Nope.

Not even going there.

Moving on.

***

Deep in the forest, our fair heroine is coming to the end of her chosen path. Ahead of her, just on the other side of a small stream, the trees are giving way and shortly she finds herself stumbling into a woodland clearing nestled against the base of a hill. A flash of red disappearing into the trees on the other side catches her eye.

Huh. Looked like someone in a red cloak. And in a hurry too. Oh, well. Where were we?

Oh, yes.

Our brave Elaine blinks at the vanishing apparition in scarlet and turns her attention back to the clearing. More specifically to the hillside. At one end of which, what is very clearly a mine has been carved into the rock. A mine that is, just as clearly, not intended for anyone over four feet in height.

Suspiciously dwarf-like?

I think yes.

At the nearer end of the hill another four-foot entrance has been carved, this one a round wooden door—interesting choice of shape for a door—flanked by windows and capped by a tiny porch roof. Another sign has been hung from this porch:

Stonefoot and Co. Mine

Owned and Operated by

Professor Alberich Von Eisenstrom

Granny Gudrid

Thorgrim Smeargold

Burr Littlehammer

Glistenheath Silverthroat

Ketil Mushmind

and

Bob Stonefoot

“Right. Don’t see any gingerbread.”

Elaine marches up to the door and raises her fist to knock. And hesitates as a harsh shout echoes from inside the dwarfish domicile.

“Which one of you broke my chisel?! Mushmind? Was it you? And how do you break a fecking chisel?!!”

“No. I don’t think… Did I?” a much quieter, and obviously confused, voice responds.

“Calm down, Thorgrim.” This voice is female, a decidedly lower than usual female voice, but still quite feminine. “It wasn’t Ketil. Burr? Have you something to tell your uncle Thorgrim?”

A child’s voice pipes up. “It was an accident! I wanted to help in the mine, but the chisel slipped out of my hand and broke on a rock.”

“You fecking little runt!”

“Thorgrim.” The feminine voice has a distinct warning tone that puts one in mind of a nanny about to slap one’s hand.

“Now Burr, my dear,” the voice continues with more gentleness, “what have we told you about touching the good tools? You’ve your own set to use. Ones that won’t get you into any mischief.”

“But those are all dull… and wooden,” the smaller voice, who is apparently Burr, whines.

“Exactly! Stay away from the real tools before ya go lopping off a finger. Or an entire fecking foot!” Thorgrim rages again.

“Calm down, Thor. No real harm done. We’ll just have to spend some extra time today fixing the chisel,” a new voice says with what sounds like years of hard learned patience.

“Thank you, Bob,” the voice that can only be Granny Gudrid replies. “Professor? Anything to add?”

A rather nasal voice responds, “Yes. I rather think we need to take a second look at that silicon nodule. It’s a geological oddity, to say the least. I believe I detected a few other trace elements that really should be followed up on.”

“I see. Glistenheath?”

“The PHAAAAAAAAAntom of the caav-e-rn is theeeeeeeeeere, insiiiide my miiiiiiiiiiiind.”

“So, that’s a no then, is it dearie? Very good. Now, perhaps we could—”

Fascinating as this little play-by-play is, Elaine has clearly heard enough. Stonefoot and Co. can finish their domestic argument after she has her egg.

She knocks briskly and the voices cut off. A long moment of awkward silence follows. Then what sounds like a hurried and hushed debate. Elaine is raising her hand to knock again when the door finally creaks open.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Our valiant girl blinks; for the second time on her journey, speechless.

A middle aged dwarf with a long red beard and matching hair stands in the doorway wearing… a woman’s dressing gown.

Um.

Well.

Goodness. That’s—

Yes, yes, I know. This isn’t the first time any of us have seen a cross-dressing dwarf. It’s just the beard. They usually shave it off first. Or at least braid it.

In any case, the story’s moving on without us. Back to it.

“Well hello, dearie! Have you come for the housekeeping position? It’ll be so lovely to have another female around.” He… she… the dwarf shakes their head wearily. “These men wouldn’t know the correct end of a broom if it stood up and announced itself.”

Yes. This is definitely the feminine voice we heard outside. Elaine, who merely blinked several times at first sight of the robed apparition—as I said, one sees quite a bit working in a fairytale tavern, the stories I could tell you… right! back on task—has already rallied.

“Granny Gudrid?”

“Of course, my dear. Do come in, won’t you? I was just putting on some tea.” The matronly, if somewhat hirsute, dwarf pulls the door wider and motions our fearless maiden inside. Elaine ducks through the round door.

“Just take a seat anywhere you like, there’s a dear. Oh! By chance, did you see someone leaving just now? We had another applicant here a moment ago, sweet girl. But she seems to have run off. Didn’t even wait for her tea, poor thing.”

