Back at the Withershins Inn and Tavern it is now mid afternoon and there’s really not much going on so—

What?

Really? Where?

Oh!

I do believe you’re right, fair reader. That does appear to be our fatuous fairy returned from whatever mysterious errand she was on and now huddled in the shadows in the back corner of the room with a fearsome fellow shrouded suspiciously in a hooded cloak and nursing a glass of Billy’s best elfin wine. **gasp** Whew. That was a mouthful. Ahem. As I was saying…

Our, er, lovely fairy godmother is currently closeted in a shadowy booth as far from prying eyes and curious ears as possible. She also appears to be on her third Blue Hedgehog of the afternoon. Oh, dear.

“You owe me!” she points an only slightly wobbly finger her companion’s way. Honestly, she does hold her liquor quite well. She hasn’t even begun slurring yet.

Her companion, he of the well shrouded hood throwing all but his elegant nose and firm chin into obscurity and shadow, does not appear fazed by the accusing appendage. Nor does he appear to have quite the propensity for alcoholic indulgence that afflicts our soon to be pickled pixie. He has only a single glass of Elf’s Glen white before him and that is still quite full.

“I do owe you, Madame,” our mysterious fellow agrees in a smooth and melodious voice before taking a careful sip of his excellent vintage. “However, I would greatly prefer not to tangle with the infamous Yaga any more than necessary. She’s still a bit… tetchy, shall we say, after our last encounter.”

“I don’t care!”

Clearly Madame. And might I add, your face is starting to turn a bit red and blotchy. Not the most attractive of looks on you.

“Though she does still retain one of my precious pets,” Madame’s companion purrs on, completely uninterested in the fairy’s objections. “I was rather fond of that particular lagomorph. It was excellently trained.” Our shadowy gentleman sighs over his purloined rabbit and takes another elegant sip of his drink.

“Tim—”

Ah! So this is the mysterious Tim.

“—I raised you! I took you from that rat filth squalor your parents called a home, made you my godson, trained you, turned you into the sorcerer you are today—”

“I prefer Timothy, Madame. It’s much less provincial.”

“—and it is time for you to pay me back! You will break into Yaga’s home and steal that egg before that little nuisance of a bar wench gets her filthy hands on it.”

Tim, or Timothy, appears to eye his godmother over the rim of his wine glass. Honestly, it’s hard to tell with that hood.

“No.”

Oh, dear. I do believe our fairy has gone quite purple.

“No?! NO?!”

The other denizens of Billy’s bar room are currently flinching and downing their drinks in a hurried attempt to make it to the door before the fireworks ensue. Our cloaked sorcerer, on the other hand, appears quite undisturbed by this outburst. Or the interesting hues of Madame’s complexion.

“As I said, no. This is generally considered to be an assertion of the negative, ma’am.”

“I. Need. That. Egg.”

And now the blue sparks are starting up. This is not looking good. Oddly, Timothy still does not appear concerned.

“And I shall get it for you, godmother dearest.”

Madame blinks and the sparks fizzle out. “But you said…”

“I said I would not enter Yaga’s house.” He waves a negligent hand. “I would certainly have a better chance than most of emerging from that confrontation the victor, but I see no need to expend my energies in such a battle when there is a far easier way to achieve our goals.”

Madame Sarsenet narrows her eyes but thankfully remains silent. The sorcerer known as Timothy continues his calm explanation.

“If this barmaid, this Elaine, is as resourceful as you believe, she will no doubt be in possession of the egg in a fairly short length of time. Therefore, it will be far easier—and less injurious to my person—to apprehend the girl and remove the prize from her possession, than to attempt an assault on Yaga herself. I remind you that the witch has not yet forgiven me for my last theft.”

“I still don’t see why you needed to steal that ridiculous trinket in the first place,” our fair fairy grumbles.

Timothy gives an elegant shrug. “It amused me.”

Our thankfully-no-longer-histrionic fairy gives a snort worthy of a rock troll at this statement. “Then tell me, Timothy, how do you intend to relieve the little slut of my treasure. She’s proved slippery up to this point.”

A slow smile curves across the sorcerer’s mouth. “Let us simply say, I have some friends who would be most eager to assist us. Friends who have no objection to getting their hands dirty. Or the rest of themselves.” This is followed by an elegant shudder. “Honestly, their personal hygiene leaves much to be desired.”

“Are they reliable?”

“They are… useful. And if they should fail,” our sorcerer shrugs one cloaked shoulder, “they are also… expendable.”

A most un-fairy-like cackle issues from Madame’s throat as she clinks glasses with her sorcerous godson and downs the last of her drink before calling for another.

Well, this looks like it’s about to devolve into drunken revelry and more cursing from Billy. **sigh** I suppose we might as well check in with Elaine.

Shall we?

***

Ah, here we are enjoying the afternoon in the market square of the mighty municipality of… Trollsbridge. Such a—

All right, all right. So municipality might be stretching things a bit. It’s somewhere between a hamlet and a village with about a gnome’s breadth difference between the two. But it does indeed house the nearest jail. A jail which almost certainly is the current whereabouts of that felonious female known as Cinnamon.

Our brave heroine and her companion certainly seem to think so. We find our girl and Yaga’s diminutive legerdamainist sitting at a small table outside the village tavern, sipping from a mug of honey mead. Or in Tom’s case, a thimble.

Elaine, dear girl, has pulled up the hood of her traveling cloak and is attempting to keep her head down. Which doesn’t make her look suspicious at all. Nope. Not in the least.

**eye roll**

Tom, meanwhile, is perched on a thread spool beside her mug, glaring at the building on the other side of the muddy street. Said building is a brick structure with imposing bars on the high windows, and a shield emblem mounted over the door on which is engraved the crest of the local constabulary.

