Ergmin looks at me, sighs, and then smiles. “Ah—that gremlin.” He steps inside. “Come in.”
His house doesn’t smell bad exactly, but it is a little stale—as if the windows haven’t been open for severaldays. I spy a collection of cobwebs hanging over a closed shutter.
Make that several years.
There’s also an herbal tang to the air and the distinct smell of freshly turned dirt—which is an odd aroma for indoors.
“I suppose you want to see him?” Ergmin asks.
I don’t want to see him at all, but we might as well get it over with.
“Well, you’ll have to wait until I’ve had breakfast.” Ergmin plops down in a chair by a small table and nods to the fire.
I stare at him.
“Now, now, Anwen. I drove you all the way to Estlebrook. The least you can do is make me some porridge.”
I could if I knew how to make porridge.
Galinor takes pity on me, and he drags me to the pot. It’s questionable whether it’s clean or not, but since I’m not eating anything out of it, I don’t really care. A jug of oats sits on a nearby bench, and Galinor pours some in. He also finds a clay pitcher of water, and he dumps some of that in as well. He stirs it using a spoon hanging on the spit, and then he turns to me and raises his eyebrow.
“Aren’t we domestic?” I tease.
We wait for the porridge to cook, and the silence is a little uncomfortable.
“Did you sell your pumpkins, Farmer Ergmin?” I ask.
I’ve decided to ignore the fact that he’s a magical being. It’s less unsettling that way.
Ergmin’s lips twitch, almost as if he knows what I’mthinking. “I did. I had to change them to turnips first, but they sold.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“Turnips don’t make as much gold.” He shrugs. “But what do you do?”
I turn to the pot, waiting for the soupy concoction to boil. When the porridge is done—and by done, I mean sticky—we sit with Ergmin while he eats.
A cat jumps on the table, and it startles me so badly I nearly scream. Relieved it’s not the beast, I hold my hand out for the animal to sniff. “Where do you have the gremlin contained?” I peer around the cottage.
Ergmin snorts at my reaction to the cat, and then he answers, “I’ve bound his magic. He’s harmless now.”
As if summoned, the gremlin ambles into the room. At least, I think it’s the gremlin. He has large, rabbit-like ears, and his feet are huge.
But he’s fluffy.
And cute.
When the creature sees Ergmin has company, he looks at us with big, friendly, brown eyes. His fur is silky and spotted black and white—like a milk cow.
“Is that it?” I ask, already doubting my assessment.
This must be some other strange animal Ergmin keeps around.
“Yes.” Ergmin turns to look at the creature. “Say hello, Brugo.”
“Brugo?” I ask.
The creature bounds over to me and hops on my lap. I think he’s possibly the most darling thing I’ve ever seen, but he then opens his mouth, revealing large, sharp teeth.
