The Withershins Inn. Right.

Um.

You know, fair reader, perhaps we ought to give our dear Madame Sarsenet a little breathing space. Just for a bit, of course. She has been having a rather trying time of things lately and we wouldn’t want to intrude on her—

What? No! It’s— She’s— I’m—

Oh, fine.

I’m staying away until the damned glittery histrionics are finished. Happy? If you want to risk getting your hair singed off by angry blue sparkles, be my guest. But no thank you.

I am following Elaine.

***

So.

Elaine.

Our sweet, sweet girl is still trudging through the forest. By the height of the sun and the string of profane grumbles about thieves not having the decency to stand in one place long enough to be caught, or at least let a person get a decent meal, I’d wager we’ve reached mid afternoon.

The trail is a touch closer to something like an actual road now. If being slightly wider with wagon wheel ruts on either side equates to a road. But the trees have thinned a bit and, I must say, the forest actually looks a shade brighter and more inviting. Almost cheerful. Wouldn’t you agree?

“Mother of trolls!”

Or not.

Clearly our fair heroine has found no trace of the red caped female with her larcenous tendencies. And a single cup of tea—even one so excellent as dear Randolf’s—is hardly enough to sustain a brave adventurer on a trek of such magnitude. Honestly, it’s no wonder she’s feeling a bit tetchy.

Still, she keeps on and—

Oh! What have we here? Just as Elaine is beginning to waver on her feet, the so called road rounds a large boulder and our brave girl finds herself entering another clearing.

This clearing holds a truly beautifully manicured cabin and garden. Honestly, the tidiness of those flower beds and the pruning on those berry bushes. Superb. The chinking between those logs looks freshly whitewashed, the paint on that green door could make grass weep for shame, and that front step had to have been scrubbed just this morning. Fates, the gleam on that window glass practically shouts “sparkle” and…

Er. No, I think you’re right, fair reader.

That’s not the glass shouting.

That did, however, sound like glass breaking. And someone, or something, howling. And… was that a snarl?

Oh, dear.

Elaine freezes.

And who could blame her? She’s had more than enough trouble for one day and—

Wait.

Does that sound like… running? No, no. Listen. I could swear I can hear running footsteps coming from… ahead of us.

…

Oh, my.

From down the trail ahead of Elaine indeed comes a running figure. Keeping a pace that would make Hermes weep, strides a spectacularly fine specimen of a man. Well-toned calves shine in the sunlight beneath his lederhosen as he moves. His wide barrel-shaped chest heaves, and his thick arms swing an ax of considerable size. This divine apparition—

*Ahem*

Pardon me, dear reader. I seem to be… uh… *cough*… in need of a drink of water. You too? Yes, you are looking a touch red in the cheeks. Though it’s understandable. I mean, honestly. Have you ever seen—

Right. Sorry… *cough* … Where were we? Ah, yes.

This paragon of manhood in embroidered shorts and suspenders flies past Elaine as the struggle inside the picturesque cabin finally tumbles through the open door and over the freshly scrubbed step. A struggle composed of a rather large gray wolf and a willowy girl in a red cloak.

A willowy blonde girl in a red cloak.

Ah, ha!

Fates and trolls, I think we’ve found her.

Our delectable woodsman flings down his ax and dives into the fray, sweat gleaming on his perfectly toned—

*cough*

Sorry.

A strangled scream erupts from the tumult as our valiant arboreal hero drags the clawing vixen off the disheveled wolf.

"Tis enough from you, liebchen. Calm down!"

The red cloaked female flings an arm dramatically toward a shovel and a heap of freshly turned earth at the end of the nearest flower bed.

"He ate my grandmama and buried her in the yard!"

"Frau Hiltrude? Nay, liebchen. I saw her just now at the Wards and Charms Crochet Society in town."

"And I don't do that anymore,” the wolf huffs, folding its front legs and looking supremely offended. “I’ve been clean ever since the pig incident.”

“Aye, friend,” our huntsman nods. “And ‘tis understandable, that. After all… well… bacon.”

The blonde rolls her eyes as the wolf nods solemnly.

"She," the wolf continues, thrusting an accusing finger… er… paw at the squirming girl held firmly in the woodsman’s strong, capable, glorious—*ahem*—in the woodsman’s grip, "was stealing from Hiltrude's house."

"I would never!"

"Thief!"

"Murderer!"

Snarling erupts from both parties.

“Cease!” our delicious hero of the forest booms. “I shall hear both. Harry? Begin.”

“Hairy?!” the girl shrieks with laughter. “That’s your name?”

Another huff. "I'm sure it's better than whatever your name is, you two-pence thespian."

The scarlet clad female narrows her eyes. “It’s Cinnamon. And at least I’m above hateful slurs.”

“Ah. I knew a Cinnamon once,” the woodsman sighs, a wistful gaze creeping into his eyes.

The current Cinnamon, still in his grasp, immediately turns her own eyes up to him, batting lush lashes at his well chiseled visage. Our divinely forged woodsman, however, entirely fails to notice.

“A fine dancer, he was.”

Oh, my.

Our current Cinnamon blinks and melts back into a glare.

Harry ignores the entire exchange.

"My pink gladiolas did amazing this year, and Hiltrude fawned over them so much I decided to surprise her and plant some while she was away.” He narrowed his gaze at Cinnamon. “Imagine my surprise when I heard someone at home. I went in to say hello and found this creature’s paws deep in Hiltrude's good silver!"

