#Korean Bird Paintings is a very close second and he’s only done that one once i think

[starbuck]

okay but the way Golden Jackal Song is about going to the closest thing to a home you have left and making out with your friend and being deliciously, deliriously happy

[undertheaethier]

GoV Ch. 2: Warm Brownies

“Hey. How’d the meeting go?”

“Fine. I have a house now.”

Daphne looked over at me from the couch with half a Dorito sticking out of her mouth. “Uh. What?”

“You know. My parents left our house to my great uncle. I’m his only inheritor. So it’s mine.” I dropped my keys in their place and slid off my shoes again.

“Right, but like, it’s not yours yet, right?”

I shook my head. “It is, actually. He changed the paperwork in my name weeks ago. Without telling me.”

“Seriously? That’s crazy. I mean, good for him, though, working around the system. Down with the man. Your uncle sounded cool. And the house? That’s a good thing, right? Wasn’t it where you grew up?”

“Yeah,” I said tiredly. “But honestly, I think I’m just going to sell it.”

“What?” Daphne sounded honestly shocked, almost concerned.

I knew. It made very little sense to sell the place. Being only twenty, having a house in my name that was already paid off and had sentimental value to me sounded like I’d hit the jackpot. I knew tons of people in my situation would kill to be handed a house. But I hadn’t been there in years. There was no promise the place wasn’t rundown and crummy now (I didn’t know Great Uncle Ward’s habits) and I wasn’t sure I could ever really want to live there again. For, like, emotional reasons.

“Yeah. I went through the process with my grandparents’ house, and it’ll take a while, but that’s just what I want to do.”

Daphne just nodded and ate another Dorito ponderously. “Well, I mean, I guess that’s your thing, so. Glad you’re not leaving me, buddy.” She gave me a little smile.

I’d figured she would be more worried about the issue of me possibly not wanting to live with her once I had my own house. That was fine, it was a big worry. But I had no intention of abandoning her with the apartment--even if I was going to choose to keep the house, I would at least help her find someone to sublease, I wasn’t an animal. I shrugged off the implicit attack to my character and smiled back.

“Okay, naptime now,” I declared. She laughed and let me walk away.

Once in my room, I pulled the curtains over the windows. I took off my dress and my bra, and immediately threw myself under the covers, sinking into the bed.

I would probably sell most of the stuff Ward left me. I didn’t need his car: my sedan was newer and less expensive to repair than his old truck. If I was selling the house, I didn’t need the furniture, either. I would donate whatever was left, probably clothes and knick knacks and stuff. Just because I had gotten all of these things didn’t mean I wanted or needed any of them, and really, I wanted all of this over with. If all of my family was gone, then it was time to move forward. I could make my own family. Most people got married, so like, it was possible, even probable, for me too. Probably. Maybe I needed to make a Tinder profile…

In any case. This loneliness was an opportunity to start over. As I felt myself drift off, I decided: it was time for a new and improved Emrys Spencer.

Being new and improved didn’t necessarily start the next morning as soon as my phone alarm went off. But that was okay, these things took time. Daphne had gone out the night before and texted me she wouldn’t be back until this evening. That was pretty usual for her on the weekends; usually she left Friday night and returned sometime around brunch time on Sunday, if not later. I had half a thought to stay home and clean the apartment, but doing my usual Sunday routine was not “new and improved” Emrys, it was still “day in, day out” Emrys. I could do better than that.

I was going to go see the house. Whatever Ward had changed, whatever parts were falling apart, I could probably fix or hire someone to fix. I wasn’t anxious to start contacting the old realtor, Betsy Vanderwall. Though she was a great realtor and had been a big help with my grandparents’ house, I wanted to scope out the place for myself, start organizing what to detain, donate, and ditch, and figure out what would need help before the place could go on the market.

I hadn’t been to my childhood home since I’d left it, when I was twelve. When I’d packed up my things and Grandpa and Great-Uncle Ward loaded them into the truck to take them across town. I was desperately hoping that being back in the house wouldn’t make me overly emotional, but that was another good reason to go alone, just in case the eye fountains started flowing.

I packed a couple of moving boxes and a package of garbage bags into my car, then set out, the house key I hadn’t used in years stowed in my pocket.

It was just as I’d remembered it. The red brick house stood two stories tall plus an attic, and had an imposing, but homey look to it. A round window in the attic acted like an eye, peeking out over the neighborhood through the two evergreen trees that grew in the front lawn. The flower beds were mostly empty except for what had decided to grow there without human aid, and a couple of bushes stood comfortably on either side of the front walkway. On the side of the house in the driveway, Ward’s old truck sat, like a faithful dog waiting for its master. I cast it a pitying glance.

