Meanwhile at the Withershins Inn we…

Oh, forget it. There are far more interesting things afoot than watching Madame cackle her tipsy self under the table.

Back to Elaine and her fearsome and felonious companions.

***

Ah, here we are.

Deep in the fairytale forest some time later, our troublesome and troubled trio is picking their way through the ever darkening shadows as the day draws on toward evening.

“And you’re sure this is the right way,” Cinnamon whines… er… I mean… asks for the eleventeenth time as she narrowly dodges the branch Thom accidentally releases with a snap toward her face.

“[Aye, and a’ve alf a mind to t’leave ya if ya ask again.]”

Our larcenous lass emits something rather like a growl. “I can get by nicely on my own, thank you very much.”

Thom, who is currently perched astride Elaine’s shoulder as she marches ahead of her criminal companion and attempts valiantly to ignore the goings on of her fellow conspirators, hard as that may be, twists about and gives Cinnamon a display of his most mocking mimicry. Cinnamon, clearly done being taunted by her thumb-sized tormentor, takes a swipe that misses Thom entirely but smacks our beleaguered heroine instead and sends her stumbling forward. Not that the thief appears at all repentant of her accident. Our girl spins about, prepared to give her assailant a no doubt colorful piece of her mind, but stops as Cinnamon begins to shriek and flail at her own head.

Oh, dear. Um.

It appears that Thom is extraordinarily agile and determined for someone of his diminutive size. Having dodged Cinnamon’s ill-placed blow, he apparently took a rather impressive leap while we weren’t looking and is currently lodged in our screaming thief’s hair.

Honestly, the amount of noise is really quite unnecessary and rather shrill. Fates only know what it’s doing to poor Thom’s eardrums. It certainly doesn’t appear to be improving Elaine’s mood at all.

“Mother of trolls, they’re worse than the damn gnomes,” our girl grumbles and, clearly done playing referee, slumps onto a nearby boulder to watch as the chaos continues.

Cinnamon, our felonious female and current target of Thom’s outsized retribution, scrabbles wildly at the unwanted inhabitant of her golden locks. Sadly for the thief, no amount of shaking or pawing manages to dislodge Thom from his newly acquired seat, and eventually, our larcenous lass grows tired. Yet, just as she is sitting down, huffing from effort, Thom grabs two fistfuls of hair and yanks.

“Ow!”

“[O’ no ye don, ye manky mog. Up wit ye. I dinnay become a knight o’tha round table to take disrespect from a one pence con.]”

Um. I think we were going with two pence thesp— You know what, never mind. One pence con is perfectly appropriate.

“Are you two quite finished?” Elaine mutters.

Cinnamon shoots our girl a venomous glare, but breaks off whatever charming response she might have given with an outraged squeak as Thom yanks again. Wincing, Cinnamon drags herself back to her feet.

“[Right. Now. This a’way.]” Thom pulls on a flaxen handful, wrenching Cinnamon’s head to the left, and gives her a light kick to the ear, eliciting another small shriek.

“Get. Off!” Cinnamon sends a sound fist to Thom’s general position, which he skillfully dodges. The blow—oh, dear—lands on her own head. Goodness. I think, dear reader, she may actually be about to shed actual real tears. It almost makes one feel sorry for her.

“[Woah, filly. All yer bucking will only hurt yerself.]”

“I’m going to kill you!”our beleaguered thief snarls.

Hmm. Yeah, no. Not really feeling sorry for her anymore.

Anyway. Thom is not deterred in the slightest by this vicious threat, but regains his seat and kicks her in the ear again. “This a’way.”

The look on Cinnamon’s face is clearly murderous, but for the moment our felonious female complies, stomping in the general direction that she’s pointed. The wee man atop her head will probably be saddle sore by the time they arrive, but by the grin on his face I’d wager he thinks the fun is worth the trouble. Our long-suffering Elaine merely cocks a brow, shakes her head, and follows.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

***Further traipsing, muttering, and cursing commences. Some time later.***

The sun is just setting behind the trees when our triumphant—or bedraggled, depending on which member you’re speaking of—trio arrives at the appointed clearing with its darkening tower. Thom, singing a jaunty and rather perverse tune about the sexual proclivities of hedgehogs at the top of his tiny lungs, is still firmly in place atop Cinnamon’s head, despite several desperate attempts to dislodge him. Reaching the base of the tower, Thom yanks his unwilling mount to a halt just as Yaga rounds the stone edifice, a bundle of kindling tucked under one arm. Cinnamon’s sense of self preservation must still be in working order despite the bruising it’s taken, for she stops in her tracks as the witch looks them over.

“[Right then, ye old hag. Is me debt repaid?]” Thom queries.

“I don’t have my treasure box yet now do I, wee man,” Sybil returns as she leans close and… sniffs… Cinnamon. To her credit, our thief doesn’t tremble at all. Though she does let out a small yelp when Yaga licks her.

Eew-ach!

What? I didn’t say I didn’t shiver. I mean, that’s just uncalled for. Ugh.

“You taste enough like a thief,” the Witch of the Semi-Overgrown Thicket Just Off Water Mill Road declares.

