Joan Carver knocked on the heavy oak door, twice then once, to let Winnie know that they were back. She took a deep breath. I can't believe I'm inviting a bunch of elves into my home! She was pretty excited. I can't wait to see the look on Winnie's face.

It was a minute before Winnie reached the door. “Hello?”

“Ever sweet,” Joan called the password. She heard Winnie unbar the entrance and then light spilled out from the fire into the gray day as the door opened.

“Everything all right?” Winnie asked.

Winnie was an extremely large woman, with a big pile of golden yellow hair and cherubic dimples when she smiled, which was often. She wasn't out of breath at all, so she must have already been up when Joan knocked. Strong arms set the heavy bar aside and she stepped backwards to make room for people to come in.

“We have guests!” Joan announced.

“I can see that. Welcome, welcome, come in out of the rain!” Winnie beckoned as Joan and the four elves walked in. “Where's Mark?”

“He's putting our new ox in the barn.”

“Our new—? Is that man taking advantage of people in trouble again?”

“We can talk about it later,” Joan said as she closed the door behind them.

“Hang your cloaks up by the door,” Winnie instructed the newcomers.

Joan hid a smile. “Diavla?” When the elf leader turned to her, she tugged on her own cloak. “Cloaks.” Then she pointed at the plentiful pegs on the wall, and demonstrated by hanging up her own, letting it drip onto the piece of stone flooring set by the door for the purpose.

“Cloak sankal fez,” Diavla told the others. The elves all watched for Winnie's reaction as they pulled their hoods back and started undoing the clasps. So did Joan, for that matter. Winnie did not disappoint.

“Whaaaaaaaaat?” Winnie got bug-eyed. “Joan, they're elves!”

“Noticed that, did you?” Joan got great amusement out of Winnie's expression. “They can barely speak Western, so be warned. We'll have to point at things a lot.”

“How did you—? Where—?”

At that point the blond elf sneezed violently, turning his head away from them. “Saa, I am sorry.”

“Oh, you poor things, let's get you dried off and warmed up. You can leave your…boots? Joan, they're barefoot!”

“I'll get the spare towels while you get them settled around the fire,” Joan told her. It was easier for Joan to move quickly. Much as she didn't want to miss a minute of this, Joan hurried to the linen closet next to the washroom and grabbed most of their clean towels. By the time she got back, Winnie was just finishing up getting their names and herding them over to the main fireplace.

One of the elves was a tall redheaded woman; she was helping Winnie to move a couple of benches closer so that all of them could sit close to the warmth at once. She looked somewhat like Joan herself, just a lot slimmer. Hm, Mark is probably going to flirt with that one. I don't know how they will react, so I will have to beat some sense of restraint into that man, at least temporarily.

All of the elves said, “thank you,” and proceeded to huddle close to the flames, quietly chatting amongst themselves in Elvish. They were looking around warily, watching the humans and peering at the room.

Winnie stepped back and leaned close to Joan. “So, how did this happen?” she demanded in an excited whisper.

“Apparently, they have been camping in the Nook for the past two nights; that's the smoke we saw,” Joan explained. “Oh, and Winnie, they kept saying, ‘no say elves’, so I think they mean they want to keep their presence secret.”

“Well, certainly. Either they're diplomats on a secret mission, spies, or they're escaped slaves.” Joan noticed that the elves all stiffened when they hear the word ‘slave’. “Can you think of anything else they might be?” Winnie continued.

“They are waiting for someone called Tom Walker, who will be coming for them in a day or two, apparently.”

“I take it Tom Walker is their owner?”

“Presumably, but I'm not sure yet.” Joan watched the elves, trying to get a feel for their personalities.

Diavla was in charge. She looked tense, alert, but not hostile. She and Kervan did nearly all the talking in Western. Kervan appeared to be making an effort to be more polite than was normal for him, though she might be wrong about that. Varga looked like a very open sort; her feelings showed plainly. At the moment she was a mix of worried, curious, and friendly. Orvan was the oldest one, going by the hair. He was quiet and reserved.

“Any trouble when you met them?” Winnie asked.