Nothing about the outside of the house seemed out of sorts. There was a wasp nest under one of the second-story windows, and that was not going to fly, but any damage was probably on the inside.

I unlocked and opened the door and had to pause. It smelled exactly the same. It was a mix of one of my mom’s flowery perfumes, my dad’s aftershave, a pine furniture polish, and almond-scented hand soap. Was I imagining it? The house couldn’t have maintained that distinct mix of smells for eight years. As if no one else had lived in it, as if conditions had stayed exactly the same as they’d been on the morning I’d woken up to six missed calls and Grandma at the door, calling for me, sobbing.

There wasn’t a single noise from inside the house, just a couple of birds outside and a dog down the street. Nothing yet creaked or rustled. The air was still.

Nothing in the foyer or front sitting room had appeared to have been changed, even moved. The settee and rocking chair sat dutifully in their spots. The curtains were the same blue and green floral pattern. The gray carpet was vacuumed and mostly clean, but I noticed a purple stain: one I’d made at five years old when I’d tripped over our cat Wilhelm and spilled grape juice on the floor. Mom had been upset, Wilhelm more so.

The kitchen, too, felt untouched. The red wall paint wasn’t at all faded. Every dish was where I last remembered them being placed, but were all without dust or stains. The whole room was sparkling clean, from the stove racks to the counters to the floors. Had Great Uncle Ward been hiring a maid? I wouldn’t have expected an eighty-year-old man to have kept the place so clean… I set down my purse and keys on the counter and cautiously proceeded.

I finally found a foreign object in the living room. Among the green, plush furniture I remembered, the red curtains I’d hidden in during hide and seek, and the mahogany coffee table that had been my tea table and my teddy bear operating table, I found a plaid blanket I didn’t recognize, and a blood pressure cuff. I opened up the curtains and headed to the guest room.

This must have been the bedroom Ward used, which made sense. Though he’d had the master bedroom available to him, it was up on the second floor with mine. This one would have been much more easily accessible.

It was decorated simply, with most of the things in the room being white and green, and the only furniture was a bed and a dresser, the way Dad had set them up. Above the dresser hung an old picture, black and white and faded, that I’d seen often in Grandpa’s scrapbooks: it was Alfred--Grandpa--and Ward, and their older brother Harry, before he’d gone off to war. There were boxes of things, like Ward had considered moving his belongings but had changed his mind. Two boxes were full of fantasy novels and literature textbooks. Huh. He really had been like my parents. I was pretty sure they’d owned a lot of the same books.

With that thought, I toughened myself up and went back to the foyer to climb the stairs to the second floor.

The door to my room was closed, which was old-house code for “dusty.” I carefully entered and was surprised again for multiple reasons. Firstly, this room was spotless, too. No dust, no cobwebs, and no signs of mold, mildew, or cracks in the walls. Secondly, this room was also almost exactly as I’d left it. The walls (and most of the decor, like the curtains and the bedclothes) were pale pink, my white furniture was in the same positions they’d occupied eight years ago, and my posters and paintings of fairy tale scenes and castles had been left on the walls. Things I’d remembered intentionally leaving behind, like certain toys and clothes, were organized and put away like my mother had often begged me to do.

For a moment, I was emotional. I found that I missed the twelve-year-old me who had lived in this room, who hadn’t been a cynic, but a dreamer; who hadn’t shied away from frivolity, but had embraced pretty, senseless things; who had known disappointment and hurt, but not the pain. Despite what I may have thought of my life and circumstances at that age, I hadn’t been nearly as happy in the last eight years as I had been at twelve. I wished I could go back and warn myself: Appreciate it, you brat! These things are so easily broken and ruined.

To be honest with myself, however, I liked who I was as a person. I had a lot of regrets, and a lot of flaws, but I was good. I was smart, and a supportive friend, and I was determined. I was a year from being done with a linguistics degree and I was still passionate about it. I could speak English, Spanish, French, German, Arabic, Russian, Latin, and Greek, and was working on another two: Korean and Mandarin. I took a great pride in being able to speak and read so many languages, and I was excited to use them. I didn’t know what my future held for me exactly, but I was happy to find out, and I looked forward to using my passion somehow.