“Um…” Elaine is clearly calculating the manifold reasons that might propel one into premature flight. But there is no whiff of gingerbread as of yet. “I might have done. Red cape? Moving fast?”

“That’s the one, poor dear. Ah, well.” Granny Gudrid pats Elaine’s hand with her own callused one. “And what’s your name, child?”

“Elaine.”

“Ah! Lovely. Had an aunt by that name. Or was she a cousin?” Granny laughs. “Listen to me, maundering on. Let me go fetch that tea, then we can chat a bit. How do you take it, dear?”

“Two sugars and some cream, ma’am,” Elaine smiles—actually smiles! Goodness. I wasn’t certain our girl had it in her. “If you have it.”

“Of course, dearie. Won’t be but a moment. Take a seat anywhere you like.” Our dwarven granny bustles through a door at the back of the room.

Elaine continues to smile after her and turns to take a seat and—

Goodness. That’s… that’s quite a room. But I suppose when you have seven individuals sharing the same living space…

One overly soft faded pink chair with embroidered footstool, clearly Granny Gudrid’s, sits closest to the fire amongst a pile of half knit blankets and a basket of mending. Crocheted doilies are carefully positioned on the head and armrests.

Across from it sits a rather normal looking stone-hewn seat with a thin cushion, the sort of seat our fair heroine would have expected to find in a dwarven home. A small chess set is positioned on a likewise stone table in front of the chair displaying a game in progress.

Between these two sits a low stool surrounded by a jumble of wooden mining tools and a few children’s books. A half assembled puzzle and heap of crayons are scattered across the rug.

In the farthest and darkest corner is a rather scuffed and battered chair facing away from the others with little else to be said for it, except that it is the epitome of inhospitality.

The opposite corner contains a high-backed chair covered in what looks like red velvet. On the walls around it scarves, wigs, and costume robes hang from pegs. A tall mirror, draped with another sparkly scarf, leans against the end of a bookcase that appears to be full of playbooks, sheets of music, and various small instruments.

In front of one window a comfortable but somewhat ragged chair sits surrounded by—or, perhaps more accurately, buried beneath—an absent-minded disaster. Half empty mugs balance on the windowsill and armrests, the tapestry covered table beside it, and the floor. A few are even beneath the chair. Books lay open or stuffed with multiple bookmarks and scraps of scribbled notes on top of cups and chair and table alike. One is even crammed between the chair cushions. A plethora of other random items lie scattered amongst it all, looking as though their owner set them down and then forgot all about them.

Finally, in front of the other window, stands a tidy workbench and stool, tools meticulously hanging on the wall. Dozens of unknown powders and liquids are arranged on shelves above and a stack of neatly drawn diagrams sits at one end. Diagrams for everything from mining devices to what looks like a large display case.

One of the drawings must have blown off in the breeze from the opened door, for it is now lying on the floor. Elaine bends down to pick it up.

And freezes.

Oh dear.

Our brave girl is holding a meticulously drawn sketch for what looks like a Faberge egg, complete with display stand.

“What in the name of feck did she want?”

Thorgrim’s angry voice travels from down the hall—tunnel?—at the back of the sitting room, making Elaine jump.

“Calm down Thor. Just leave the talking to me or Granny,” comes… is that Bob’s voice? He does sound like the most rational one, aside from Granny, of course. “We don’t need you scaring her off.”

“I think she’s pretty,” pipes up a tiny bashful voice. Burr? Yes. That was it.

“Actually, if we are going to be querying her for the position, I feel I am the one who is most suited to lead the inquest,” the Professor’s nasal tones follow this. “After all, I have experience in—”

“Pipe down, four eyes,” Thorgrim snarls.

“Thorgrim Reginald Smeargold!” Granny’s voice snaps. “If you cannot remain civilized you will be excluded from this conversation.”

An inaudible, but clearly profane murmur, follows this.

Right.

Obviously our fair heroine has decided enough is enough. Still clutching the drawing of the egg, she marches into the back hall. Ahead of her the flickering light of another hearth fire is flowing out of a doorway and onto the opposite wall of the corridor.

Huh.

That’s odd. There’s only one shadow being cast in the light. And it looks like…

“Since Granny met her first, it might be best if she continues the interview,” Bob’s voice returns, clearly trying its best to inject some common sense into the discussion. “Once the girl is comfortable we can each come out and introduce ourselves. All right? You know we can be a bit overwhelming all at once.”

Elaine reaches the door and…

“Um…”

Oh my.

Granny spins around from where she’s been having a conversation with… herself? Selves?

“Oh, dear,” she sighs.

A sneer twists across her face and Thorgrim’s voice emerges from the corner of her mouth.

“Guess the cat is out of the fecking bag now.”

***

Meanwhile, at the Withershins Inn…