“S’tel ee, Lasee, ho mih ye be tink’n ta geh oosin?” Elaine’s miniature companion announces, quick and sharp.

Our fair damsel grants the tiny man the same look she might have employed had she just heard the table complain about a water ring.

“I’ve no idea what those words mean, little man.”

What follows is a string of curses that I’m fairly certain are not fit for rough company, to say nothing of polite company—or whichever of those categories Elaine fits into. Thankfully they are as unintelligible as the rest of his dialogue.

Taking a deep breath Tom finishes his drink, clears his throat, and glares at Elaine. Though maybe not exactly in that order.

“S’tel. Ee. Lasee. Ho. Mih. Ye. Be. Tink’n. Ta. Geh. Oosin.”

“Right. Slowing down and speaking louder doesn’t really help. Sorry.”

Hmm. This is frustrating. Yaga must have had a spell of some sort to translate. What we need are subtitles. Subtitles.

“Tom—” Elaine begins.

“[My name’s no Tom! Tha’ batty old hag refuses t’get it right. My name is Thomulos Tumb. Thomulos! Oh forget it, jest call me Thom.]”

…

Um, fair reader, is it just me or did we suddenly get subtitles?

Really? Oh. Okay.

…

I… uh… didn’t just change the story. Did I? No, no. Of course not. That’s… um… let’s… Let’s just start this scene over and forget that happened, shall we? Right.

**time lapse backward**

Here we are.

Our brave heroine and diminutive legerdamainist … again… are sitting at a small table outside the village tavern, sipping from a mug of honey mead. And a thimble. Elaine has pulled up the hood of her traveling cloak and is attempting to keep her head down, while To… excuse me, Thom is perched on a thread spool, glaring at the building on the other side of the muddy street.

Said building is a brick structure with imposing bars on the high windows, and a shield emblem mounted over the door on which is engraved the crest of the local constabulary. You all remember this part, Yes? Good.

“[So tell me Lassie, how might ye be planning to get us in?]” Thom asks while glaring up at her.

Elaine holds the mug close to her mouth and speaks in a hushed voice. “Well, Sybil said you can pick any lock so i was thinking I set you on the window ledge, you slide in, pick the lock, and we make our escape.”

Crap. I did change it. What do you mean calm down? This is not how it went before! I’m not… I don’t… Crap. Crap. Crap!

Right. Breathing. Deep breaths. No one knows. Just you and me. It was a mistake. Won’t happen again. No one else has to know.

Right.

Story. Back to the story.

Right.

Um. I think I’ll just not talk much for the rest of this. Okay? Okay. Ahem. So Elaine is announcing her plan and Thom is glaring and…

“[So I do all the hard work and you jest sit here sippin ye mead?]” Thom snaps.

“Of course not!” Elaine snaps back. “You have the easy job. I have to distract whoever is guarding the cells so you don’t get caught with your face in a tumbler.”

“[Right, an’ this Cinnamon lass?]”

“You need to get her to come quietly. Find some way to convince her Sybil knows her and will hunt her down if she runs.”

Elaine stands up, scoops up the spool and Thom, and walks nonchalantly up the street a little ways before crossing over the mud to the alley on the opposite side. Thom, meanwhile, busies himself in her pocket tying the end of the thread into a foot loop.

As she approaches the stone building from the side, Elaine pulls Thom out. “Are you ready? I don’t know which window is hers so you’ll have to look.”

Elaine holds Thom up to the first high window, carefully trying to look as though she is only stretching and not planning a jailbreak.

“[No, jest a hairy sod sleepin one off.]”

Elaine moves down the alley to the second window. And repeats the tired stretch, adding a yawn this time.

“[Es she tha’ scrawny wee flaxen bint? What looks like a two-pence thespian?]”

“Yep. She’s probably wearing a red cloak.”

“[Aye, ‘ere she is.]”

Elaine sets Thom and his spool of thread in the corner of the window.

“Give me a couple minutes to get in and start distracting the guard. Don’t open the door until it's safe, and make sure Cinnamon knows the plan. And the consequences if she bails.” Elaine starts to turn then stops. “And she likes to lie. A lot. So, you know, don’t trust her.”

Thom rolls his eyes, and Elaine heads for the front door. Thom, meanwhile, wraps the thread around one of the bars and kicks the spool into the cell. Said spool unwinds, falling to the floor with a faint ‘tack’ sound. Unwrapping the end of the thread anchored to the bar, Thom hooks his foot into the loop he tied and checks the bar to make sure there is nothing to snag the thread.

“[Thom, tis no one a yer better ideas.]”

Holding tight to the side of the thread looped around the bar, Thom steps off the window ledge, and lowers himself into the cell.

Across the small cell, watching with mouth agape as Thom descends, is the felonious female known as Cinnamon. She sits up on her small straw pallet and is about to speak when Thom presses a small finger against his lips. Slowly she rises from the bed and crosses the room to marvel at this tiny wonder of a man.

“And just who… or what … are you?” she hisses in a low voice.

“[The name’s Thomulos Tumb, an’ I have a job fer ya.]” Thom makes a slight comical bow. “[My employer has ‘eard tales o’ yer master thiev’ry, an’ wishes ta exchange yer freedom fer a single job.]” He narrows his eyes. “[Or I can call off this rescue, and leave ya here ta yer well earned comeuppance.]”

Cinnamon opens her mouth to respond when a god-awful crash sounds from the front of the building.

And…

I think we’ll leave it there for now. Okay? Okay.

***

Meanwhile at the Withershins Inn…