I begin to draw vines. But not normal vines. These are Fey vines from the Old Forest. Impossibly thick, ropy, and twisted, things that cling and climb, colored in the impossible mossy green, muddy red and burnt orange. They twine around the perimeter of the rug, creating a dense, woven jungle.

  "It needs inhabitants," I say, my hand moving faster.

  I start filling the vines with a "woven menagerie." Since the humans here have never seen Fey creatures, I have to be precise.

  "What is that?" Melina asks, pointing to a creature with the upper body of a man and the lower body of a horse, looking thoroughly irritated.

  "A Centaur," I explain. "Note the expression. He is annoyed."

  "Annoyed by what?"

  I draw the creature next to him. It is a large, squat, sulking frog. I draw it wearing a tiny velvet doublet and hose.

  Melina stifles a laugh. "That frog... it looks like Duke Basten."

  "Unintentional," I say . "He is sulking because the pollywog is judging his fashion sense."

  I keep drawing, populating the woolen forest.

  I add Dusk Foxes with their two tails. I sketch Pixies and Nixies peeking out from behind Dandy Lions, which I draw literally as lions with manes made of dandelion petals, wearing monocles.

  "And here," I say, sketching a creature with eight arms clinging to a birch branch. "A Tree Octopus."

  "Octopuses live in the ocean, My Lady," Melina corrects gently.

  “Not where I’m from. They live in trees. They prefer oaks. They drop on you, smother you and haul you into their tree to be consumed at their leisure,” I reply.

  I add Kelpies dripping water into the mossy green wool. I add Phookas in their terrifying horse forms. I add Echo Lynx with their oversized ears. A few brownies peek out from behind a leaf.

  "No Satyrs?" Melina asks, looking at the empty space near a group of Dryads.

  I pause. I consider drawing a Satyr chasing a Nymph.

  "No," I decide. "Satyrs are... enthusiastic. I do not want the Queen fainting in the hallway. We shall leave the lecherous goats out of it. We have a lecherous king. That’s enough Satyr in this palace for all of us, I think..."

  Instead, I fill the space with Wampuses and Selkies. I draw Mermaids lounging in the muddy-red river that winds through the vines.

  Then, I pick up the white chalk.

  "This is the trick," I whisper. "The Grinning Cats."

  I draw them carefully, their stripes blending into the background vines.

  "I will instruct the weavers to use a variable-pile technique," I explain. "If you stand at the door, you see the cat. If you step forward... it vanishes into the rug. It will look like the carpet is watching you."

  Finally, I draw the guardians. At the four corners of the rug, standing sentinel over the chaos, I sketch Nicorns. They are not the pretty unicorns of human fairy tales. These are massive, muscular beasts, black as jet and twice as fearsome as a dragon. They’re intelligent and usually armored. They roam the Fey highlands in clan groups.

  I sit back, wiping the chalk dust from my hands.

  The drawing is a riot. The solemn, boring Blue Bear in the center is completely surrounded, overwhelmed, and mocked by the vibrant, chaotic Fey nonsense bordering it. It is a visual representation of my time at court.

  "It is... busy," Melina admits.

  “It is lively,” I correct her.

  I roll up the parchment.

  "Pack this up, Melina. We visit the Guild of Weavers first thing in the morning. I want this under the King's feet before the snow melts. I want him to walk on my world every time he enters his own house."

  Melina looks at me, “He still hasn’t realized that every time he does something to you that you do something like this back, has he?”

  I shake my head, “The new plates will be here soon and the boots should start arriving in a few days. At the rate things are going, I’ll have redecorated the entire palace by spring.”

  Despite the late night sketching out the new entry way carpet, I bound of bed, excited. Today is the party and I have a carpet to order.

  The Guild of Weavers smells of lanolin, dye, and wet sheep. The air vibrates with the rhythmic clack-clack-whoosh of a hundred looms working in unison. It is a comforting, industrial sound, but I am here to disrupt it.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Master Wulf, the Guildmaster, meets us. He is a thin man with long, nimble fingers and threads permanently stuck to his velvet doublet. He looks at the massive roll of parchment Melina is carrying with trepidation.

  "Princess," he bows. "We are still finishing the 'Moss Green' runner for the audience hall."

  I signal Melina. She unrolls the sketch.

  The "Menagerie Carpet" design sprawls across the table. The center is a solemn, boring block of Centis Blue with the royal seal. But the border is a riot of Burnt Orange vines, Muddy Red rivers, and Moss Green foliage, populated by the insanity I drew last night.

  Wulf stares at it. He adjusts his spectacles. He leans closer.

  "Is that..." he points a shaking finger. "Is that a frog wearing pants?"

  "A doublet," I correct. "He is a nobleman. See the expression of existential ennui?"

  I doubt they’ve ever seen a pollywog.

  "And this?" He points to the creature hanging from a birch tree. "It looks like a squid."

  "Tree Octopus," I say. "Native to my homeland. Very aggressive. Make sure the suckers look sticky."

  Wulf traces the border, his eyes widening as he takes in the Centaurs arguing with the frogs, the monocle-wearing Dandy Lions, and the Mermaids lounging in the mud-colored river.

  "Princess," Wulf says slowly. "These colors... the orange against the blue... the red against the green... it vibrates. It hurts the eyes."

  "It stimulates the senses!" I insist. "The palace is too drab. This carpet will tell a story. It is a journey, Master Wulf. A journey from the solemn dignity of the King's rule," I tap the blue center, "into the wild, untamed magic of the natural world."