“They were trying to hide that they were elves, but they're not very good actors, at least with a language barrier.”

“Yeah, if they were diplomats or spies, they would speak better Western …and probably would have thought to bring hats.”

“So the question becomes, who is this Tom Walker, and what is he doing with these elves?”

“And why did he leave them alone?” Winnie added. “How did Mark react?”

“He demanded their spare ox when I invited them home. They consider it payment for a binding promise of secrecy.”

“Well, Mark may drive a hard bargain, but he never breaks his word, so I guess the elves are safe. Why didn't you leave them there?”

“It's a cold, miserable rainy day, Winnie!”

“I know, I'm asking how they were doing before you found them.”

“Oh. They were mostly dry, I think, but cold, and Kervan has been sneezing. They were huddled in four wagons stashed in the Nook.”

“Well, it's a bit early for midday meal, but I could start up something hot for them. Porridge, maybe?”

“Porridge?” Orvan asked, breaking into the human conversation.

“Food,” Joan told him.

“Food?”

“Yes. Hot food. You wait,” Winnie told him.

“I help? I see?”

“Um…”

“Orvan help food good good,” Diavla informed them confidently.

Joan and Winnie looked at each other. “Why not?” Winnie said finally. “Sure. Orvan, was it? Orvan, come with me.” She beckoned, and the old elf followed the large woman to the pantry and kitchen.

Joan got out mugs and set them on the main table. She then fetched a tin of tea leaves, pulled one out, and offered it to Diavla. “Is…this…good?”

The elf woman took it, peered at it and smelled it, then smiled. “Saa! It is good.” She spoke rapidly in Elvish to the others. Soon enough, the water was hot and Joan poured cups for them all. The elves all sat around the fire, sipping their tea gratefully.

Mark's familiar pounding came at the door. Joan got up and walked over to it. “Hello?”

“Ever sweet,” her husband called back.

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

Joan knew that there was very little need for such a password, but little was not nothing, and Mark was very protective of his women. She took a deep breath and heaved the heavy bar out of its rest. Mark came in the house and took off his wet cloak, adding it to the others. The elves watched him warily. Joan went and poured him some tea, gauging his mood.

“What have you found out?” he asked.

“Not much. I thought we should let them get warm first.”

“Fair enough.”

They sat in silence together for a while. Eventually, the quiet grew a bit awkward, and the one called Diavla cleared her throat. “Thank you…water…” she pointed at her mug of tea.

“Tea,” Joan said. “Mint tea. You're welcome.”

Another pause.

“Thank you…fire.”

“You're welcome. And we say, ‘thank you for the tea’, or ‘thank you for the fire.’ ”

“For the. For the. Thank you for the tea. Thank you for the fire,” Diavla practiced.

“Much better.”

Diavla asked Kervan something in Elvish, then turned back. “ ‘Better’ is ‘good good’?”

“Yes.” Joan held out her hand as if indicating the height of a child. “Good.” She raised it some. “Better.” She raised it all the way up. “Best.”

“Good, better, best. Thank you very much. We learn Western.”

Joan noticed that Kervan was silently mouthing the words as well, but Varga was looking around at everything. Joan tried to think of what to ask. “So…where are you all from?” She said it slowly, not sure which words the elves understood.

“Kilder Vald, Velsunona, Salathin.” Diavla recited it slowly, though the names meant nothing to Joan. After a moment in which they stared at each other, the elf asked, “you have map?”

“Uh, no, sorry, we don't own any maps.” Joan shook her head. Diavla nodded.

“Is Tom Walker your master?” Mark asked bluntly. The elves hesitated, looking at each other. “You don't have collars on.” Mark pointed at his neck.

“Tom Walker…help us. You help Tom Walker?” Diavla asked cautiously.

“Maybe. Is he your master?”

Diavla held up ten fingers. “Day. Tom no is master.” She took down one finger. “Day, Tom is master.”

“He became your master nine days ago?”

“Nine yesterday, yes.”

“What happened?”

Diavla and Kervan muttered back and forth in Elvish for a few moments. It's a pretty language, Joan thought. I wonder if I can learn a few words while they are here.