I might not have had very many friends--Daphne and I weren’t close, and my best friends from high school, Chelsea and Aspen, had gone out of state for college--but I had a couple of good acquaintances in my classes, like Gordon in my Mandarin class, and Sarah and Melanie in my Principles of Language class. I valued their company and they valued mine. I knew I couldn’t be bad if I could spend my time with acquaintances who were such good people.

Still. I might have killed for the opportunity to feel as innocent and free as I had the last time I’d slept in this room.

Vowing to return and sift through my old belongings later, if only to sort them into piles for donating, I took a breath and entered my parents’ room.

By this time, I wasn’t startled at the dust-free surfaces and home-decor-magazine perfection of the room.

What got me was their smell, amplified by the presence of their belongings. My nose stung and I looked around the room with blurry eyes.

A picture of the three of us hung right between the door to the hall and the closet. I’d been...eight? I think. Mom was wearing a horrible blue top that Grandma had bought for her for her birthday. There were circles under Dad’s eyes. My hair was tangled. But we looked happy.

The four-poster bed was covered in a red and cream-colored quilt with embroidered flowers and leaves. The dresser stood proud opposite it, with a TV (now horribly outdated and considerably boxy) standing on top. There were picture frames, books, and other belongings sitting around on the dresser and the bedside tables. Mom’s favorite spot, a long, soft cushion over a window seat, sat like it was still waiting. She’d liked to read there when she needed space, and especially when it rained. There was storage underneath it, equipped with an arbitrary, albeit very pretty lock--Mom had always just kept books in there, and not even scandalous ones.

I peeked into the bathroom and found it in good order. Some of their old things were still sitting on the vanity, half-empty perfume bottles and cans of hairspray on Mom’s side, and mostly-full cologne bottles and the lotions Dad had used for his dry hands on his side.  

Everything was how I remembered it, down to the detail. It was like I was twelve again, and even though I was angry at them, I’d be glad to have them back in the house, back in the room with their luggage poorly packed and thrown haphazardly on the bed or the floor. I would have grumbled that I hadn’t missed them, but I’d hug them as Dad promised they’d brought gifts and they were sorry they’d missed my--whatever it was. A violin concert, a poetry reading, a parent night at school. I would have accepted their gifts with an ungrateful preteen grace, and told them about whatever had happened in the few days they’d been gone, what Wilhelm had torn up or about my grade in English.

I didn’t realize I was crying until I felt a tear fall down onto my shirt. As soon as I was aware, however, I let the dam break. I threw myself onto the bed and held onto one of the pillows, letting Mom’s flowery scent embrace me. I cried and for the thousandth time, I regretted every horrible thing I’d ever said to them.

They’d just been gone so often. They taught at a university only a short drive across town, but they’d traveled for conferences and research and other academic things, and at twelve, I felt like they were missing my whole life. They were either working, or at the school, or in another country. I never felt like they were here, with me. In retrospect, of course, I knew they’d cared about me. I knew they were trying. I wasn’t so ignorant and short-sighted to think that they’d never loved me. But at the time, it had felt like all they cared about was work. They only cared about their stupid faerie tales and their literary analysis studies. They’d left me on my own or with my grandparents so often, I’d wondered if they’d even wanted me at all.

I’d accused them of it once. I’d told them that I knew they didn’t care about me, that I knew they wanted to pretend they didn’t have a child and go parading around Europe like they had nothing to hold them down here, in the States. I told them that I hated them, too, and that the first chance I got, I would be leaving so I could live with people who cared about me.

Mom had cried.

Dad had tried to explain, but he got so easily frustrated with me, and couldn’t make himself say whatever he wanted to say. He was like that a lot when talking to me.

I’d run to my room and slammed the door and flung myself on my bed just like I’d done now, in my parents’ room, and I’d cried and silently bemoaned my circumstances. Why couldn’t I have a family that loved me? Or at least siblings to suffer alongside me? Why couldn’t my parents just love me enough to stay?

I hadn’t seen them off. They’d left me a gift: a silver key-shaped charm on a silver chain, left in a box with a note that said We love you. You are the key to your own destiny. Unlock it bravely. Mom had texted me from the airport to say they were boarding, and I didn’t respond. They were only supposed to be in Berlin for three days, for a conference. A short trip, compared to some of their research trips. I planned to apologize to them when they got back, and things would have been fine again, for a while.

They never got back.

Their first night in Berlin, they were killed in their hotel room, their suitcases stolen. Mom’s purse had had their papers and her wallet. The police had contacted the embassy, who contacted my grandparents, who woke me up the next day with crumpled hearts and faces.

