Heather Fawcett

I am used to humble accommodations and humble folk

The wind had tasted snow

It was then, as I stared at the empty hearth, hungry and cold, that I began to wonder if I would die here

, when it comes to the Folk, there is something true in every story, even the false ones.”

for the Folk, stories are everything. Stories are part of them and their world in a fundamental way that mortals have difficulty grasping; a story may be a singular event from the past, but—crucially—it is also a pattern that shapes their behaviour and predicts future events. The Folk have no system of laws, and while I am not saying stories are as law to them, they are the closest thing their world has to some form of order.

that is a talent universally held by the Folk, is it not? The ability to surprise?”

I suppose most children fall in love with faeries at some point, but my fascination was never about magic or the granting of wishes. The Folk were of another world, with its own rules and
customs—and to a child who always felt ill-suited to her own world, the lure was irresistible

There was something about the stories bound between those covers, and the myriad species of Folk weaving in and out of them, each one a mystery begging to be solved.

I’ve little patience for housework and soon gave up the idea. A house is merely a roof over one’s head, and this one would serve me adequately as it was.

It remains possible that I am wrong. A scholar must always be ready to admit this