“Eat,” she informed him. “Talk more later.”
“Well now, I could do with a spot o’ breakfast!” Mudge
tried to muster some enthusiasm. Maybe Jon-Tom was right
after all, and these cute little enchanted bastards were finally
going to act in a civilized manner. “Where do we eat?”
“Wrong pronoun,” Grelgen said. She turned to point
with her wand.
Jon-Tom followed it into the brush. What the poor light
of evening had kept hidden from view was now revealed
by the bright light of day. Up the creek beyond the town,
thick peeled branches spanned a shallow excavation. The
firepit showed signs of recent use.
Mudge saw it, too, and his initial enthusiasm vanished.
“Uh, wot’s on the menu, luv?”
“Fricasseed water rat,” she told him, with relish.
“Wot, me?” Mudge squeaked.
“Give the main course a bottle of elf dust. What better
end for a guilty assassin?”
Up till now Jon-Tom had considered their predicament
as nothing more than a matter of bad communication. This
new vision of a bunch of carnivorous fairies feasting on
Mudge’s well-done carcass shoved everything over the
edge into the realm of the surreal.
“Listen, you can’t eat any of us.”
Grelgen rested pudgy hands on soft hips. “Why not?
Jon-Tom struggled for a sensible reply. “Well, for one
thing, it just doesn’t fit your image.”
She squinted sideways at him. “You,” she said decisively,
“are nuts. I’m going to have to consult with the Elders to
make sure it’s okay to eat crazy people.”
“I mean, it just doesn’t seem right. What about your
honey rolls and custards and like that?”