Drawtober 2025: Mushroom Fairy

Dear Maggie,

Rook didn’t fly off as I was hoping. Nor has he flown off in the past five days that we’ve been traveling. Instead, he has followed me like a persistent leech. He even seems to have formed an unholy alliance with Blue, because they are both convinced that what I need at this moment is not to find the door to the Queen’s Court, but instead to find a dress to wear to the damned Masquerade.

“You really can’t go in that,” Rook said to me this morning. It has become his favorite phrase. We were sitting beneath an obliging apple tree where we’d spent the night. I will say on thing in Rook’s favor: he makes traveling through Faerie easier. Although I doubt he’s fluent, he’s picked up enough of the language of trees and flowers to ask for shelter during the night. And two nights ago, when we stayed in what we thought was an abandoned shack but was actually the hunting ground for a kelpie, he managed to distract the beast long enough for me to get out. Though, whether that was intentional or a stroke of dumb luck is anyone’s guess.

But I’m digressing. Back to the point.

“He’s right, you know,” Blue said. She’s given up complaining about her imprisonment and instead sides with Rook whenever she can, because she knows it annoys me. “You look tattered and torn, a wretched old rag. Even with the invitation you stole from me, I doubt they’ll let you in.”

“I don’t really care what you think,” I told her sourly.

“You should. When was the last time you danced with dryads, or walked the whispering halls? When did you last drink faerie wine, mortal? I doubt either of you has ever attended upon a Faerie Queen as I have.”

“Are you including me in your judgment?” Rook asked with a smile.

“Of course I am.” Blue sniffed. “Thieves are not generally invited in through the front door.”

To my surprise, Rook’s expression darkened. He was silent for a few moments, his strides taking him ahead of me. I wanted to ask him about it—I should have. Rook never seemed to care about things like rank, but I know his kind is not welcome in the fine halls of Faerie. Corvid fae are scavengers, after all. It’s hard to trust a creature who covets by their very nature.

I didn’t ask him, though, and in a few moments he drifted back to walk beside me with a stealthy grin on his face.

“You know,” he said, “I know a seamstress we could visit. It’s hardly out of the way, and she makes marvelous things. Wouldn’t you like to present yourself to the Queen in finery rather than rags? I think it would make a more favorable impression. And as we have a proclaimed expert with us—” Here he nodded to Blue who preened for a moment, “—it would be folly not to take advantage.”

I could see that this was a fight I was not going to win. And I could also see their point. Appearance is not all in Faerie, but it counts for much. So, in the end, I relented.

The village we now find ourselves in is not large, but it is also not far from our path. It’s called something-brook. Cap-brook? Court-brook? I can’t remember. We’re staying in the only two rooms in the town’s tiny inn. I’m taking the time to write this now while Rook seeks out this mysterious seamstress of his. I think—

Same day, evening

Back at the inn. It has been an…eventful day.

Rook returned while I was writing the beginning of this letter, bursting in entirely unannounced.

“I found the seamstress,” he declared. Rather than elated at having found her, he seemed agitated, so I asked him what was wrong.

“Well…we may not have as easy a time getting you a dress as I had hoped. The shop is in a tizzy. Someone stole Evangeline’s spinning wheel.”

“Evangeline…?”

“Evangeline Muscaria.” When I didn’t nod in acknowledgment, he gave an exasperated sigh. “Honestly, Pen, how is that you haven’t heard of her? She’s a sought-after seamstress!”

“Then it hardly seems like she’d have time to make one for me.”

“Of course she has time. She owes me a favor.”

“One you can’t call in, it seems, since her spinning wheel is gone.” I didn’t tell him that I didn’t know why a spinning wheel was so essential to dress-making. Faeries have their own logic. I will admit, Mags, I felt a twinge of disappointment. Faerie dresses are some of the most beautiful, diaphanous things. I had secretly begun to look forward to wearing one again. But, as I did not want Rook or Blue to know this, I merely shrugged.

“Then I will not have a new dress.”

“They will not let you in!” Blue chattered from her cage.

“I have an invitation.”

“That is meaningless if you don’t look the part. But perhaps I could help you,” Blue said slyly.

“How do you propose to do that, little one?” Rook asked.

The bird puffed up irritably at the appellation but continued. “If you let me out, I will speak to the other songbirds. We have eyes everywhere. I could find out who took the spinning wheel, and you could go and take it back.”

If I had a heart, the plaintive way that Blue requested her freedom might have made it ache. Lucky for me, I do not.

“None of what you said is concrete, it is mere suggestion,” I pointed out. “You’ll fly away the moment I open the door.”

“I w—” Blue broke off, her wings fluttering. “You’re a bully,” she finally muttered. “A great big, human bully.”

