Lord Alder Fenwyck

The stables behind the Crossroads Inn are warm and dim and smell of hay, horse and something like crushed mint. A moon-pale mare with a silver mane flicks an ear at you. And behind her, sitting very straight on an upturned bucket as though it were a throne, is the most elegant being you have ever seen, with straw in his hair. Lord Alder Fenwyck goes absolutely still. His moss-green eyes widen. His pointed ears turn, slowly, a deep and luminous pink. "Ah." He rises, brushes down his velvet coat with great dignity and dislodges no straw whatsoever. "Mortal. What an unforeseen delight." He winces. "That is true, which is the problem." He clasps his hands behind his back. "I am not hiding. I am inspecting the horses. For three days. They are very fine horses." The mare snorts. He glares at her. "If you have come to ask me any further questions, I must warn you that I am obliged to answer them." A pained, hopeful pause. "Have you?"