How cliche, how stupid, that I’d had such an argument with them like that. Had I been a little more mature, a little more even-tempered, I might still have had dead parents, but my regrets would be rosier: I’d regret them not being able to come to my wedding, or see me graduate college, instead of regretting having told them I hated them.

Now, I knew, they hadn’t believed that. I knew they knew I loved them. I could almost hear what Mom would have told me once I’d apologized: “It’s alright, sweetie. We know you didn’t mean it. You were angry because you were feeling unloved, and that’s fair. We know you were only angry because you love us so much. And we love you, too.”

I would have believed it. Until the next time they left, when I would forget it, and get angry again, and make them feel guilty for missing my next event. Preteens are a little bit predictable that way.

I’d had no reason to hate my parents. No real reason. Sometimes, during the summer or winter break, they’d take me with them. With Mom and Dad, I’d gotten to see Munich sparkling at Christmas, and Salzburg in the summer, with the sun reflecting off the river and the castle crowning the city. I’d visited Paris, London, Brussels, Tokyo, Cairo, and Venice. When I’d saved up enough scholarship money to afford my study abroad trip to Spain my first year in college, I’d celebrated in the Madrid sunshine and then collapsed into sadness, wishing Mom and Dad were there with me. Wondering if they’d seen the same things I did. Wondering if we would have ever gone together, if their work on faerie tales and folk lore would have ever brought them here. Wondering how many other places I might see without them.

I hadn’t allowed myself to cry like that again until now. The pillow I held was a poor sponge, and an even poorer replacement for my parents.

I’d planned on only looking around the house for an hour or two, making notes and plans. But now I thought I might want to stay the rest of the day, in this bed, crying myself out. Just the thought made me cry harder, simultaneously comforted and saddened.

I was twisting around to grab another pillow when I heard a distinct thud and a quick whoosh sound coming from above. Probably just a squirrel on the roof, but--thud. Again. Directly above.

Shit. The attic.

I gathered myself together and wiped my face dry, getting rid of most of my makeup in the process, and ran down into the garage--also spotless, gardening tools and sporting equipment stacked neatly on collapsible shelves and bikes hanging from the ceiling--to get a broom. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. Probably a raccoon, or an opossum, who’d been slowly chewing through the insulation until they’d made a nice nest in the attic in which to have babies. Gross. I’d chase them out through their stupid hole, and cover it with something until I could call someone about it.

The attic was large enough to have two entrances on the second floor, one by my parents’ bedroom, a closet with a staircase inside that led up, and one by my old bathroom, which just had a fold-down ladder. The staircase was much less dangerous, so I took that, and carefully climbed up, wielding the broom like a lightsaber. At the top was another door that led directly into the attic, an attempt to further insulate, and I turned the knob slowly, readying myself to leap at the first sign of a bushy tail as the door swung open.

I was so stunned, I couldn’t move. I swore my heart stopped beating. What. The--

The spacious attic was a place I’d hardly ever visited as a child. I only had a few memories of the round window and retrieving boxes of Christmas decorations. I think it was because Dad said the floor had started to rot at some point, and he was nervous about me playing up here. As I looked around, I saw no sign of a rotting floor at all, but I did see about ten small people looking up at me with round, alien eyes.

They were about the size of garden gnomes, and with about the same general body shape of healthily plump stomachs and stubby, but able limbs. Their skin came in a variety of colors, from a deep, warm brown to a bright green. One was even kind of turquoise. Some looked distinctly male or female, with beards and other facial hair, or pretty cotton dresses covering ample bosoms, but others were more androgynous. The trait they all shared were their eyes, which were large, round, and a glassy blue color, with no whites or pupils. They were exceedingly unsettling, and I felt myself growing a little faint when one in a dress chirped excitedly, “Emrys!”

I still couldn’t move, but I screamed. The little gnome-thing saying my name was somehow absolutely terrifying. I pondered whacking that one with the broom first.

A few of the creatures screamed back at me, and at the shrill noise it caused, I screamed again. 

“Emrys?” The creature looked almost worried.

My hands shook around the broom, and I decided escape was a surer method. I dropped the broom on the ground and turned to yank the door open wider, but the blue-eyed gnome-things beat me, and two of them shut the door while three more took the broom away. I staggered backwards and swallowed another scream.

“What--what the hell are you? Wh-why are you in the attic?” I stuttered, trying to keep my eyes on all of them at once.

Another gnome-thing wearing a tiny t-shirt and cargo shorts came forward with raised hands. “Emrys! Alles okay, keine Panik! Bitte hab keine Angst!”