“Pen has always had a mean streak,” Rook said fondly. “But you do have a point. When something is stolen, it can always be stolen back. Fortunately for all of us, I have some experience in that.”

#

So, Mags, that is how I found myself trudging through the woods with Rook winging above me in his bird-form. We left Blue at the inn, fearing she would make too much noise, but as I walked I was painfully aware of every stick snapping beneath my feet. Mortals are so loud, and I didn’t bring your slippers with me.

Rook was following a trail from the sky that I could only faintly make out on the ground. What I did see didn’t fill me with confidence: whatever took the spinning wheel was clearly quite large. Branches bent at odd angles, and deep depressions in the mud told me where the creature’s feet must have trodden.

After a time, I saw a light between the trees. A ramshackle cottage came into view. Its roof slouched down over a house that looked like it had been made from rotted logs and moss. From the two windows came the orange glow of a fire and the smell of something cooking.

I stopped at the edge of the trees and waited until Rook winged his way down. He landed with a thump of boots, transforming mid-fall. It’s a sight I will never get used to—feathers melting to flesh, beak snapping into a smile.

“Our friend has lit the lanterns for our arrival,” he said. A glimmer lit his face, one I recognized. Its the same expression he wore every time he talked you and I into doing something ridiculous—stealing Marjorie Jones’s speaking mirror or tricking Lady Fen into leaving her bridge unguarded long enough to cross it.

“Aren’t you the least bit nervous?” I demanded.

“Why ever would I be nervous?”

“Because whatever took the spinning wheel is quite large!”

“And I am quite quick, and you are quite interesting.” He grinned at me widely. “Come along my little Pen-cap, have a sense of adventure! All you have to do is keep it talking. I’ll do the rest.”

He leaned forward and bopped my nose with one of his long fingers before taking to the sky again, swooping low around the roof. I sighed and trudged towards the front door.

By this point, Mags, I’m sure you are rolling your eyes at me. I should have said no, especially once it became clear that the thief wasn’t some mischievous brownie. But it’s hard to say no to that smile, particularly with those golden eyes above it.

The door opened a crack after I knocked. An eye the size of dinner plate peered out at me.

“Who are you?” the creature asked in a craggy voice. “What do you want with Sally Tangletooth?” The name and the eye told me what we were dealing with. A boggart.

In our many childhood adventures, you and I only ran into boggarts a handful of times. They are generally sullen and solitary creatures, finding a wild home and guarding it fiercely. The Sleat Standing Stones we visited about six years ago, the ones near the sea—those had a boggart if you remember. We stumbled into his home without realizing it and had to run out in quite a panic. But in the minutes we had inside, before the Sleat boggart noticed us, I got a look around his space. Driftwood and smooth stones, sea shells and bird feathers. So it has been with all the boggarts I’ve encountered. None of them have been particularly interested in hand-crafted things.

All of this came to my mind as I met Sally Tangletooth. And so, instead of doing what Rook had suggested and drawing the boggart outside, I asked to come in.

“I’m a pilgrim on a quest,” I told her (it was not quite a lie), “and I would share your meal if you would allow it.”

The boggart drew in a breath. “Human,” she rumbled (which was not entirely encouraging) before opening the door.

The interior of the cottage was as rustic as the outside. Interestingly shaped logs took the place of furniture, and vines and moss dripped down the walls. Two things of crafted kind only did I see: a large copper pot boiling over the fire in the fireplace and the spinning wheel sitting nearby. It looked a bit worse for wear—fleece had been jammed into it, and lumpy yarn was tangled around the wheel and the treadle.

The door shut behind me as Sally lumbered into view. She looked a bit like a tree herself—gnarled limbs and greenish hair. Her eyes were wide and luminous, almost frog-like as she stared at me.

I cleared my throat and tried not to show how nervous I really was. “Thank you for your hospitality.” Then, taking a chance, I pointed to the spinning wheel. “Are you a spinner, Sally?”

Those luminous eyes went to the wheel and back to me. “Why?”

“I am merely curious. I heard that a spinning wheel was recently taken from a nearby village. Do you—”

Sally was suddenly standing right before me, crowding me backwards. “She would not help Sally,” she said angrily. “She said the dress wasn’t enough, that Sally wasn’t thinking right. But Sally thinks just fine, and Sally know what she wants, and Sally will have it.”

I had been backed all the way up to the wall by this time. My heart thrummed all the way to my toes. It took everything in me not to try and dart around her for the door. I didn’t know what she would do if I ran, and I didn’t want to find out.

Instead, I cleared my throat. “This she…would that be Evangeline Muscaria?”

“Mushroom hat lady,” she muttered. “Yes.”

(I had not yet seen Evangeline, so I had to take it on faith that we were speaking of the same person.) “You wanted her to make you a dress?”

