In the 17th Century, the ancient sprawl of Epping forest is bursting with magic and those who go unseen by human eyes: the elves who rule the summer court, and the goblins who rule the winter court. It is said that if a human catches the eye of one of the fey, they are either doomed or blessed. Contains the stories: Wulfren and the Warlock: When Wulfren wakes from a strange dream of a human captor with long silver hair, and grey eyes, his brothers tell him they rescued him from a warlock, and take Wulfren back home to the goblin king's palace. But Wulfren isn’t so sure the matter is that simple. Why was he missing so long? What are the strange dreams of the beautiful man with the silver hair? Dalliances with humans are severely frowned upon, especially by Wulfren’s father, but Wulfren is willing to risk the scorn of his family to find the human who haunts his dreams. Quiller and the Runaway Prince: After a hard winter, Quiller is sent deep into the forest on a family errand, and is surprised when a human stumbles into his path. Quiller swoops in to pester him, perhaps even eat him, but there is something special about the human: his scent is royal, though he protests that he is not, and soon Quiller finds himself agreeing to help the human with his troubles—in exchange for a kiss.

Goblins

“Oh! Terribly sorry, chap. I forget how strong my handshake is. Do forgive me.”


Everyone else stared in wonder. Evie and Annie chuckled as Cameron glared up at me.


“Cameron, do get off the floor.” Aneurin tutted. “You’re making the place look untidy.”


More snickers. Even Brithorne snorted. He nudged his son aside as he placed himself in front of me. He didn’t offer to shake my hand. “Sebastian, eh? Where did you say you were from?”


“Here and there, old fellow. All over, you could say.” I waved a hand in his face to demonstrate my point, and Brithorne flinched slightly. No warrior was this one, that was for sure. Smothering a laugh, I turned away from him and sat next to Cashel.


Brithorne and Cameron, both flustered, got into their seats, relegated to the end of the table. “Sebastian, good sir,” Brithorne said. “I find that ‘old fellow’ offends me. You may address me as ‘my lord’, for that is my proper title.”


Chapter 51