“Be careful with that one,” a low, throaty voice warned. “If you wake it up, it has a tendency to bite.”

  Gwin hurriedly replaced the jar she had lifted down from a shelf, half full with the leaves of a furry kind of nettle. Nestled on top and curled so tightly she could not see where it ended or began was a long, brown worm, the tiny hairs on its back glowing a soft green. The creature shifted and turned against the leaves as Gwin pushed the jar back onto the shelf and carefully backed away.

  “It is secured within the jar, is it not?” she asked, talking into the stale air of the shop. She was yet to set eyes on the proprietor.

  “Why take the chance?”

  Gwin tried to find the voice’s owner. The shop was sparsely lit and though it was close to midday, a pair of thick velvet curtains the colour of bruised plums blocked much of the sun. Only one shaft of light peeked through—a long finger of gold that glanced through the shop to highlight soft drifts of slowly falling dust.

  Many jars jostled for space on the shelves in front of Gwin. They were filled with things that shook and shivered, things that were almost certainly alive. Further into the narrow space, books lined the walls. Tables covered with scrolls, maps, ink stains, and candle wax were scattered across haphazardly laid rugs.

  At the very back of the shop, a pale statue of the goddess Thetia gleamed amid the gloom. Her snarling face was tilted towards the sky, a rearing snake coiled tightly about her hands.

  “It’s rare to find a statue of Thetia these days,” the voice said. It sounded as if it was getting closer. “Especially one in such perfect condition. You don’t seem local, Mrs. I suppose you think the goddess fierce and horrifying to look upon.”

  “On the contrary,” Gwin replied, turning towards the voice and flaring with frustration when its owner still failed to materialise. “Thetia is certainly fierce, but she is also maternal. She is usually depicted showing anger towards those who would hurt her people.”

  “Not bad for an out-of-towner; you have our goddess pegged right.”

  A keuhog ran across the floor, narrowly skirting the hem of Gwin’s cloak and startling her further. It was a short-legged, hairless creature with a long, flexible snout and flapping ears. Their meat was riddled with parasites that couldn’t be boiled out and their hides were too small to make decent leather. They were left to spread as vermin across the city and were especially prevalent in the Bard’s Quarter. This one appeared to live in the shop. Gwin watched it slow to a trot as it approached a saucer of something dark green and frothing on the floor beside the glowering statue of Thetia. It bent its head to drink, a string of small painted beads around its neck trailing in the liquid.

  “Don’t mind Petey,” the voice said. “He’s just hungry.”

  Gwin stopped before a long counter. Underneath were more shelves crammed with vials of liquid, pouches of carefully labelled herbs, and shallow bowls of polished stones and shells. On the wall behind was a large tapestry, embroidered with intertwining trees edged in gold, their leaves full of staring eyes. Gwin felt quite sure if she was to brush against it, dust would erupt from the long-neglected fibres.

  Movement caught her eye and Gwin looked up to finally see the shopkeeper. He descended a flight of crooked stairs connected to a small balcony, roughly carved clogs thunking against the smooth wood. With a jolt she tried very hard to conceal, she saw the man was a hobgoblin—a race her people long believed to have vanished into time. He wore a burlap tunic that fell to his knees and a long, pointed cap, set so far back on the thinning wisps of his snow-white hair, it seemed in danger of falling off completely. He reached the shop floor, a welcoming smile on his broad face. As he drew closer, Gwin could see the front of his hair was grey with soot and his eyebrows were singed.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Welcome to The Eternal Library of Thetia,” he said. “Home of the finest books, wards, and curiosities. My name is Gulpe. How may I serve you today?”

  “Good afternoon, Gulpe.”

  Gwin looked down at the heavy gloves the hobgoblin was wearing—so long they reached his elbows. He removed them with an agitated grunt and she glanced at the balcony above their heads. It was groaning with yet more piles of books, barrels, boxes, and a long oak table from which she could just make out a thin column of diminishing smoke winding up from an ornate copper bowl.

  “There’s nothing up there for you, Mrs.” Gulpe’s face was still wrinkled in a kindly smile, honed over long years of keeping shop, but his tone was blunt. “Now, what can we do for you, I wonder? Perhaps a charm of some kind? Or some freshly ground pennyroyal?” When Gwin failed to reply he shook his head. “No, I can tell you’re here for something else. Something special, I think.”

  Gulpe walked to the counter and bent to rifle through the bowls and boxes displayed beneath. After much grumbling and one hushed swear word, he finally rose with a triumphant look on his face, two small, gold objects glittering in the palm of his hand. Gwin craned forward to see what they were, despite the fact she had no intention of purchasing anything.

  “These are rare as hen’s teeth,” Gulpe said. “Coincidentally, I do have a couple of hen’s teeth knocking about if that’s what you’re in the market for. An excellent cure for constipation when steeped in tea, or so I’m told.” He held out the objects in his hand—a pair of simple earrings, spinning spirals that sparkled in the half-light.

  “The Shining Earrings of Solania,” Gulpe announced, a note of reverence in his voice. “When worn, you gain the ability to hear whatever someone might be saying about you, be they in the next room or on the next continent. These come with a warning, of course. Prolonged use can severely damage your lugholes.”

  “They can make you deaf?”

  “No, they can burn a hole right through your earlobes. Most painful, not to mention disfiguring. It’s especially risky if many people are talking about you at once.”

  “Why would anyone take such a chance?”

  “Well, Mrs, I suppose that entirely depends on a person’s particular level of paranoia.”

  Gulpe waited expectantly, no doubt hoping that Gwin’s level of paranoia was high enough to make her reach for her coin purse. She wondered how she had allowed the shopkeeper to steer her so far off track.

  “Truthfully, I’m not here to buy anything,” she admitted.

  The polite smile fell from Gulpe’s face. “Then why are you here, Mrs?”

  “I’ve taken a room at the Dancing Crayfish Inn.”

  “That’s nice for you. You should think about placing an announcement on the noticeboard in Midnight Square.”

  “If you will kindly allow me to finish, I was about to say the landlady, Mrs Barbour, suggested I come and talk to you.”

  “About?”

  “Well, I have business with the changeling community and Mrs Barbour said you are a great friend to them.”

  Gulpe’s already crumpled forehead creased further until his eyes became darting pinpricks. Gwin drew back, taking a half-step towards the door.

  “I am a great friend to the changelings,” he said. “But what are you, Mrs? Friend or foe?”

  “I am not sure I understand. I fear you mistake me. I am certainly no foe.”

  “Really? Would a friend arrive in town amid a blaze of theatrics, intending to enlist all those with changeling blood into a fool’s army? An army created to fight for the bloody Asrai, no less. The very same people who left the changelings here to rot in the first place. Now you tell me, does that sound very friendly to you?”

  Gwin stared at Gulpe, completely at a loss for words. In the inside pocket of her cloak, she felt the leafling stir and stretch, her cold shock disturbing the tiny creature’s sleep. Gwin patted her absentmindedly as her mind raced, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening.

  “You have known who I am this entire time,” she finally managed.

  Gulpe nodded, his expression hard and grim.