Quinn jerked the large knife out of his mentor’s back, watching as the goblin made a last effort to wheeze out something intelligible between heavy breaths. The boy caught only the words, “Wait . . . Quinn . . .” Finch tried to turn around, and Quin quickly took hold of his thin shoulder and jammed the knife between his ribs again—eliciting a more desperate and final gasp. There was a strange instinct that made him want to hug the old grem as he did so, and comfort him as he died. But, scowling distastefully and disgusted both by both the sight of the diminutive man and what he had just done, Quinn wanted nothing less in the world than to embrace Finch.

He jerked the knife out again, and this time, Finch slumped to the floor, dead. Dark blood, almost black, pooled from his chest and stained the chair he’d been sitting on. A hand-crafted chair made with knowledge he’d stolen from honest men, honest ‘humes’. Blood had flecked the parchments on which the grem had been scrawling as he died. Quinn glanced over the page briefly, catching words such as sorry, parents and his own name, Quinn. A hypocrite to the end.

Quinn had liked the goblin. He really had. But over the years, he had found it truer and truer that he could not be forgiven for his crimes against Quinn’s family. Moreover, Quinn had grown to despise him over the five years they’d been together. Mostly for that book he carried around and wrote in, keeping it wrapped up and tucked away safely. Never letting him read it.

But Quinn had stolen a look last night, and confirmed all the suspicions he’d had. A glance over Finch’s shoulder here and there had confirmed that it was a letter to his grandmother Marianne—his deceased grandmother—and that the old codger was clearly writing it only as a sort of diary to assuage his guilty conscience. What a pathetic creature. Staring down at his withered face now, and his wispy white hair, Quinn wondered how he could ever have respected him.

Ugh, why didn’t I at least kill him outside? The dirt floor would soak up the blood, but still, it would leave such a mess. Quinn paused to blink quickly and gulp, trying to steady his breathing and push back the panic. He hadn’t expected that part. It felt like . . . like killing a human. Not like his fellow villagers used to tell him back in Happenstance. WIth a shaky sigh, Quinn stepped around the body and peered at the scribblings Finch had most recently been penning. His script was messy, but in a practiced and almost artful way. The boy was certain he’d taken it directly from Grandmother Marianne; it felt like hers, even if he wouldn’t know it to see it. The written words were disquieting, and not what he expected, causing him to frown and flips through the leaves until he started from the beginning:

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

To Marianne:

I can only hope you get this letter somehow. By Thunter’s Gunter, I hope so. I’m not in a good way here. Might kick off before I make it out. Hopefully I’ll think of something.

Quinn made his way to the remaining clean chair in the room and sat down, looking back at Finch’s body with an upturned lip that was more thoughtful than disgusted. He deserved it. But . . . when did he pen this part? What had he been going through? It wasn’t recent. Quinn continued reading. To his surprise, he found not the raving words of a madman, but the heartfelt confessions of a conscience racked by regret. The parts about the grem’s romantic notions toward his grandmother made his stomach turn, but he could almost excuse it as innocent honesty.

No, not honest. He’s a grem, a betrayer and a liar.

He continued reading. And reading. He would occasionally glance up, lip trembling, and whisper to himself, “He deserved it.” Somehow, he found that notion harder and harder to justify with each handwritten page. Finch had abandoned Grandmother when she was dying of her disease—Father had told him all about it back in Hemwell. When they arrived together in Hemwell, the place where Patrick grew up and Quinn was later born, Marianne had been suffering from a terminal disease that caused her discomfort and pain. And Finch . . . he’d abandoned them. He deserved this.

Right?

Quinn reached the end of the letter, observing that the writing grew ever shakier and more rushed toward the ending, finally leaving off in a squiggle surrounded by droplets of drying blood. Quinn held the pages in quavering hands. I think . . . I think I just made a terrible mistake.