Vhittering House was a marvel from all sides. Pointed parapets scratched the open sky like long spears of dark wood. Great white pillars unlike any Eryn had seen so far from the Scarlet Coast ran along the north and south faces, some even rising from the earth to meet the rounded roof which hung over a wide balcony.

It had been under the first light of dawn that Eryn had made the trip the first time with Werner and the hunchback. At the time a soft breath of fog had obscured the house from view. Now however, with the stark blue of a midday sky stretching clear and far behind it, the spectacular house was revealed in all its glory.

As her horse made the climb a second time, she admired it in full. The road wound on ahead of her in a great spiral which clung like a flattened spring to the surface of a steep hill. It was upon this hill that the town of Urnn – for the most part – lay. And naturally, at the top of the hill, was Vhittering House.

Once inside, she was met by a series of servants, who, one-after-another, led her again to Rangogh – who in turn, promised to lead her through the house to the room in which he kept the changeling.

‘In here,’ he said as they neared a door in no way dissimilar to the rest. ‘This was my daughter’s room originally. I had it adjusted to accommodate a child rather than a grown woman after Dalia was born.’

‘The child’s mother? Where is she?’ Eryn asked.

‘Ulle was her name. She was a wild one, truly. Untameable. I was surprised the day the young Prince Arnst of Berchmuld asked for her hand. I thought I might have quite the task ahead of me to find her a match – but no!’ muttered Rangogh with a misty-eyed smile. There was something in it that seemed awfully sad to Eryn. ‘She hadn’t lived here in many years, but when she fell pregnant we thought it best for her to come home. Berchmuld was to be the site of an arduous siege in the coming months, you see, so naturally not the best setting for childbirth… Not that it mattered in the end, I suppose.’

‘Why do you say that?’

Rangogh looked down. ‘She died,’ he said, hanging his head. ‘We managed to save the child – Dalia – but I’m afraid the toll was too great upon my dear daughter.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Eryn.

‘Thank you,’ said Rangogh.

‘Where is her father? Why is Dalia staying with you?’

‘Idiot went and lost his head in the siege.’

Eryn blinked. ‘I thought the defenders won the siege of Berchmuld?’ she said.

‘They did. But only after the rabble rose-up and lopped off the heads of their masters. Still, it wasn’t to last. I hear they have another prince now. One of Dalia’s uncles, I presume. A man who I hope to never meet. Rest assured, none of her Berchmuldan kin couldn’t give less than a shit about Dalia. As far as a Sjudilian royal is concerned, a match that doesn’t expand their borders is illegitimate – until of course the offspring of one such match is required as a pawn in some political game!’

Eryn shot him a quizzical look. The viscount, suddenly aware that his passion had gotten the better of him, sighed loudly. ‘I won’t lie to you, Eryn,’ he said. ‘Nothing matters more to me on this earth, than Dalia. I have suffered through a great many requests of betrothal from men like those in Berchmuld. And I mean suffered. Famous warriors, dragon-slayers – so they say – and fat fucking pervert-kings. They come with their armies. They come with their tricksters, their bags of gold, their knives and venom about my house… But still my resolve has held true through it all! I promised I would not fail her like her mother – and I certainly will not lose her to a bunch of fucking insects.’

‘Interesting,’ said Eryn, striding past the viscount who was practically frothing at the mouth. ‘Why didn’t you mention her suitors earlier?’

‘I didn’t think it relevant,’ he said, frowning. ‘What would a fairy – a- a- changeling, as you call it – have to do with the wills of foreign courts? Do wild creatures often concern themselves with feudal affairs?’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘Not usually.’

Eryn pushed the door aside, striding past the bewildered viscount on her way into the room with a look of bottled amusement.

The room was dark. Rangogh, frozen in the doorway, did not make the slightest move to enter – nor did Eryn wish him to, in truth. She let the door swing closed behind her without a sound, and looked through the silent black, toward a shape – a cot – set against the farthest wall. 

Nestled in a bundle of expensive cotton, the little grey creature squirmed. It was about the size of a baby, though fatter and with scalier skin. From the top of its bald head shot spindly horns that looked more like wood than bone. Its eyes were of the deepest, muddiest red, and its hands, which were oversized, bore sharp talons where soft, stubby nails ought to have been.

The thing peered over the edge of the cot as Eryn approached and took a seat on a stool beside it. She had taken her chance and changed into something far more befitting of her profession in her brief time away from the viscount’s house. Tall boots rose over patchy riding trousers – halting just shy of the knee, while at her waist her dazzlingly white, silk shirt was tucked, beneath a black jerkin. The jacket was short and well-tailored, though showed significant signs of aging. Buttons that were once polished silver were now as dull as wrought iron, and there were scuffs along both shoulders and what looked like an old scar ran down the back.

Eryn felt altogether more comfortable in this “new” outfit than she had the dress. She stood taller. Strode with a decided swagger. And glared with more weight and wisdom. It was as though the dents – the patches and scrapes – suited her better; as though the dress had been nothing more than a veil.

