Beverly’s hand was on the door handle, turning it, before she stopped and looked down. She was less than decent. A black undershirt and some sort of skin-tight leggings in the same color was all she had on. Technically covered, but nowhere near enough for her sensibilities. The handle was released and Beverly explored her surroundings a little closer.

A bowl in the top drawer of the dresser held her jewelry; the well worn gold ring of her wedding band, and the silver watch that Spencer had gotten her for their 25th. Her throat caught as she saw the smashed face and the scratches covering the surface. She’d broken it before, but never like this.

Solemnly, she checked the other drawers. None of her clothes were there, but there were a few robes of some cream colored material. They looked kind of like those karate pajamas. It fit well enough, and a sash of the same color kept it closed.

She considered the watch and the ring. The ring didn’t fit. These new fingers were too slender. The watch also fit loosely, but the way the hands moved inside with just the slightest movement made her unwilling to risk it. She left the pair in the bowl regretfully and headed to the door.

The door opened into a raised walkway of a large room. A wooden railing offered scant protection against a fall, what looked like it might be ten or so feet. On the far side, there was a staircase that connected the wrapping walkway to the floor below. There were doors, identical to the one she had just left, on the far wall and another door shared the wall where her room was placed. On the right wall, there was a large double door that would slide into the walls when opened.

The walkway was cool under her bare feet. It was made of seamless stone, as if the entire structure had been cut and carved, smoothed and polished, from a single piece of rock. The same kind of stone as the bed had been formed of, with sparkling stones mixed in with a pale gray material holding them in place.

There was a bustling sound from the floor below. One that brought an unexpected moisture to her eyes. She had lived alone for a while, but, back in the day, it had been here bustling around the kitchen as her family prepared for the day.

She took a deep breath and dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of the robe. It was no time to dwell on such things. Those feelings would be there when she wanted them. For now, her composure was required, and she took the stairs one at a time, regaining that composure. Habits hadn’t had a chance to abate, and she’d had plenty of acquaintances her age that had taken a tumble on a staircase and had never really recovered. Well, the age she used to be.

Beneath the stone walkway on the side with her room, there was a small kitchen area. A small stove, a dividing wall being used as a counter, and a half-barrel basin, hardly a kitchen at all. But the way the cook moved around, Beverly was sure she could feed an army with her meager equipment. Her mother had been the same way. The feelings of longing creeped out of their closet in her heart. This one, however, was an old companion, and it was not so easily banished.

The cook was a strange sight, although the last few minutes managed to provide some insulation from the oddness. At first glance, the woman appeared to be a child. She was short, perhaps not even coming to Beverly’s waist. But the proportions were wrong. She was a full woman, just built on a different scale.

Round was the best way to describe her. Round face, wide round eyes, and a full and portly figure. Her shoulder length hair was a pale blonde. An intricate tattoo covered a large part of her face. She smiled as she noticed Beverly, and spoke with a smile. It was not English, what came out. A raspy, hissing sound, like if snakes had a language. There was language there, but the woman stopped after a few words.

“Trade tongue speak you?” She asked, and smiled at Beverly’s relieved nod. “The tongue of the Masters is not for all. Breakfast I have for I and you, us alone. The Mistress said you would rise today, and hungry be. The Master hunts, Maun serves the Mistress, debts to repay. So, then, alone together we.”

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The woman set a skillet of eggs and bacon on a long and low table, and filled two bowls. She gestured to the floor across from her before sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Gingerly, Beverly joined her. Indian-style, as she knew it, was something she hadn’t done for ages. After school, it had never come up, and while she had tried yoga a few times, she’d always given up around that dog pose.

Her new knees, however, gave her no complaint. And she joined the little lady on the floor with no effort.

Her bowl was filled with cholesterol and fat. The day before, this would have been an unthinkable breakfast. Indigestion for days, heartburn, the greasy feeling that would linger. And the guilt! The shocked faces of her cardiologist and her nutritionist would haunt her for days.

She had six bowls.

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When the meal was done, Beverly helped clean up over protest. Her host tried explain in the odd grammar of tradetounge that she needed bedrest, that it was her job, but Beverly persisted. Dishes was a job she had done often enough in her life that it meant little to her to chip in.

Introductions happened over kitchen chores. The woman was named Sililuuth Stoutkettle, Sili for short. She was called a halfling and laughed with a short, barking when Beverly identified as a human. Gesturing for the confused woman to bend over, the halfling touched the ears that Beverly had forgotten.

“Elf.” she was told.

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After the breakfast chores, Sili headed out to the gardens. Beverly joined her, mind churning. She knew little about elves. There were those cookie makers, and Santa’s elves, of course, but she didn’t feel like one of those. She was tall and lanky, those were short and cute, like Sili.

For a creature half her size, she can certainly move, thought Beverly. The halfling woman deftly moved through the verdant tangle, placing all manner of vegetables in the basket in Bev’s hands. Many of them were large enough that it looked comical in Sili’s tiny hands. Soon, the basket was overflowing with produce, and the pair headed inside. The vegetable basket was dropped off and a different basket was picked up, one filled with scrap. Sili carried it this time as she led Beverly to the pond.

The pond looked like it had been taken from the cover of a lawn and garden magazine. The coastline of the pond was a bit too neat and even for the pond to be natural. The bridge was the same seamless stone with sparkles that she had seen so much of. Cattails grew in unnaturally even rows along the bank, looking more like crops than wildlife.

Sili crossed over to the island and with a whistle, began throwing scraps to the fish. The water had started to churn with movement at the whistle, and fish leapt out of the water to get at the scrap.

And never came down.

The fish darted back and forth through the air, at first too fast for Beverly to see, but as she focused, she could see these fish had wings. Not the fin-like kind of the flying fish she was used to, but thick, feathery wings that allowed them to actually fly.

This was fantasy stuff, thought Beverly. She certainly knew of fantasy. Her Andrew had been into it, but any explanation of space turtles and magic rings had gone over her head. She was proud he loved to read. Frannie’s boys never read and they always seemed dull compared to the sparkle in Andrew’s eye when he had been reading.

Sili’s deft hands grabbed a fish that came too close, her thumb in the classic fisherman’s grip that used the jawbone as an anchor point. The fish seemed large compared to the short woman, but she seemed unsatisfied. She turned, eyes meeting Bev’s.

“Another fish try catch?” said her host, gesturing at the flock of fish. With a brief thought as to what Miss Manners might have advised for this situation, Beverly turned toward the fishes.

They were nimble. And even in the air, they were still slippery. She missed entirely her first two grabs. On her third attempt, she caught one, but it wiggled and flapped its way out of her grasp. The wings gave the creature surprising leverage in an unusual direction. The fourth one stayed put, her hands providing the strongest death grip on this isle.

Sili gave a nod of approval. With her free hand, she fished two coins from a belt pouch and tossed them into the water, then picked up the basket and headed back to the house. Beverly followed, fish in tow.

“What was with the coins there?” she asked the woman.

“Shy Korta sleeps in pond, trades fish for hoard.”

Beverly was still trying to piece together what Sili had said when the dragon fell out of the sky on top of them.