Tinn read on. “The woman pleaded with the villagers to help her, but they called her mad and accused her of killing her own baby. She swore at them and stormed into the forest to demand that the fairies return her child to her. She came back to the woods day after day, shouting, wailing, calling for anyone to help her. The forest heard her cries. The fairies heard her, too, and for her insolence, they cursed her. She would be doomed to wander the forest forever, snatching up any child she could find, although she would never find her own.”
“That’s why the queen kidnaps kids who go into the forest,” said Evie. “At least, that’s what people say. Oscar Santos from school said she eats them when she realizes they’re not hers, but Uncle Jim always says she turns them into wild animals.”
“I don’t think the real queen does either of those things,” said Tinn. “I mean, she’s scary. But I don’t think she’s murder-children scary. Well . . . probably not.”
“It’s so cool that you’ve actually met her. Do you think that the queen from all the stories is actually Fable’s mom?”
“It can’t be,” said Tinn. “Old Jim has stories about the queen from when he was a kid, and he’s old as dirt. Although . . .” His brow crinkled as he considered. “I guess she could be Fable’s grandma.”
“Keep reading,” said Evie. “You’re at the best part.”
“For having the audacity to make demands of them, the fairies cruelly dubbed the woman a queen—a queen of nothing but dirt and shadows, Queen of the Deep Dark. The forest heard this, too, and it accepted the wretched woman as its own. When the hungry beasts of the forest eventually descended on the poor woman and tried to make a meal of her, the forest would not let them have her. The Witch of the Wood had been born. A creature of fury and heartache, she let the curse seep deep inside her until it pulsed through her veins. To this day, her wails can be heard on the wind that carries through the trees, and death itself cannot tear her from the Deep Dark Forest. In lieu of her own daughter, the mad monarch became a mother to all the monsters of the forest, watching over the wild beasts as her own while swearing revenge on both humankind and fairies.” Tinn turned the page, but the next entry was all about something called a quinotaur. Evie had sketched a picture of a bull with five horns.
“If you’re right, then Fable’s grandma sounds intense,” said Evie. “I’ve never heard Uncle Jim say anything about a new queen, though. What do you think happened to the old one?”
Tinn shrugged. “I guess she probably died,” he said.
They were quiet for a few paces.
“It’s weird,” said Evie, after a pause.
“What is?”
“I’ve always just thought of the queen as a monster, I guess. Not as somebody’s grandma. Or somebody’s mom. Or somebody.”
“Everybody’s somebody,” said Tinn.
Evie nodded. “Everybody’s somebody.”
Tinn gently shut the journal and held it out for Evie. As she took it, her fingers closed around his and she smiled up at him for a moment. Tinn’s brain felt numb.
Evie’s head perked up. “Do you hear something?”
Tinn let go of the journal and peered into the leaves in front of them. They had long since lost sight of Fable and Cole, but he was fairly confident they were still on the right path. A quiet chittering came from the other side of the trees ahead, like a nest of quarreling squirrels. He held up a hand for Evie to wait as he inched closer.
No sooner had he poked his head around the trunk than the air erupted with a jabbering of voices. A whirlwind of twigs and rocks whipped around Tinn, scratching his arms and nicking the back of his neck.
He threw his hands over his face and staggered back. The noises subsided to a murmured growl, and Tinn peered out from behind his fingers.
A swarm of tiny figures surrounded him. The tallest of them was no larger than Tinn’s shins; the smallest could have fit in his palm. Some were green, others brown or slate gray, and they looked as if their bodies had been carved from knobby sticks and rough stones. Several held miniature spears or pole-arms edged with ivory and jade. Tinn counted at least twenty of the creatures perched atop rocks, clinging to the tree bark, and forming ranks on the ground at Tinn’s feet. They wore expressions that ranged from grumpy to murderous.
“Oh jeez,” said Tinn. “I know what you are. Spriggans, right? Kull told me about you.” He swallowed. “We’re just passing through. We’re not hurting anything.”
One of the creatures, a stony spriggan with an uneven face liked cracked flint, stepped to the front of the swarm. “Chttkkt-tchk-cht,” it said. Its brow cast a hard shadow over its steely eyes.
“Sorry, I don’t speak . . . Spriggan. Spriggish?” Tinn held out his hands peaceably, and the figures tensed, tightening their grips on their weapons. “Wait! Wait, how about, um—” Tinn tried to remember the handful of phrases Kull had taught him in the strange, rolling, staccato language of the goblins. “Good . . . daytime,” he managed in broken Goblish. “Speak you . . . goblin . . . words?”
The flinty spriggan’s head turned to one side. It chittered something over its shoulder to one of its compatriots, and then looked back at Tinn. “Bryll hobb’ns goblychth?” it answered in a hoarse Goblish.
“Oh! You do!” said Tinn. “Shoot. I—erm—I don’t. Not really. But I’m learning. I am one, see? I’m a goblin. A changeling—er, what’s the word . . . cudd—cuddio?”
“Bryll hobb’ns . . . cuddioll?”
“Yeah. Cuddioll. That’s it. I’m a changeling.”
Flinty took a step closer. The spriggan’s head bobbed up and down a fraction, sniffing Tinn, who glanced back at Evie. Her eyes were wide. “What’s happening?” she asked.
“They don’t like humans, but I think they’re okay with goblins. I guess they’re deciding if they believe that I am one or not.”
“What about me?” Evie whispered.
Tinn did not have an answer. His hands