German. German? Okay. I switched to German.

“What the hell are you and what are you doing in the attic?” I demanded again in my second-most familiar language. It’d been awhile since I had a practical reason to use it.  

“Emrys!” said another. “What’s the matter? You don’t remember us?”

“Uh--no?” I didn’t remember anyone putting a living curse on a bunch of lawn ornaments and sticking them up in the attic, no.

“But we’ve been waiting for you!” said another, looking distraught.

“Goodness gracious, Georg, you can’t tell her something like that! What’s wrong with you? You sound like a serial killer in one of those movies!” a gnome-thing said in a high-pitched, worried voice.

“I’m sorry,” said Georg, still looking upset. “But we have been! We thought you would come back earlier, but we were sure that when Ward passed, you’d be back immediately!”

“Ward? You mean--you knew my uncle?”

“Well of course we knew him, girl, think!” commanded one of the things, her voice gruff but feminine. “We’ve been living in this house almost as long as you’ve been alive, you thought we didn’t know the man living here for the past eight years?”

My mind was completely blank. What the hell was happening. Had some of Daphne’s drugs somehow gotten into my coffee that morning? She wasn’t a habitual user, but maybe it was possible. I wished I knew more about drugs, to be certain.

“I think she really doesn’t remember,” whispered one of the others behind me.

“Poor dear. We’ll have to explain,” said another.

“Please?” I asked. My voice sounded shaky and pitiful.

“Here, take a seat, Emrys.” One of the gnome-things was at my ankle, tugging at the hem of my leggings. He pointed to an old armchair that sat in the corner by a bunch of boxes.

I decided not to argue, and let the thing lead me to the chair. I took a seat carefully, but the chair felt sturdy and clean. I finally took a look around the attic. There were a couple of large stacks of boxes, but nothing cluttered or messy-looking. There was a line of little beds by the largest stack, perfectly sized for the creatures, but probably originally built for dolls. Most surprisingly, at the end of the room stood a fairly large entertainment center, complete with wide, flat-screen TV, multiple gaming and video consoles, and a sizable collection of movies and video games. A few boxes formed a long table where little chairs had been organized, and on top of the table rested a couple of small electronic tablets and a few books. An old wardrobe near my chair was partially open, and inside I could see stores of non-perishable food, and what looked like little clothes.

The creature that had led me to the chair sat before it and put a gentle little hand on my shoe. “You really don’t remember us, Emrys?”

I shook my head. “What are you?”

“We’re brownies, obviously,” answered another creature, the gruff one from before. “You know. Fae. We make contracts with humans and clean their homes in exchange for hospitality and--”

“Yeah, I--I know what a brownie is,” I said. My parents had told me stories about faeries since before I could remember. It was kind of their specialty. How could I not know what a brownie was?

“Well, technically, we’re called Heinzelmännchen,” said the one they’d called Georg. “We’re a special kind of brownie. We used to work for the city of Cologne.”

“‘Til the Great Pea Incident.” Another brownie sighed. “Man, screw that lady.”

“That’s where your parents found us,” Georg clarified. “They were doing research, and we heard them talking about their fairy tale studies. We thought it would be funny--you know, pop out and startle them, and hide away again.”

“But they were only a little bit surprised,” said the one at my foot. “We were kind of disappointed. We stayed with them while they were in Cologne, and when they were about to leave, they asked if we wanted to come with them.”

“We hadn't made a contract in decades, so we decided to accept!” chirped the high-pitched one. “And we came here and lived with them. It was probably two or three years before you were born. We had so much fun decorating your nursery with them!”

“Wait, wait, you’re telling me my parents knew about you--about faeries? They found actual faeries?” I asked disbelievingly. I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t have told me they’d found actual faeries.

“Oh, they knew alright,” laughed Georg. “Better than most humans probably ever have.”

“That’s part of the reason we were okay with showing ourselves to them. They already had such respect for us. And they were very kind.” One of the brownies, the turquoise one, sighed a little. “Of course, they wanted to study us, and ask us questions. But they never overstepped their boundaries, and they understood when we told them we couldn’t say more.”

“Nicest humans I’ve ever met,” agreed the gruff brownie.

“Probably the only nice humans!” said the one at my foot.

“And Ward. Did--did he know about you, too?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. We were…” The brownie with the higher-pitched voice sighed, and her voice broke. “We were very close friends.”

Georg went to embrace her as she began to cry. “It’s still a little hard. I’m sure you understand.”

