You sip a cup of spiced cider as you watch the sun melting its way across the frosted garden, twisted and brown with winter. But as the light climbs the dead bean vines, you notice the ice there doesn't drip and disappear. Instead, it gleams faintly, like silver.

You sip a cup of spiced cider as you watch the sun melting its way across the frosted garden, twisted and brown with winter. But as the light climbs the dead bean vines, you notice the ice there doesn't drip and disappear. Instead, it gleams faintly, like silver.

The boy fell asleep against the willow, his hands unfurled, and driven by her loneliness, the East Wind scoured the earth for treasures to leave on his palm, so that when he awoke, he would see that there was someone who loved him.

The boy fell asleep against the willow, his hands unfurled, and driven by her loneliness, the East Wind scoured the earth for treasures to leave on his palm, so that when he awoke, he would see that there was someone who loved him.

You push your fingers into the windowpane, watching the glass stretch and bubble, and then blow gently until each pops free. The glass orbs reshape and settle. They float away like dandelion seeds, like unspoken words between friends who wished they were lovers.

A variety of mosses go in first to kickstart the O2 cycle, and of course the dwarf goldenberry shrubs that luminesce in 14-hour cycles (and whose vitamin C is uniquely bioavailable for most humanoid travellers). The furred dragonflies with wings like stained glass, though, those are just for her…

The wall is lined from floor to rounded ceiling with narrow wooden shelves, each laden with glass jars of honey in every shape and size, all warm and golden. On the floor, a thick layer of dust and a set of footprints. Leading in, but not out.

Four knocks on the small wooden door in the corner. A door that wasn't there yesterday, but that shimmers now like a freshwater pearl in the thin shaft of moonlight.

The cottage trembles as its walls move and the floor changes from tile to burnished copper. A small blade, rough gems on its handle, clatters suddenly through the window with a fading raven's croak. You grimace. The path will bring a traveller from the Jeweled Coast today.

The thing to remember is that bones have memories. They carry stories in the marrow, lichen-coated and dusty, maybe, but alive in their own way. So mind your footfalls when you pass through the ossified fields, and listen carefully.

The thing to remember is that bones have memories. They carry stories in the marrow, lichen-coated and dusty, maybe, but alive in their own way. So mind your footfalls when you pass through the ossified fields, and listen carefully.

In the shadowed wood, you hear the unmistakeable rasp of dry flesh on dry flesh. Behind you stands an impossibly old yew, and as your heart skitters in the dying light, the bark peels open, revealing an ovoid eye, black as pitch, slitted with a golden pupil that expands as it focuses on you.

Cozy sweater witch, but that’s really an all-season thing

In the shadowed wood, you hear the unmistakeable rasp of dry flesh on dry flesh. Behind you stands an impossibly old yew, and as your heart skitters in the dying light, the bark peels open, revealing an ovoid eye, black as pitch, slitted with a golden pupil that expands as it focuses on you.

It takes a few weeks, but the stalks curl and grow around each other, forming a doorway that sounds like laughter and song. You go through and find a dozen people working in a stone-floored kitchen, a medley of smells and voices and activity. A stooped Nonna passes you a wooden spoon, smiling.

It takes a few weeks, but the stalks curl and grow around each other, forming a doorway that sounds like laughter and song. You go through and find a dozen people working in a stone-floored kitchen, a medley of smells and voices and activity. A stooped Nonna passes you a wooden spoon, smiling.

Find a pool of standing water graced with autumn's first freeze. Prick your finger and sink it through the ice to the second knuckle. If you can stand the cold long enough, you'll learn the name the river calls you.

2/ Grandfather Wolf approached the dark-haired daughter whose tiny face already bore the marks of deep anger. He sniffed and found courage, and strength, and fierce devotion in her scent. And so the great wolf reached into his own chest and carved out half his heart, and pressed it beneath her ribs.

Soup simmers in the old cast iron pot, bubbling with potatoes and root vegetables that grew from a hidden garden. The steam curls and whispers its overheard secrets, but sighs and falls silent as you add rosemary and sage. Herbs for protection. For discretion.

Soup simmers in the old cast iron pot, bubbling with potatoes and root vegetables that grew from a hidden garden. The steam curls and whispers its overheard secrets, but sighs and falls silent as you add rosemary and sage. Herbs for protection. For discretion.