Diavla lifted her hands and said, “Day.” Then she flicked all her fingers out quickly three times, and did that three times.

“Ninety days ago. Three months.”

“Month.” Diavla nodded. “Thank you.” She sounded relieved. “Three month…ago? Slave boat go Kilder Vald. Slave boat man kill, slave boat man fire, slave boat man get us.” Joan held her breath. There was no sound beyond the crackle of the fire and faint rattling sounds from the kitchen.

“One month, boat.” The crossing from the Elvish continent. “Two month, wagon. Ten yesterday, banditch.”

“Bandit. One bandit. Two bandits,” Joan corrected automatically, carefully pronouncing the words.

“Thank you.” Diavla flicked all her fingers twice. “Ten and ten bandits… kill guard. Bandits kill mercha. Bandits get elves.”

Joan's eyes flicked from Diavla to Varga and back. Did they…? Diavla caught the unasked question and shook her head with a small smile. Thank the gods.

“Tom Walker is guard. Tom no die.” Diavla held two fingers close together. He barely survived. “Tom go, Tom kill four bandits. Tom see us. Tom help us.”

“Well, that's illegal,” Mark declared. Joan gave her husband a sharp glance, but he was only saying a fact.

Diavla looked puzzled, so Joan tried, “king say bad.”

“Bad is no good?” She sounded as if she were double checking something she thought she knew.

“Yes.”

“What is ‘king’, please?”

Mark spoke up. “King say, guards do. King say, we do. King say, everybody do.”

“Saa.” Diavla sighed, looking disappointed, then got that careful look on her face again. “I no say Tom do no good.” She doesn't want to get her rescuer in trouble.

“Well, I for one want to meet this Tom Walker. I see Tom, please.”

Diavla asked Kervan something in Elvish. “Tonight,” Kervan replied.

“Tonight, tomorrow, two tomorrow, Tom go wagon. You see Tom.” Diavla took a deep breath, and finally asked the big question. “You help us? You help Tom?”

“We're not breaking the law,” Mark declared firmly. “No.”

Seeing the fear in Diavla's eyes, Joan quickly added, “We no…no help.” She glared at her husband, who held up hands defensively and nodded.

“We didn't see anything,” he agreed. “Besides, they gave us the ox, so I have to do that much.”

“We no say elves. Guard ask, we no see elves,” Joan simplified.

Diavla spoke rapidly to Varga, who shrugged. Diavla turned back to face the humans again. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“Porridge is ready!” Winnie sang. They had used the kitchen fire instead of the one in the main room. Orvan came out first, pushing the door open with his elbow, carrying a pot. Winnie followed with a trivet and bowls.

“How was Orvan?” Joan asked.

“He was magnificent, a wild animal of passion,” Winnie moaned, winking at Orvan. The old elf raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He probably got the gist, but kept a mostly blank expression. “You should taste for yourself,” she added dramatically.

Mark snorted and shook his head. “You're incorrigible.”

“But you have so much fun trying. Please, corrige me again, husband. Corrige me hard.” Joan rolled her eyes at Winnie's antics. Good thing the elves have no idea what she is saying.

“We argue now, please.” Diavla turned and started speaking rapidly in Elvish. Presumably, she was filling Orvan in on what they had learned, and the elves had a discussion. Meanwhile, Winnie served out the porridge, receiving thanks from each elf.

“So now what?” Mark asked his wives.

“Well, they can at least stay here while the rain keeps up. It's only a day or two, we could just let them have a couple of rooms. They paid us an entire ox, that's worth some room and board, don't you think?”

“Mm. I was going to get some work done…”

“Nothing says you can't, love. Winnie and I can entertain our guests. I can't go picking herbs in this downpour so I was going to be at loose ends anyway. Besides, I want to see if I can learn a little Elvish while they are here, and maybe find out more of their story.”

“Mm…you holler if they give you any trouble, Joan. I mean it.”

“Understood, husband.” Joan could see Mark's hands twitching a little, as if eager to get to work. “Go. We'll be fine.”

“I'll keep an eye on them, Mark,” Winnie added.