The changeling glowered back, and spat a spray of spittle – but Eryn didn’t flinch. She narrowed her eyes and stared harder and colder until the creature seemed to understand… It did not like that it understood.

‘They call me Eryn of Koss. I’m a witch,’ she said finally. ‘I’m told you aren’t doing a lot of talking. Not with the viscount, at least. I wondered if you might speak to me.’

The changeling scowled, and turned sharply over in the cot. Eryn did not relent. ‘I know you don’t belong here, changeling. But I am not here to see that you are removed. I only want the girl your people stole.’

Again, the little monster shot her a foul look and tossed itself over. Eryn leaned nearer so that the thing could feel her breath on its back. ‘I hope you understand,’ she whispered in an icy tone. ‘If the girl dies… your culpability will not be overlooked. If she dies…’

Eryn muttered the rest in another tongue. A language that did not quite fit her mouth, but one she spoke with fluency all the same. What she said was a mystery – though by the snap of her teeth and the chill of her stare, it was not difficult to glean the gist of it.

The changeling ceased its scowling and turned slowly about. Two beady eyes, as red as her own, only fouler and swimming with malice, fell upon her face. It spoke a moment later.

‘You speak fae?’ the changeling asked. Its voice was high-pitched and scratchy; the grim twang of detuned violin strings. ‘It’s been a few years since my ears caught the mix of man and fae-tongue. Your pronunciation is excellent – but your physiology is your downfall!’

‘If I had a coat for every time I’d heard that…’ said Eryn, rolling her eyes.

‘You’d be very warm, that’s for sure!’ the creature cried. It giggled like a child might, but with every drawn breath it opened wide and exposed a pair of black fangs and a long, barbed tongue.

‘Enough jokes,’ hissed the witch. ‘Tell me about the girl.’

‘Can’t!’it spat. ‘No idea who nicked it or who didn’t! You might as well ask the walls! The rug! The window! The-’

‘Settle down, imp,’ Eryn interjected, placing a hand atop the changeling’s forehead. It squirmed against her grip; gnashing its teeth, snarling and kicking. Then, as the monster took hold of her hand with its own; ready to drag its filthy nails against her skin, there was a blinding flash from her palm.

The glow faded a moment later – from all corners of the room, except where she’d touched. On the changeling’s forehead there was now a burning mark. A sigil in smoking white light, stuck fast to its grey skin as though carved by a knife.

‘Ungh,’ the changeling moaned, saliva streaming from the corners of its gaping mouth. It no longer smiled mischievously or scowled at her as it spoke. Instead, its expression was entirely vacant. Passive. Suggestive.

‘The fairies that left you here, where did they take the girl?’ Eryn said.

‘Gah- No takers. No takers of fairy… blech,’ the changeling muttered.

Eryn raised an eyebrow. ‘Not a fairy. A human girl. A child,’ she said. ‘Where did they take it?’

‘Child got taken. Back to brown place. Dead wood. Deader grass.’

‘Where?’

‘Brown place. Dead wood. Deader grass,’ the monster repeated. Eryn rubbed the knot building between her eyes.

‘How did they get in?’

‘Came in… Came in with me they did,’ the changeling said. ‘Carried me into this cot from the brown place. Brown and yellow. We had a good deal. Deal. They said it too. Deal. Not the one that carried – the other one. The handsome one from long ago.’

‘What sort of deal?’

‘Traded me. Traded her cot for another’s. Gave him coin too. Coin was for the ugly one.’

‘Who?’ Eryn asked, leaning closer. The changeling spat a mouthful of saliva onto the pillow and grinned; its eyes tightly shut. ‘Who did you give the coin to?’

‘Coin? Coin, yeah. Ungh… Gave him plenty for armed… Armed something. He wanted help… He wanted an army but I said it wouldn’t last him. Fairy silver doesn’t last.’

‘Who wanted an army?’

‘The ugly one! Don’t know him. Wasn’t a- Didn’t speak fae… Didn’t speak a whole lot at all!’ The changeling descended into manic laughter, kicking the end of the cot with both feet and bouncing its head off the sodden pillow.

‘Are you saying it was a man? A human traded you for the baby girl?’

‘A man! Gah… Ha-ha!’ shrieked the changeling. ‘Swapped me! Ha-ha! Ah-ha! Got one in the house, he has! One like a crook!’

‘What did he need the armed men for? Did he say?’

‘Guhh- Watching me. They’re watching. Watching. Guarding… Watching! Ha!’ 

The cot creaked threateningly under the force of the changeling’s flailing. Eryn grabbed hold of the cradle with both hands just as the support sheared. The legs toppled to the stone floor with a clamour. ‘Watching! Watching…’ the monster continued to harp.

‘Shh,’ the witch said, laying the cradle down upon the ground. ‘Rest now.’

Careful not to come too near to its chattering teeth, she drew a finger along the glowing mark on the creature’s forehead. As though it were blood in water, or smoke in the air, it was swept away in an instant and dissipated.

Exhausted, the changeling slumped back into the pillow, limp as a log, and began to snore.