down.”

He drew a deep breath and began.

When cats are yowling at the moon.

That’s the time I think of yoon.

I squinted at what I’d written.

“‘Yoon’? Surely, it should be ‘you’?” I said.

Cosferas gave me a pitying look. “Come on. You need to use your head. ‘You’ doesn’t rhyme with ‘moon’.”

“But ‘yoon’ isn’t a real word! You can’t just make things up.”

“I can. It’s called poetic licence.”

“It doesn’t sound right.”

“You blunt-eared humans don’t hear things properly. Trust me. To us folk with elegantly pointed ears, it sounds perfect.”

“Really?” I tapped my pen on my notebook. “All right. But you can’t tell me anybody likes the sound of yowling cats.”

“There you go again!” Cosferas threw up his arms. “Relying on your dull human senses!”

“I can’t believe they’re that dull. Yowling isn’t romantic at all.”

Cosferas slowly shook his head and sighed. “Cats think it is. And so do elves.”

…so do elves. It hit me like a bolt from the blue. Cosferas had just shown me why I’d always failed with Trewla: I hadn’t been thinking like an elf.

I rubbed my hands together. “This is good stuff! Keep going.”

I scribbled furiously as he continued to dictate.

Ten minutes later, my page filled with pulsating poetry, he stopped.

“So, there you have it,” he said. “A poem that will take Trewla’s breath away. Once she claps her eyes on it, you won’t be able to fend her off with a stick.”

“Good.” I tapped my pen on my teeth. “Our work here is done.”

“Done! He said we’re done!” Cosferas danced a little jig. There was a tiny puff of smoke. When it cleared, Cosferas had vanished.

It didn’t matter. I didn’t need him any longer. I stared in admiration at my open notebook. I probably hadn’t needed him in the first place. The page was covered in my handwriting, so the composition was practically all my own work anyway.

I wondered briefly if I should write it out again in red ink on a nice piece of parchment, but dismissed the idea because it would take too long. Instead I sketched some daffodils in the margins.

I ripped the page from my notebook, and with my face wreathed in a satisfied smile, I left the library.

Trewla’s going to love this.

I could barely contain my excitement as I hurried off to find her.

*** Continued in episode 4 ***

The Perils of Untying Love – Index of Episodes

The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 2

If there’s one place in the castle that makes me feel uncomfortable, it’s the library. There’s something about it – the oppressive atmosphere, or the most-silent-of-silences I’ve ever known – that grates my nerves.

It’s not like I haven’t visited other libraries. I know how relaxing and calm they are supposed to be. Some of the worlds the castle has relocated to have had libraries. Whenever I could, I’ve visited them. I love books, so why wouldn’t I?

But the castle’s library has an atmosphere unlike any other.

I haven’t discussed this with anyone, but I reckon Trewla, Grimmon, Cook, and perhaps some of the Denizens who drop in from time to time, feel the same. You see, although the library is packed to the rafters with books, it is always empty of people. Not a soul to be seen on the handful of occasions I’ve plucked up the courage to go there.

I have a theory that the library’s unwelcoming atmosphere is the fault of one of my thieving ancestors. Not just any ancestor, mind you, but Lord Geoffrey – the one who, six hundred years ago, cast the spell that still today curses the castle.

Ah, I hear you ask. What does that have to do with the library?

Well, libraries are full of books, and the castle’s unusual behaviour started with one. Specifically, a book of spells which Geoffrey stole from a wizard who had stayed in the castle overnight while on his way to Tintagel.

After dinner, while the wizard dozed in a chair in front of the fire, Geoffrey took the opportunity to sneak into the guest room and take the wizard’s spell book. Back in his study, desperate to try his hand at magic, he leafed through his ill-gotten prize to choose a spell he liked the look of. A word or two from each page caught his eye, and not being the most literate of readers, he mumbled them out loud.

Forty pages in, he’d said enough out loud to inadvertently cast a spell.

One that had never been cast before because it hadn’t existed until Geoffrey accidentally created it.

And what a spell it turned out to be.

It cursed the entire castle to an endless existence of world hopping. Every fortnight, more or less, the castle – and everyone in it – moves to another world.

With that in mind, I’m sure you can empathise with my reluctance to go to the library. Entering it the day before to get a book of poems had been bad enough, but having accepted Trewla’s challenge, I would be passing through its door once again before I’d had time to recover.

That thought made me pause. Did I really need help from that romantic poetry manual?

Having seen for myself what a load of twaddle poetry is, I was fairly sure I could cobble some words together about meadows, forget-me-nots, fluffy clouds, and what-have-you.

But what if she didn’t like what I wrote? Without that manual I wasn’t sure I could produce a poem that would sweep Trewla off her feet.

That’s why, the next morning, I found myself creeping into the library like a mouse passing under the nose of a cat.

Maybe it was the shelves groaning under the weight of books, or the books themselves crammed cheek by jowl together, that felt so intimidating. It’s like they were watching me. Frowning.

I reminded myself not to be silly and hurried over to the shelf where I’d found the book of poetry the day before. There was no mistaking the poetry manual. It was in exactly the same spot, and instantly recognisable by the string wrapped tightly around it. I took it from the shelf and carried it over to a table.

From what I could see of the cover between the bindings, it seemed to be of good quality. The rosy glow coming from the edges of the pages left me in no doubt that it could only be a volume that dealt with matters of the heart.

With eager fingers, I tore off the warning label and examined the knots in the string. Too difficult to untie, I decided. I fished in my pocket, took out my penknife and had sawn through the string wrapping in no time at all.

As I brushed the loose string away, the reddish gleam from the page edges brightened. Definitely the colour of love.

