The Garden of Whimsy {A Growing Short Story Collection}

Frost and Forfeits

The fearless Wren Thistlewaite called his trusty mount, a badger by the name of Alfric, to a stop. Wren's pointed fairy ears heard the low, keening groans of a Ballybog from deep within the depths of the Fetid Fen. Alfric shifted nervously underneath the fairy prince.

"It's all right, friend," Wren said as he slid from Alfric's saddle. The air was warm, but with the wave of his hand, flurries of snow danced from his fingertips and a long sword made of solid ice formed in his hand. "I won't be long. When I'm done, there will be no Ballybog to terrorize the Ealdun goblin settlement."

Alfric gave a sigh and shook his black and white striped head.

"Have a little more faith in me," Wren said. He gave Alfric a pat on the snout then slipped away into the murky mist of Fetid Fen to meet his foe.

* * *

"I really wish you would reconsider Frank Dods," Susie Green says.

Ivy Walsham avoids her sister's gaze by keeping her eyes fixed on the dull, frost-covered countryside that bounces and pitches past the carriage window. Marrying Frank Dods is out of the question, but Ivy doesn't want to sully the mood further with this tired argument. Especially not when Susie's husband, Sir Gilbert Green, sits on the crimson velvet-covered bench directly across from them. He's sandwiched between two bickering children and Ivy doesn't want to further distress the poor man with all the reasons why she would be miserable if she married his dear friend, Mr. Dods.

"Frank is so keen on you," Susie says.

"It would be a great match," Gilbert ads. "He has an estate and a respectable income. You wouldn't be married to someone tethered to their trade."

Ivy's stomach pitches and it's not from carriage sickness. Their renewed attempts to wear her down means Mr. Dods will in all likelihood be a guest at the Smith's Christmas festivities.

"Please," Ivy says, turning to her sister. "Please don't make me explain myself again."

"I know," Susie replies. "But you are still too young to be released into your own guardianship."

"I am twenty years of age with a stable source of income and—"

"Twenty is too young to be out in polite society on your own. With your income and growing fame, you would leave yourself open to the opportunistic devices of less-reputable men without a husband to guide you and protect you."

Hot anger floods Ivy's veins. "As far as my happiness is concerned, that is the last reason I would ever consent to marry someone."

Susie grabs her hand, which only heightens Ivy's distress. "Sister, be sensible."

"I am! I have enough income from The Tales of Wren Thistlewaite that my editor says I could afford my own place in London. The second volume is already hitting the shelves in time for Christmas and Mr. Parket has already bought the rights to publish the third."

"Yes, but people may tire of reading Wren's adventures. Just because you and your badger-riding fairies have captured the attention of the nation, doesn't mean they will hold it forever."

Ivy steals her hand back and folds her arms across her chest. The carriage turns up a street and the familiar hedgerows of the Smith's estate pass the window. To Ivy, the manicured trees signal her impending doom. She wants to feel pity for her sister and her husband that they have been saddled with such a stubborn ward, but the task of settling her with a suitable husband is a trial of their making. The only reason they will not release her to her own care is owed to their misguided fears that she would bring the judgment of society down upon them for some imagined impropriety.