Free Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) by Charlotte E. English

as to how the porters had managed to fit all the clothes inside. By his reckoning, they would need at least four coaches of similar size, but no others stood waiting.
    ‘Don’t overthink it,’ Grunewald said gravely, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Come now. Hat—’ he plonked Aubranael’s tall hat unceremoniously onto his head—‘Greatcoat’—he threw a voluminous, shockingly heavy mess of fabric into Aubranael’s hands and quickly shrugged into his own ankle-length coat—‘and we are away! Come along!’
    He strode out of the door and stepped into the coach, Aubranael following close behind. ‘I hope you are feeling rested,’ Grunewald said as they settled themselves inside, ‘for we have much to do!’
    ‘Do?’ Aubranael said blankly as the coach—manned, to all appearances, by humans rather than goblins—began to move. ‘What can we possibly do in here?’
    ‘I will teach,’ Grunewald beamed, ‘and you will learn.’
    ‘What am I learning?’
    ‘Etiquette, my dear fellow! The rules of gentlemanly behaviour, and all that. If you think the Faerie of Aylfenhame are irrational, wait until you see how the folk of England behave.’

Chapter Five
    The first I saw o’ these fine fellows was a day or so after, when they passed over my bridge. I took ‘em at face value—what else was I likely to do? Told me all about their good selves, they did—sold me a fine pack o’ lies! I let ‘em pass. Should’ve pushed them into the river instead.
    Their arrival set the whole town to talkin’, as ye may imagine—flashin’ money about an’ makin’ a fine show o’ wealth as they were. We shall see how my Sophy handled the news by an’ by.
     
    Sophy felt in low spirits after her return from Aylfenhame. The colours of Tilby in Spring, however vivid, could not compare to the scintillating hues of Grenlowe’s meadows which had delighted her eye and her heart in equal measure; the food served by poor faithful Mary and Thundigle, though excellent in its way, smelled and tasted of nothing in comparison to the mere fragrance of the fare of Aylfenhame, which she had not been permitted to eat. To return to her small life in Tilby—to her father’s selective anxieties and habitual neglect, Anne’s raptures over trifles and her own bleak future—sunk her spirits so low she found it almost impossible to maintain her usual semblance of cheer.
    ‘Are you quite sure you are well, my dear?’ her father enquired on the third day after her return. She had been detained in Aylfenhame rather longer than she had intended; she had returned to find him in a little fever of alarm, and he had never been satisfied with her vague explanations as to where she had gone.
    ‘Of course, father,’ she said, mustering a smile for him.
    He peered at her face, his own drawn with concern. His gaze lingered on her cheek; but if he was fancying her thinner, he must be mistaken. A mere three days of picking at her meals could not possibly effect any material alteration so soon.
    Anne noticed her listlessness, too, though Sophy was careful to tell no one where she had been. Tales abounded of maidens lured into Aylfenhame by mischievous fae-folk, only to waste away upon their return. Sophy could understand their feelings quite well, supposing such stories to have any truth to them at all; but she was made of sterner stuff than these wilting young ladies, and had no intention of starving herself into an early grave in such absurd fashion. She would have no one suspect her of it, either.
    Besides, though Balligumph had not explained the reasoning behind his actions—only chuckling, and looking mysterious, when she asked him—she could not believe he’d had any such nefarious object in mind. Thundigle was not so sure; or perhaps his concern for her overrode his reason, for he glared darkly whenever Balligumph’s name was mentioned, and stared frequently up at Sophy’s face with almost as much concern as her father.
    All this care was