Said thief lets out a huff. “I am a woman of skill and—”

“Excellent.” Sybil claps her hands together. “Then, shimmy up there and retrieve my box. It’s a nicely carved wooden thing given to me by a rather small bear. You’ll know it when you see it.”

Cinnamon eyes the stone tower, before giving her employer a calculating glance. “I can do it, but what will you give me in exchange for my services?”

Sybil smiles, rows of sharp iron teeth delivering an excellent point. “How about I start by not eating you?”

“No. No good.”

Oh, good gods. Forget what I said about her self preservation being intact. Clearly she’s an imbecile. I mean, is she trying for suicide?

“You clearly can’t get up there,” our flaxen felon continues, “and it looks like a nice place to hole up for a while. What’s my incentive to come back down with your box?”

Surprisingly, rather than take a chunk out of the impertinent baggage, Yaga smiles. And this time it actually appears sincere. And slightly less… pointy. “I like a woman who knows her worth. All right, thief. Let’s see… I could enchant your cloak with a little speedwell for swiftness, nightshade for sneaking, and violets for a sweet demeanor?”

**snort** I don’t think all the violets in the world will be enough to sweeten that delightful piece of womanhood.

“And I get to kick the little man,” Cinnamon demands.

**rolls eyes** As I said.

Sybil laughs, “You’ll have to catch him first.”

“[I’ll slit yer throat in ye sleep. Both of ye!]” Thom yells and shakes his fist from his former perch on Elaine’s shoulder where he’d removed himself during the negotiations.

Ignoring Thom’s protests, the girl and the witch shake hands.

Elaine absently pats Thom’s foot and settles back to watch as her purloined thief unclasps her cloak, kicks off her shoes, and begins to climb. Sybil, apparently unconcerned over her newest employee’s antics, turns her back and marches over to a small ring of stones to begin arranging the firewood to her liking, leaving Elaine and Thom to watch the thief’s progress. The ancient tower rises high above the fairytale forest, but Cinnamon is nearly a third of the way up before Sybil has finished digging her flint from one voluminous pocket.

“[Look a’ her,]” Thom marvels. “[She’s like a wee spider. I dinnay think so wispy a thing could do it.]”

“I was kind of hoping she’d fall,” Elaine mutters as Cinnamon finally makes it to the high window at the very top and scrambles through.

“[Aye. Me too,]” Thom says solemnly, giving our girl a conciliatory pat on the ear.

Well, yes we all—I mean no! Of course not. That would just be terrible. Maybe a little slip, a few bruises but... Oh, never mind. There she is. Goodness, that was quick. And… what is she holding? It looks like… Cinnamon leans out the window, her arms full of a shining bundle of… something. Whatever it is, she flings it over the window sill, causing Elaine to leap back to avoid being squashed by the… um… rope? Really shiny rope, but okay. Huh. It must be tied at the window because it stops and dangles just a few feet above the ground. Our flaxen felon disappears for a few moments longer then reappears to begin her descent.

The fire is crackling merrily and a pot of stew is bubbling—I swear Sybil must have magic pockets cause I have no idea where she pulled that cauldron from—by the time our thief returns with the box. She gives the rope a tug, and it begins to retract.

“Wha…” Elaine doesn’t even finish.

Cinnamon shrugs, only slightly winded. “Some chick with super long hair has been squatting up there. Says it's a great view and the owner only comes back to store stuff. So long as she lets him use her hair as a ladder, he doesn’t mind.”

“So that’s how he’s been doing it!” The witch flushes faintly, appearing a little embarrassed at her own outburst when the others look at her. “Don’t mind me. I thought it was a spell and have been combing the books for years trying to figure it out. Enough about that, where’s my box?”

Cinnamon passes over a small but imposing box, black as night and carved with an ominously smiling mouth. Everyone leans in as Sybil opens it to reveal…

“Your teeth?” Elaine says. “Really? That’s what all this was about?”

With a grin, Yaga spits out the iron teeth and plops the real ones in with a satisfied chomp. “Oh that’s so much better! How anyone expects me to eat corn on the cob with those other things is beyond me.”

“What about my payment?” Cinnamon demands.

Sybil waves a hand. “I’ll enchant your cloak after dinner.”

“And what about kicking the nasty little monkey?”

“[Who ye callin’ a monkey, ye wee tart-tongued piece o’—]”

And let’s just cut that there, shall we?

The witch cackles. “Feel free. Though I wish you the best of luck surviving it. As for you…” She jabs a finger at the still fuming Thom. “Your debt is paid, little man. You’re free to do as you wish.”

Thom narrows his eyes at Cinnamon. “[Free to rip yon flaxen bint’s hair o’ her head while she sleeps?]”

Yaga waves her hand dismissively. “Whatever your little heart desires. Couldn’t care less. As for you, my girl…” She turns to Elaine and reaches into one of her magically oversized pockets—see, told you they were magic—withdrawing a large oblong package wrapped in dark fabric. “I believe this is yours.”

Carefully, hands trembling only slightly, our long-suffering heroine reaches for the package and slides the fabric out of the way to reveal…

The golden dragon egg.

Which she nearly drops when Sybil claps her hands together. “Now, how about dinner.”

***

Meanwhile back at Withershin’s Inn.