  "It looks like the natural world is attacking the King," Wulf mutters.

  "Interpretation is the joy of art," I smile. "Now, look here."

  I point to the white stripes hidden in the vines. This will be the masterpiece, the Grinning Cats.

  "This requires your master weavers," I explain. "I want a variable-pile technique. Slant the white threads to the left, and the background threads to the right."

  Wulf frowns, doing the mental geometry. "Directional weaving? That is ancient technique. Very expensive."

  "If done correctly," I continue, ignoring the cost, "when the King stands at the door, he will see the cat grinning at him. But as he walks forward... poof. The cat vanishes into the vines. Much as they do in the wild."

  Wulf looks at the cat. He looks at me. A slow, craftsman's appreciation dawns on his face.

  "A ghost image," he whispers. "We haven't attempted that since the Old King's coronation banner."

  "Can you do it?"

  "We can," Wulf nods, his pride piqued. "But the dying... getting this specific shade of 'Muddy Red'..."

  "I have brought samples," I say, pulling a swatch of dried clay and a chrysanthemum from my bag. "Match these. Exactly."

  "And the quantity?" Wulf asks, looking at the complex border. "This is for the Entryway?"

  "For now," I say. "But if the King likes it, and I am sure he will be overwhelmed by it, I want this border on every runner in the palace. I want the halls to feel like a continuous, creeping forest."

  I place a heavy bag of gold on the corner of the parchment to keep it from rolling up.

  "Start immediately, Master Wulf. I want the Menagerie installed before the next snowfall. The King needs something... lively... to look at while he squeezes through the front door."

  Wulf touches the gold, then looks back at the sketch of the frog in pants.

  "It will be... a conversation piece, My Lady. That is for certain."

  "Oh, it will be more than that," I promise, turning to leave. "It will be a legend."

  We arrive at the Embassy and Birgit has outdone herself. The courtyard of the Old Mint has been transformed.

  Silken pavilions in green and gold ripple in the breeze, anchoring the space. The harsh stone walls are softened by hundreds of yards of bunting. Braziers provide heat to drive off the winter chill. The scent of roasting meats and spiced wine, courtesy of Rekke’s kitchens, drifts through the air, masking the smell of the nearby river.

  The musicians are playing lively, intricate Fey tunes that make it impossible to stand still. And the tables... The tables are a battlefield of branding.

  Oskar sits at the high table, surrounded by his Dukes. He is eating off the "Oskar Blue" plates , oblivious to the fact that the deep cobalt glaze makes his mashed turnips look unappetizingly pale. He grips his fork, the one with the silver-branch handle, and saws at a roast pheasant.

  "Excellent weight to this," Duke Kiempe grunts, waving his knife. "Feels like a weapon."

  "It is 'organic'," Oskar explains, repeating the word I taught him as if he understands it. "Modern style. Very... druidic."

  I watch them from the edge of the pavilion. They are so distracted by the food, the wine, and the novelty of the silverware that they have completely missed the real activity.

  "The trap is set?" I ask Melina quietly.

  "The trap is open for business," she whispers back, nodding toward the smaller, heavily draped tent near the entrance to the Vault .

  A sign stands outside it, painted in delicate script: LADIES' RETIRING ROOM & CLOAK REPAIR.

  I smooth my skirts and wade into the crowd of noblewomen.

  They are clustered in groups, eyeing the Fey guards and gossiping about the King’s new china. I spot Duchess Ina standing with a group of younger Baronesses.

  "Ladies," I greet them, offering a tray of crystal flutes. "I hope the wind is not too biting?"

  "The tents block it beautifully," Ina says. She looks at me, her eyes sharp. "And the music is loud. Very loud."

  "To drown out... unwanted noise," I say with a wink.

  I lean in closer to the group.

  "I noticed, Baroness," I say to a young woman named Elsa, whose husband is a notorious gambler, "that your hem seems to be dragging. You might want to visit the Retiring Room. I believe Gerhardt is... very skilled at fixing loose threads."

  Elsa looks confused. "My hem is fine, Princess."

  "Is it?" I ask, my voice dropping to a low hum. "I heard your husband lost three horses at cards last night. That sort of thing... frays a woman's security. Gerhardt can stitch it up. He has a ledger that no man is allowed to see. He takes deposits. Of any size."

  Elsa’s eyes go wide. She clutches her heavy velvet purse, the one hanging at her waist, likely containing her household allowance for the month.

  "Any size?" she whispers.

  "Jewelry. Coin. Even plate," I murmur. "Once it crosses the threshold of that tent, it belongs to you. Not your husband. Not the King. You."

  Understanding dawns on her face. It is a look of terrified hope.

  "I... I think my hem is loose," Elsa says breathlessly. "I should go check it."

  She hurries toward the tent.

  I move to the next group. Duchess Priscilla is there.

  "The silverware is lovely," Priscilla notes, holding up a spoon shaped like a tulip petal.

  "It is," I agree. "But gold is lovelier. Especially when it is out of reach of inquisitive sons-in-law."

  Priscilla smiles a tight, conspiratorial smile. "My son-in-law does have a habit of 'borrowing' against my estate. Perhaps I should have my... cloak... inspected."

  "I insist," I say. "Tell Gerhardt to open a 'Private Trust'. It sounds so... boring. No man will ever ask about it."

  Your turn:

  

  
• Do you think any of these creatures ever existed?


  

  Let me know your answer in the comments.