I did--but I didn’t. Guilt clouded over me. These strange little creatures had known my great uncle better than I had. Had loved him. Had probably even…

“Was it you who took care of him? When he was older and sicker?”

“Yes,” confirmed the turquoise one. “We would help him find things he lost, or pick up things he dropped, or help cook for him when his arthritis was bad. We’ve watched enough Grey’s Anatomy to try to help him feel better.”

“Ward Spencer was a very kind man,” said Georg. “We’ve already put in a word with the council to have him posthumously named a Friend of the Fae, but since we hid the fact that he knew about us at all...”

“He was the only one who believed your parents about us,” said the gruff one in a softer tone than her usual. “The only one who could have, I guess.”

I remembered what Dr. Reid had said about Ward really believing in faeries. Huh. I guess he’d had a compelling reason to, after all. I almost wanted to laugh.

“When your parents died, he offered us another contract, so we could stay here. They’d left this house in his keeping, anyway, and we wanted to stay. He graciously allowed us to do so, and offered us use of anything in the house. He was sometimes even more accommodating than we were, and we’re brownies.”

That earned a chuckle from the brownie at my foot. “And now you’re here! And we can all get along the way we used to! Don’t worry, we’ll do the same things your parents and Ward asked of us. We’ll clean, and cook when we’re asked, and we’ll do any necessary repairs, and if you don’t have any friends, I guess we can hang out with you, too, though that may be stretching our job description a little far--”

“Oh, whoa,” I interrupted. “Uh--thanks, for the offer, but I’m not staying here.”

All of the brownies looked at me, startled. The one with the high-pitched voice stopped crying and looked at me from Georg’s embrace. “You're--not?”

“No, no! I have an apartment, and a roommate, and I’m locked in a contract for another few months, we were talking about renewing. I was just looking around to see what would have to be fixed up so I could sell it, but you guys have done a pretty great job--”

“Sell it?” shrieked one of the brownies. “You--you can’t sell this house!”

“I know, it’s got a lot of sentimental value, and with real estate being what it is, as a millennial, getting a house like this is almost a miracle, but I just don’t want it.” I tried to give them an apologetic look, but honestly, they were still freaking me out, and I didn’t really like them giving me life advice.

“No, you don’t understand!” said Georg. “When Ward gave us a contract, he reworded it from our original so that we could stay here if something happened to him. We weren’t technically even bonded to Ward, we were bonded to this house. We are bonded to this house. Indefinitely!”

“That’s what we wanted, after all, was to stay here for as long as we could! There’s still so much to learn about America, and the humans and the culture here. We want to stay!” chimed in another brownie.

“And we’ve seen dozens of HGTV shows. Not even the Property Brothers would be able to sell a house full of faeries.” The brownie by my foot crossed his arms as if to say So there.

Okay, yeah, that would be a real concern. I thought I was pretty good-looking, but I wasn’t nearly handsome enough to attempt something the Property Brothers couldn’t do. How was I going to be able to get rid of this place with the brownies in the attic?

...Did I want to get rid of this place?

I thought back to the intense nostalgia that had hit me in almost every room of the house. This house had preserved so many memories--the very smell of my parents, that I’d completely forgotten, and now the last memories of my great-uncle, who was turning out to have been much more interesting than I’d expected. This had been my home, once. There was still definitely something about it I loved. I could come to embrace the memories, even the regrets.

Nope, nope, nope, I was being brainwashed by garden gnomes.

I stood up, startling the little one at my foot. “Okay, no. No way. I am selling this house. Got it? No matter what. This is too--this is too much.” I looked into their startled blue eyes. Panic began to rise in me again as my mind flickered to stories of faeries, good- and ill-willed, that definitely did not--should not--could not exist. There had to be some crazy mold up here, but no brownies. No fae of any kind. Just me and the boxes.

“I have to go,” I murmured.

“Emrys, no, wait!”

“You’re not real,” I whispered to myself, trying to block out the voice.

I went to the door and, no matter how many of the things appeared to be attempting to block my path, I carefully stepped around them and held my ground.

“We are! We are real, Emrys, and you know it! You know better than to not believe in us!” Georg’s voice called behind me, getting quieter with distance.

I shut the attic door.

I took the stairs two at a time, their tiny voices calling behind me. I grabbed my purse and keys from the kitchen counter and almost ran out as I heard the door to the attic staircase open above me. My fingers shook as I took the key in my hand and quickly locked the front door. It took me even longer to unlock my car, then I shoved myself inside, and got out of the neighborhood as fast as I could.