Cinnamon straightens her shoulders and arches a well-groomed eyebrow at him.

“You are mistaken. I was merely packing to take my dear, sweet grandmama on a picnic. Then I saw you and your muddy paws barging into the kitchen. Well, what was I to think? I mean, after all, you beasts are all—”

A low growl from Harry cut her off. “If you’re as innocent as you claim to be, let’s see what’s in your bag.”

"How indecent!"

"Where’s the bag?" Elaine asks.

Unnoticed by the feuding parties, our brave girl has been edging closer to the fray. Now they’re all blinking at her in surprise. Cinnamon is the first to recover.

“Who are you?” she snaps.

Elaine gives her a grim smile. “An interested party.”

Cinnamon’s mouth opens and closes as she appears to calculate all the possible meanings of this.

"It's in the cottage," the wolf points. "She dropped it while we were fighting."

Cinnamon starts to hop up. "And I'll get it. It has my things."

Our woodsman’s grip pushes her back down. “Nay, mädchen. Not until we’ve sorted this out.”

“I’ll get it.”

Elaine’s offer is met by a mere nod from our woodland Adonis and a grunt from the wolf, but the red-cloaked thief’s gaze is… shall we say… pleading? If I had to wager, dear reader, I’d say she’s hoping our girl will accept the age old adage of wenches before stenches.

Given the progression of Elaine’s day thus far, I’m fairly certain Cinnamon is clean out of luck.

Our brave, frustrated, exhausted, famished and totally in an ungenerous mood heroine stalks into the cabin and emerges a few minutes later with a large and lumpy red leather satchel. Ignoring Cinnamon’s protest, she upends the bag. A glittering heap of silverware, bracelets, gold buttons, hair pins, necklaces and other easily pilfered bric-a-brac tumble out onto the grass, a few bits rolling amongst the flowers.

"Where's the egg?" Elaine snarls.

Cinnamon’s lips tighten. “What egg?”

"The dwarf...dwarves...whatever you call them—"

"They call themselves a system," Harry pipes up.

“Sure. Whatever. They had a Faberge egg this morning. Until you came to call. Where. Is. It.”

Cinnamon glares her betrayal at her fellow female for half a moment, then… her eyes begin to well up.

"It was terrible!” she sobs. “They were all talking at once, and I was so afraid, and—" a single tear makes it way down her perfectly powdered nose. "I just ran, but I didn't take anything. I mean, you met them. They're clearly not well."

“Now, then! ‘Tis too far!” the woodsman scolds. “A little different, aye—”

"I enjoy their company," the wolf interjects.

“And ‘tis no doubt strange,” our woodland hero continues, “keeping a fair mädchen in a glass coffin, but what else should they have done?”

Harry nods gravely. “No one else wanted to have to dust around her until she woke up. Kind of them really."

Cinnamon stares in disgusted disbelief before cranking up the tears again. "And then I come to have a picnic with my granny and get attacked by this vicious animal."

"Hey!" The wolf looks truly affronted.

"It's really been too much." Cinnamon dissolves into sobs.

The wolf and woodman awkwardly shift away from the unpleasant spectacle. Elaine folds her arms and waits. Cinnamon continues with her histrionics for a few more minutes before slowly fading into a feeble series of sniffles. She casts a speculative eye up at Elaine between hiccups and gasps. Elaine curls her lip.

“I agree with the wolf. Definitely a two-pence thespian.”

“I know, right?” Harry cries.

Cinnamon snarls and leaps up, using the awkward space her tears have earned her to escape. Unfortunately for our thief, her three strides are easily overcome by one of the woodsman’s. Mother of trolls, those legs are divine.

*Ahem.* Sorry.

But Cinnamon flips out of the woodsman’s burly reach and jumps for an overhanging branch. Her hands have just wrapped around the bark when one strong, masculine hand grasps her ankle and tosses her petite frame over his shoulder.

"Come then, mädchen." The woodsman seems unaffected by the wild clawing and pounding his back is taking. "I think the sheriff will have need to ask questions of you regarding Frau Hiltrude and the dwarves.”

“And that’s not even mentioning the mess she left at the three bears’ house,” Elaine mutters. “I thought the little guy was gonna have an apoplexy.”

The woodsman’s eyes widen. “She hurt Vito?”

“Broke his mother’s chair.”

“Oh, that is too far!” The woodsman hefts the shrieking girl more firmly onto his shoulder and starts for the road.

"Wait! The egg!"

The woodsman pauses, turning his captive to face Elaine. Cinnamon, still draped inelegantly over the broad shoulder, casts a supremely rude gesture in Elaine’s direction.

“Go to hell!”

Elaine narrows her gaze. “Fine. Then when a very angry dragon mama comes looking for her baby, I’ll know who to point her to.”

Cinnamon’s eyes widen fractionally. She breathes several clearly uncomplimentary adjectives regarding Elaine’s personal morality and hygiene, then, "It's too late. I already sold it to Ol' Stilskyn. You'll never see it again."

The woodsman swings back toward the road and heads off with his burden.

“Great. Now I have to track down someone else,” Elaine groans. “And I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

The wolf pats her sympathetically on the shoulder.

“How do you feel about bacon?”

***

Meanwhile at the Withershins Inn…