Beyond the frosted clearing there is a door, free-standing between stunted pines, made of blackened wood and brass hinges. The handle is shaped like the foreleg of a deer. Your breath mists as you reach for it.

You soak the scattering of fallen leaves in an old wooden basin lined with copper. The scent of decay melds with the sharp sting of untethered colour as the crimson bleeds into the water. After sundown, you'll cure it into ink.

In an old steamer trunk in the abandoned attic, you find a leatherbound journal filled with sketches of wings. Raven, sparrow, dragonfly, all done in dark strokes that have torn the paper in places. On the front page, where a name should be, is only a drawing of a broken jawbone.

In an old steamer trunk in the abandoned attic, you find a leatherbound journal filled with sketches of wings. Raven, sparrow, dragonfly, all done in dark strokes that have torn the paper in places. On the front page, where a name should be, is only a drawing of a broken jawbone.

Once there were two womb-sisters, born too early, gasping and grey. Any other infants would have been destined for the roots, but their mother was a witch, and walked the twins into the deep woods, crying out for help in a voice no creature could ignore. From "The Sisters," Tales of the Trillith

Once there were two womb-sisters, born too early, gasping and grey. Any other infants would have been destined for the roots, but their mother was a witch, and walked the twins into the deep woods, crying out for help in a voice no creature could ignore. From "The Sisters," Tales of the Trillith

Trade a feather for safe passage - they crave the taste of sweet air to help drown out the salt. Once the bargain is struck, tie the trailing seaweeds so they drag behind your ankles, blurring any tracks you leave on the tide-lapped sand. And no matter how you’re tempted, never join their song.

Trade a feather for safe passage - they crave the taste of sweet air to help drown out the salt. Once the bargain is struck, tie the trailing seaweeds so they drag behind your ankles, blurring any tracks you leave on the tide-lapped sand. And no matter how you’re tempted, never join their song.

You spend the morning collecting the last apples from the wild orchard, planning a feast of pies and butters and preserves. You always put a small, honey-sweet pie at the base of the oldest tree, and while you’ve never seen who takes it, afterward you’ll find odd coins in the bark all winter long.

You spend the morning collecting the last apples from the wild orchard, planning a feast of pies and butters and preserves. You always put a small, honey-sweet pie at the base of the oldest tree, and while you’ve never seen who takes it, afterward you’ll find odd coins in the bark all winter long.

“Over here, we reclaimed the wood from an old train trestle for the retirement hive,” you explain, gently scritching a dozing bumble behind its antenna. “It used to run through one of the bloom farms, and the pollen in the grain puts ‘em at ease. Otherwise, poor things just keep trying to work.”

The stories say he’s made up of fox fur and woodsmoke, appearing only as dusk hazes the air, no more substantial than a dream. But you know better than most how dreams can break free and become thick with matter. And so you walk softly as the sun sets, watchful for his ember eyes.

The smell of roasting squash, rich with melted butter and nutmeg and clove, warms the small kitchen. Outside, frost spreads across the window, curling into an old and forgotten language, spelling out the wishes you keep concealed in your heart.

You soak the scattering of fallen leaves in an old wooden basin lined with copper. The scent of decay melds with the sharp sting of untethered colour as the crimson bleeds into the water. After sundown, you'll cure it into ink.

You’re ankle-deep in soft soil, turning over your garden to prepare for winter, when your shovel clinks on something hard. It’s an old key, with worn teeth and rust in the crevices, but the engraved holly leaf on the handle shines bright as a new penny.

Beyond the frosted clearing there is a door, free-standing between stunted pines, made of blackened wood and brass hinges. The handle is shaped like the foreleg of a deer. Your breath mists as you reach for it.

You bite into butter-rich pastry, sharp cheddar and a hint of rosemary rolling over your tongue. The crumbs melt like snowflakes behind you as they land on the path, but you never did plan on finding your way back.

You clutch the book in both hands as you stare at the old-fashioned door knocker: a carved fox’s head with crescent moons for eyes, the wood so heavy and dark it may as well be iron. You should be a stranger here, but you would know every ridge of the fox’s fur with your eyes closed.