Sally nodded.

“And she refused?”

Sally nodded again.

“Because—” I broke off as the sound of fluttering came from behind Sally. A bird was coming down the chimney. Rook.

“Because she doesn’t like Sally. She doesn’t want Sally to be happy,” the boggart said, snapping my attention back to her.

“The dress would make Sally happy, then?”

The boggart’s eyes darted to the side just for a moment, and I caught sight of something I had not noticed before. Folded delicately on a twisted wood shelf was a gentleman’s silken handkerchief. A set of initials was embroidered on it in sloping script—A.R.

Mags, I know I am a great fool. But when I saw that handkerchief, I understood Miss Sally Tangletooth better than I have ever understood anyone. The dress was not for her, not really. The dress would be a net, a trap carefully and lovingly laid. And I couldn’t help thinking how funny it was that we were both trying to get dresses with which to bait our snares.

“What’s his name, Sally?” I asked.

She startled at the question, then looked away. “Aethlin. He is beautiful.”

“I’m certain he is.” I could feel my own empty chest with every word. “Have you spoken to him?”

She shook her head. “He is a knight to the Queen. He was here only once. He helped Sally up when she fell.” Her eyes started to water. “He is beautiful.”

Even without my own heart, I remember what it feels like to be struck by love. The entire world tilts on its axis. One moment, your life is proceeding as planned. The next, an infection has overtaken you. Your thoughts rise on air, your skin feels too tight at the mere thought of seeing them. Love like that is an obsession, a consuming fire. It will burn you to cinders. And the worst part—the very worst part—is that no one can stop you throwing yourself on that pyre.

I reached out and took her spindly hands in mine. “Sally,” I said, “you do not know how to spin. You can’t use the spinning wheel.”

“But Evangeline—Sally must—Sally must—”

“We will get you a dress, Sally,” I promised. “But you must ask for it for yourself, not Aethlin. He cannot love something that you don’t already love. Do you understand?”

A creak interrupted us. I had been so wrapped up in the conversation I had forgotten about Rook. Now, Sally turned and we both saw him beside the wheel. He looked a little charred from coming down the chimney, and he stood there with an odd expression on his face. It was halfway between grief and anger, and it was gone swifter that water in a stream.

“My friend there is right, Sally Tangletooth,” he said in his usual charming tone. “A dress you want, and a dress you shall have. But first, we must return this wheel to its rightful owner, don’t you think?”

#

I fear this letter has grown overlong already, so I will endeavor to be quick in my conclusion. We made it back to the village with daylight to spare. After initial introductions and an apology for invading her house, Sally and Rook struck up an involved conversation on the benefits of different kinds of wood. They kept it up all the way to the shop of Evangeline Muscaria, the seamstress. I understood what Sally meant when she called her the “mushroom hat lady,” for Evangeline wore a red-and-white spotted mushroom atop her head. She practically screamed with joy, and no small measure of anger, when Sally put the spinning wheel down before her.

What Rook said specifically to smooth things over, I may never know, but Evangeline eventually agreed to make dresses for myself and for Sally. They are to be ready by tomorrow morning—the spinning wheel, apparently, spins time, not wool. It will spin enough time for two gowns to be made in one night.

“Did you have to make a bargain with her?” I asked Rook as we walked back to the inn.

“Not everything must be bargains.”

“You did, then,” I replied, catching his evasion.

He glanced at me sidelong. “I do not possess your facility for talking people around to things without making deals. You may have gotten Sally to give up the wheel without a bargain, but Evangeline was not so moved by my own words. I owe her a favor now.”

I felt rather bad about this. “I could owe her the favor instead, if you wanted.”

“Two years gone, and you’ve forgotten so much of Faerie, dear Pen-cap. Bargains are currency here. You cannot go giving out your favor for free.”

“You’re doing me a favor for free right now, though,” I pointed out to him. “I wouldn’t have a dress at all if it weren’t for you. I suppose I should say th—”

“Don’t thank me,” he said sharply, bringing us to a stop. We stood just outside the inn. The stars were coming out, and somewhere in the village someone was playing a lonely flute.

“Why not?” I asked. An uneasy twisting had started in my stomach at the harshness of his words.

He frowned down at me. “You scatter favors and thanks about like fallen leaves. You should be more precious with your kindnesses.”

Oh, Mags. I don’t know what possessed me. And I wish you were here to chide me for it. But standing there, looking at that strange, half-grieved, half-furious expression on his face, I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to surprise him, I suppose. Do anything to knock that sorrow away.

So I leaned up, there in the twilight, and kissed him on the cheek. He smelled like the forest. “Perhaps I don’t wish to be precious. Not with you, at least.” And then, like a coward, I ran into the inn and locked my door behind me.

Your Sister,
Penelope