Reluctantly, Mark stood, gave each of his wives a kiss, and headed off to his workroom. Joan noted that the elves did not seem fazed in the slightest at the signs of their relationship. I wonder what their culture says about group marriage? It would be nice if they were more enlightened than humans about it.

Joan had to take a certain amount of verbal abuse at times in human society. She had had to take on the role of “mistress” in public, while Winnie was allegedly Mark's only wife. People gave them odd looks when they learned about their relationships, mostly at the idea of Joan and Winnie coexisting under one roof. Joan had been accused of being a homewrecker more than once, but she usually just pointed out that their home was in fine shape. That was one of the reasons they lived way out here.

She was proud of their house. She looked forward to showing it off to the elves, and eventually to Tom Walker. A man with two female slaves would be in no position to argue with a man having two wives. Besides, they were taking good care of his property, so he had no call to be upset.

The elves looked strangely awkward, but not with the affection shown. It was as if they had to remember how to sit on benches and eat at a table. Emotions flitted across their faces ranging through relief, joy, sadness, grief, and anger. But food tended to help stabilize the soul, Joan had found.

Orvan and Winnie quickly hit it off. Joking aside, Orvan was apparently already a good cook, but was unfamiliar with the ingredients in human lands. So Winnie got to show off her cooking and baking skills, and took the opportunity to make lots of different kinds of food for their guests. All the while Winnie flirted outrageously with him, but the old elf seemed to take it in stride.

The elves all ate large portions, and Diavla explained that they had not quite been getting enough food while traveling in the slave wagon. When she asked, Diavla added that they had been eating much better ever since meeting Tom. Well, that's one point in his favor, Joan supposed.

Varga volunteered to do various chores, like bringing water and firewood. She seemed to be happiest when active, and actually did some odd-looking exercises when she had nothing else to occupy her body. Sometimes she pestered the other elves with questions. She was tall for an elf, nearly Joan's height, and their red hair was similar and yet different enough that they had a nonverbal conversation about how human and elven hair differed. Varga even took a knife and cut off a small lock of her hair as an offering, and Joan did the same. The texture was strange; slick, but not oily. She wondered if elven hair got tangled less easily.

Kervan offered to help with the sewing, and proved to have nimble fingers. He listened in as he worked while Joan and Diavla talked, and occasionally provided a word Diavla had forgotten. He must have one of those graven souls, where they never forget anything, Joan mused. She had seen such a person in the city once; the jester had shown off their prodigious memory with a number of tricks.

Joan asked Diavla a great many questions, and did her best to answer a lot in return. She was concerned about how the elves would be treated, and she didn't know this Tom person. It took quite a while to build up the vocabulary for what she wanted to ask. Joan mentally smoothed out the translations in her head as they went along.

“Are you worried that Tom will sell you to someone else?” Gesture, gesture, translate, translate.

“No. Small yes,” Diavla amended. “We see Tom nine day. Nine day is small. Yes. We are scared. Tom is…good. Tom is good man. He help us. Here is scared.”

This situation is scary? Joan guessed. “That's fair. What do you want to do?”

“We want elf land. Tom say he give wagons, get gold, give gold, get boat. It is big, very big. We want. We very want.”

“Do you believe him?” It took a few tries before Joan managed to paraphrase, “Tom say, you know?”

“Trust?”

“Yes. Do you trust Tom?”

Diavla sighed, picking her words with care. “I want trust Tom. I very want. Maybe, I trust him. Maybe, I am scared. And one say Tom is good now. Tomorrow, and tomorrow tomorrow?” The elf shrugged.

“Has he asked you to lie with him? Um, did he ask, you and Tom…bed?”

“No.” Diavla paused. “Tom want women. He see us. He like see us. He no say, he no ask, he no do.”

The elf woman fidgeted a moment, then confessed in a quiet voice. “I ask. Tom say no.”

“Really.”

“Yes.” Diavla lowered her voice further. “I want Tom. Tom want me. We no do. Tom say no.”

Well, now, that is very interesting. I wonder why he turned her down? I can think of a few different reasons, that would say very different things about the man. His motives are important here. What is he like? Joan looked forward to meeting the mysterious Tom Walker with some trepidation and a lot of curiosity.