You know, fair reader, given her attitude toward previous events, I’m not certain we should even bother with checking in on our post-inebriate fairy. I shouldn’t say so, but truly she’s hardly the caliber of godmother one comes to expect from such tales. Laughing at a helpless maiden’s impending doom like that. It’s downright rude, that is. Honestly, I don’t think she’s quite our sort of—

  No, really. I—

  Surely we could—

  FINE.

    *sigh*

      Some people.

  What? Oh, no. Nothing.

  If my fair reader wishes to continue to fraternize with unsavory females lacking all decorum and common decency, who am I to stand in your way? I shan’t even comment on the possible correlation between such a reader’s own moral compass and that of our heartless Madame. Shan’t say even one word about it.

  Nope. Not. One. Word.

  So…

  Back at the Withershins Inn and Tavern—

  And never let it be said that I failed to give second chances. Not this narrator. No, not even to ale-addled useless sots who take pleasure in the trials of—

  Ow!

  That’s my foot! Honestly. Was that really necessary? I mean—

  Windbag?! Why you… you… oh, shut it. Honestly, the quality of reader these days leaves something to be desired.

  *Ahem*

  The Withershins Inn.

  The barroom.

  One winged, recently sobered godmother still clutching her coffee.

  There. Are you happy? Can we get back to the interesting stuff now?

  Oh, fine. We’ll take a closer look.

  See? Nothing to interest…

  Hmm.

  Our Madame Sarsenet is indeed still clutching her coffee. But the coffee appears to have grown quite cold and…

  And she is staring off into the specially tempered bottles of Trollsgut Ale on the shelf across the bar, muttering to herself. I’m sure it’s just the aftereffects of Billy’s coffee, it does tend to do quite a number on a person. I’m sure its nothing, but…

  Oh, well. We might as well find out while we’re here. If we lean in a bit—mind the wings—we should—oh! and the breath! mother of trolls that’s foul—we should be able to hear…

  “Dragon’s egg. A real… true… dragon egg. What I could do with… And then I’d be… And Ermentrude can eat it!”

  And now she’s cackling again. There. You see? A waste of time, listening in on the old bat’s daydreaming. We might as well go back to Elaine now. I mean really. It’s not as though Madame Hangover is ever going to get her chubby little paws on that blasted egg…

***

  Somewhere far away and far more interesting we find our sweet tongued heroine standing at the crossroads of a woodland path deep in an arboreal valley, pondering which branch to take.

  Get it? Branch? Oh, you’re no fun.

  Anyway, as she ponders she describes the splendors of her recent adventures to herself in dulcet tones while kicking at a mossy lump with all the grace and dignity of her delicate nature.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Sh—ow! Damned, poxy fates and hells. Who covers a rock with moss?”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Our brave Elaine is now engaging in the age-old dance of attempting to clutch one’s foot while remaining upright and hopping on the other… And falls straight into an overgrown holly bush.

  Oh dear.

  Let’s just give her a moment to collect herself, shall we? I’m sure we can study the view or… something. And you might want to cover your ears while we’re at it. Wouldn’t want them to blister. No? Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  Let’s see. The view.

  Ah! Look at that spectacular tree. It’s so… so… tree-like. And—goodness, she is rather creative with her descriptions, isn’t she?—and there’s another tree. Also very… tree-like. Um. Oh, dear. I think she just tore her cloak and—Ow! Blistering ears! Blistering ears! Mother of trolls, she’s got a tongue on her.

  Trees. We’re looking at trees and… You know. What we—I mean Elaine—really needs right now is a sign. Some sort of signal as to which way to go. Bless me if I know which path to take. It’s nothing but… trees. Just one good sign and…

  Huh.

  Reader, does that look like a sign board to you? There, up ahead. No, there. On that crooked tree trunk with the twist of bark that looks like… well… something rather rude.

  Oh, stop giggling.

  Elaine? If you have a moment I think—yes, yes. We know. Curses on the bandits. Curses on their parents and other illegitimate offspring. Curses on their horses. But if you could compose yourself for just a minute and look up ahead there. No. Hop around the other direction. There. See?

  If you could just hobble over there we might… That’s it. Now then. What have we here?

  It is indeed a sign board! How fortuitous. A sign just when we need one. And a… um… most unusual one at that. Our sweet Elaine’s frown turns from profane fury to confusion to outright bewilderment as she reads.

  At the top of the board, painted in precise, well-ruled letters that put one in mind of an overly exacting professor, reads the legend:

To whom it may concern: Stonefoot and Co. are seeking qualified applicants

for the post of domestic management and maintenance.

Applicants should have excellent references and preferably a degree in—

  This is crossed out and followed by another announcement written in a spidery flowing script one might expect to find on a handwritten invitation to tea and crumpets.

Don’t mind him dearies.

All applications will be considered.

If interested in the post of housemaid, please come along to the Stonefoot mine for a chat.

  This too has been crossed out, rather violently, and another line scrawled in its place.

NO! Go the fecking hell AWAY!!!

  This is scribbled out with what looks like… crayon?

Unkle Smeargold’s jus grumpe. Plees coome.

  Below this is another line of script in deep purple ink festooned with every possible curlicue the letters can hold.

Siiinging in the cave! Just siiiiiinging in the cave!

What a glooorious feeeeling! I’m miiiiiiining again!

  Um. Yeah. Interesting.

  Anyway. This fascinating tangent is followed by a crooked note wedged into the corner that looks as though someone forgot what they were doing halfway through.

Help want… wnt… uh…  

  Right. And finally below all of this, in neat, normal letters, is a postscript.

Please ignore the others.

Help wanted.

Maid position.

Apply at Stonefoot mine.

Ask for Bob or Granny Gudrid.

  Elaine blinks.

  “What the hell?”

  Yes. Our thoughts exactly.

  “Stonefoot. Sounds… dwarfish. And there’s a mine. Could be the right place. At the least they can tell me how much forest is left before I go feral.”

  A pause.

  “And now I’ve resorted to talking to myself. Great. Just great.”

  Our fair heroine hesitates, pondering the sign and the dark forest path beyond.

  “Then again, they could be the sort to chop helpless travelers into bits and bake them into gingerbread houses.”

  While this is a valid concern, given the fairy tale nature of our story, one cannot forget the promise of fiery death hanging over our protagonist’s raven tressed head if she should fail and—

  *clank*

  Oh dear.

  Was that…?

  Yes. Yes I do believe it was.

  Somewhere, from far off in the woodland wilderness behind her, the distant sound of metal clanking reaches our sweet Elaine’s ears. This is followed by a faint and wavering voice she knows only too well.

  “Fair maiden? It is I, Sir Jeffery. I have come to rescue you from the dragon’s thrall… Hello? …*clank* … I say, could use a little help… *clank* …Anyone there?”

  “Right.”

  Our fearless girl turns back toward the sign and practically sprints down the path.

  “Gingerbread-baking cannibal dwarves it is.”

 ***

  Meanwhile, at the Withershins Inn…