“You are right; you’ve no reason to have that sort of faith in me,” Mr. Smith answers him after a pause that turned Henry’s confusion into something bigger—a bubble of emotion inflated by doubt that split into multiple variations of bewilderment in a high-speed mitosis. The rapid mutant puzzles playing out across his face—the final push the man needed to begin the unburdening as the lady had suggested.

“No!” Henry exhaled sharply, surprising them both. “I mean, no, I don’t mean—I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you. You have been there for us through all of it with Dad, and you’ve stayed on, taking care of us for so long. I know Dad wasn’t well after he lost mom. He told me, you know, that you saved him. And here you’ve been helping another Merlo through grief, but you’re grieving, too. You lost him too—your friend. And here I am, seeing things and getting into a mess and having some sort of mental break. Just screwing things up when you’ve arranged everything so orderly—”

“Wait, wait, son, stop. None of that m—No! You are not having a mental break. This is my fault,” the man sighed. “I should’ve realized the Veil wasn’t as protective around you.”

Henry’s eyebrows escaped into his shaggy hair. “Are you like Miss Kika? Or Madam Tuor? I don’t understand what they are, but I know they’re not like me.”

“No one is like Lady Tuor. And I doubt we’ll ever meet another kikimora—that’s what Miss Kika is.”

“She said she is a nightmare. Madam Tuor said she controls them.”

“Right, I think she meant that metaphorically. She can give you nightmares. I am pretty sure she can dream traipse, or, I suppose, it’s mare-walking when a fear-eater does it.”

“Fear-eater?” Henry gulps and frowns at the sound of that.

“Did you tell the ladies about your attackers?”

Henry’s brows creep out from under his hair and come together in thought. “She mostly said I should’ve told you. She said I have the fiercest defender, but I’m guessing she doesn’t mean in the lawyer sort of way.”

Mr. Smith snorts.

“There are people that eat fear?” Henry blurts.

“People… hmm. Well, not so much people. Different sorts of Obscurity, though. All sorts of Obscure create or eat all sorts of things—fear, anger, gloom. Think about the bees. They collect pollen to feed, and other creatures, including humans, collect the honey they make. So some build special bee boxes to get more honey.”

Henry gasps. “They scare the shit out of people to eat the fear? They’re farming fear?” then, before the man can answer, “Does Miss Kika eat fear?”

“I reckon she can.”

“She drinks tea,” Henry thinks aloud and, without pausing, states, “You eat regular food.”

Mr. Smith coughs. “Yes.”

“Madam Tour likes cake,” the young man adds.

“Does she now?”

“Yes, she said so.”

“A lovely thing to have in common.”

“Who doesn’t like cake, though?” Henry asks.

“Fear-eaters, usually.”

“Oh.”

They sit in silence until the clock strikes midnight. Henry pulls his feet back up into the chair but tucks them underneath their opposite knees and leans forward, gripping his hands together as he looks into the big man’s eyes that are level with his from his spot on the floor. “Are you going to tell me about your kind of Obscure? Mr. Smith isn’t even your name, is it?”

The big man grins, “I have the documents to prove it.”

“No, really, though. You’ve been dodging my question.”

“It’s true. It’s a habit. Even among most of the Obscure, I’m not easily recognizable. One of my mothers was a Wildling—a spirit of a part of the land, like a cavern like my mother, a river, a network of trees, or even a rock.”

“A tutelary deity!” Henry almost shouts before covering his mouth and looking toward the stairs to listen for any movement from Avery.

“What? Well, I mean… that’s very academic. I don’t…” Mr. Smith falters.

“Yes, very academic. From all the very important fiction books I’ve read growing up from Dad’s collection,” he grins and sweeps his longest front layer behind his ear as if the action is ever successful. “So you are like a minor god of the woods or something?”

Mr. Smith groans. “I am half Wildling.”

“So, a little bit of a god? But that can’t be right; you are a giant. Oh! Are you a giant?”

“What? No. No, I am not—I’m not even—”

“Wait!” Henry hisses as loud as he can while trying to not wake his little brother and standing up quickly, barely wincing at the pain in his side. He waves his hands excitedly at Mr. Smith, looking him up and down. “You don’t look like this, do you? She said,” he takes a regal pose and does his best to affect her melodic lilt, “‘Veils are used to filter harsh light and scrutiny.’ That means none of you really look the way you look, right?”