My eyes widened as I pulled open the cover.

The pages were covered in words, their handwritten characters resplendent with decorative whorls and fancy flourishes. But these were not like any words I’d ever seen. They didn’t stay still, but drifted about the pages, flowing like oil on water.

I ran my finger in a straight line along the page, trying to force some sense into the jumble of letters and spaces. Vowels, consonants, and entire syllables jostled one another and glided away from my fingertip like minnows.

There was a pop like someone clapping an inflated paper bag between their hands. A dazzling flash from the centre of the open book sent me stumbling backwards.

When my vision cleared, an odd little figure was stood on the spreadeagled pages.

He was about as tall as a cat. His weathered face was made up of a small nose and whiskery chin under deep-set eyes. Dressed in ragged coat, breeches and worn boots, he looked like he’d crawled out from under a hedge rather than the pages of a book.

“Free at last!” he said, stretching his arms and legs.

I have to admit, I was somewhat taken aback.

“Who are you?” I said with a frown. “And why were you shut away inside that book?”

He winked and said, “Inside the book? Oh, nothing. Just a little misunderstanding. As for who I am…” He bowed. “The name’s Cosferas.”

Stepping off the book onto the table, he grinned at me and added, “At your service.”

I leaned forward and flicked through the pages. They were all blank.

It was like a rug had been pulled out from under my feet. How was I going to impress Trewla if the manual of romantic poetry I was relying on was devoid of instructions?

I was doomed.

Or was I?

“At my service?” I said.

“Of course. You released me. I owe you.”

“I could do with some assistance, as it happens,” I raised an eyebrow and fixed him with a stare. “What do you know about poetry?”

“Everything under the sun and more besides.”

I took my notebook and pencil from my pocket. “What a stroke of luck! You’re exactly who I need!”

*** Continued in episode 3 ***

The Perils of Untying Love – Index of Episodes

The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 1

Trewla, fresh from the laboratory, her hands and arms dotted with small burns from her latest efforts at tackling the spell cursing Castle Silverhill, was leaned back in her deckchair on the other side of the outdoor table from me. Grimmon, a not-so-fresh odour of fungus hanging about him, was seated next to her.

We were on my favourite terrace at the top of the castle wall, not far from my studio, which was the ideal place on a warm evening from where to watch a sunset. The world the castle had relocated to three days ago was mild, benign and rather pleasant. More than once, I had found myself wishing we could stay there forever.

I crossed my legs, groaned and tossed the book I’d been reading onto the table.

“‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense! What a load of drivel.”

“It’s poetry,” said Trewla. “It’s not supposed to be taken literally.”

I sighed. “Clouds don’t wander. They don’t have any choice where the wind blows them.” I pointed at the sky to emphasise my point. “Do you see any clouds on their own? No. So how can they be lonely?”

Before Trewla could reply, I surged ahead with, “Now, if the poet had written ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Hermit on a Mountaintop’ I’d be far more inclined to agree with him.” Seeing the darkening of Trewla’s eyes, I hastily added, “Or her.”

A day or two ago, I’d gone to the castle’s kitchen for a cup of tea and ended up lamenting to Cook about how difficult I found it to have a normal conversation with Trewla. For reasons I can’t fathom, they always turn sour. Cook had said something about me always putting my foot in it and would be better if I avoided talking to Trewla altogether. But she relented when she saw my downcast expression.

“Look,” she said. “If I were you, I’d stick to talking to her about things even you can’t go wrong with. You know, like the weather. Anything you can’t be offensive about.”

She had made a good point, I thought. Apart from her last comment.

“What about poetry?” I said. “I’m sure that will impress her.”

“I’m not sure impress is the word I’d use, but–”

“That’s settled then,” I interrupted. “Poetry it is.”

I grabbed my tea and hurried out of the door. It’s not that Cook doesn’t have the best of intentions, but she often doesn’t see matters clearly. I suppose that comes from her having been turned into a two-dimensional, flat as a pancake person by a backfiring spell that I may, or may not, have cast. Accidentally.

Upon leaving the kitchen, I’d gone straight to the castle’s library where I found a book of popular poems stuffed between a volume about werewolves and one bound tightly with so much string I couldn’t see the cover. A label bearing the words “WARNING! Do Not Read” had been glued over the bindings.

Armed with the book of popular poems, I had felt invincible that afternoon as I’d lowered myself into a deckchair on the terrace. Trewla hadn’t got up and left when I arrived, so I took that as a good sign.

I’d made a big show of opening the poetry book and flicking through the pages. Trewla hadn’t looked up, but Grimmon had given me one of those looks he specialises in, which involves him simultaneously rolling his eyes, shaking his head, and sneering.

After giving Trewla the benefit of my wisdom about clouds and poor poetry, she turned her face away from me. The tips of her pointed ears turned red.

“Or her,” I said again, louder in case she hadn’t heard me.

She turned her face towards me. “If you’re so clever, why don’t you write a poem?” Her lips stretched into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

I’m not one to back down on a challenge. Especially if it will thaw Trewla’s opinion of me.

Write a poem…? How hard can it be?

A thought struck me. That book wrapped in string… It had been right next to the poetry book on the library shelf. I bet it was a manual about how to write romantic poetry. Why else would a glow from its edges have shone through its bindings when I’d bumped it? The book had probably been trussed with string by a romance-hating ancestor of mine.

“All right. I will,” I said, trying not to look smug.

With that poetry manual unwrapped and in my hands, I’m sure to come up with something stunning.

*** Continued in episode 2 ***

The Perils of Untying Love – Index of Episodes