“It all depends on how much protection you need from the Veil to be safe among the Obvious and on your connection to the Veil and your talent with it.”

The younger man bounces on the balls of his feet. “Can I see?”

The bigger man lifts his nose toward the stairs and inhales deeply, confirming, “Avery’s still sound asleep.” With a glance at the windows, the shades drop, and their thick linen drapes sweep out from the metal hooks holding them back and swish close. The chair behind him slides backward a bit. “I will show you one of my forms that’ll fit in here. Have a seat; I’ll need the room.”

Henry scrabbles backward to perch in the chair again, gripping his knees, jaw open. “You’re not a snake, are you?”

The big man looks at him and squints, “A snake?”

Henry lets out a nervous laugh. “I just… You said a cavern. I just thought that would probably be the scariest thing? Unless you are like a dragon?”

“We don’t have to do this right now. I don’t want to scare you.”

“You are a dragon?”

“No one is a dragon, Henry. At least not like what you’re imagining.”

“Oh,” Henry pouts a bit. “I just don’t know what the options even are. Are the magical things in stories real? Werewolves?”

“No. Well,” the large man huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “There are Obscure wolves. And there are laeleps but they’re descended from an ancient hound.”

“Dog people?”

“Do you want me to show you or start your lessons on Obscure diversity and sensitivity now?”

“Oh. Oh, I am saying the wrong things. I’m being one of those guys!”

“You are new. We’ll work on it. Just unlearn the word ‘monster,’ ok? It’s not just a simple insult like calling someone an asshole. It’s not taken well from the mouths of the Obvious.”

Henry’s eyes grow wide. “Oh my god, I—I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.”

“Son, no one has ever called me a monster outside of professional circles,” the man laughed. “Now, I told you one of my mothers was a Wildling.” The man stretches, bones creaking as he yawns, and a warm glow radiates from him as his shape elongates. His hands become substantial paws terminating in non-retractable claws. Five inches? Six inches? Henry can hardly drag his eyes from the light reflecting off them before curiosity compels him onward, up the brown-furred arms tipped in gold. A bear, larger than any he’s ever imagined, sits upright on his living room rug, legs extended, displaying the flat pads of its wide hind paws. It wiggles its short, round ears and grins at him. “Before she became a Wildling, she was what your people call a Kodiak bear,” the bear rumbles, low and soft.

“You’re amazing!” Henry slides off the chair and leans up, his hands spread, fingers curling and straightening, fighting the urge to touch him.

The bear leans his massive head, wider than Henry’s shoulders, down to nose into his hands. “I can pet you? You’re not mad?”

“We’re not going to make a habit of it. Or tell anyone about it.”

“Yes sir,” he said, digging his fingers into the thick fur around his cheeks and burying his face into the bear’s neck. Before he realizes it has started he sobs two weeks’ worth of tears, and then several years of them followed into his gilded fur. Mr. Smith wraps him gently and pulls him into his lap for a long, mostly silent hug.

Moments after Henry’s breathing changes, signaling sleep, all of the hairs on Mr. Smith’s body bristle, and he lets out a warning growl. “Who are you?”

The rabbit has materialized in front of him and takes a deep bow. “Hello Wildling. I wanted to thank you for looking after my charges.”

Mr. Smith blinks down at the rabbit. It’s wearing a myrtle wreath and is not the slightest bit wary of him. “My name is Marchen, and I’ve been guiding the Merlo boys since this one was wee and outgrew lullabies.”

“Dream guides are real?” the bear almost loses his careful grasp around the sleeping Henry.

“As real as Wildlings, young one,” Marchen smiles and waves the tip of one of her ears before getting serious. “I’ve been fretting about this one. He’s been having nightmares so bad he caught the attention of Tuor’s kikimora friend. She helped me calm him down so I could dance him a sweeter dream. I suppose that’s why you’re here? Tuor sent you?”

“No, I’ve known the boy since he was an infant. His father was a… good friend.”

“A coincidence! Interesting!”

“She’s invited me to meet with her tomorrow, so I am likely part of her plans.”

“Good, good. I’m old, but I’m not especially powerful. We’re basically muses; only our inspiration comes with a dash of warding. I’m pretty embarrassed the kikimora was able to enter—and while I was in the next room with the little one. But I haven’t done more than peek in on Henry for several years. He grew up faster than I would’ve liked.”

“Aye, that he has.”

“I feel much better knowing he’s got you on his side.”