The Faery Folk do not suffer fools lightly, and neither do I.
In September, a middle-aged couple moved from Boston down to Cross and brought with them a number of servants, all of whom were Welsh. The couple, I later learned, was less than pleasant to their hired help and were, more often than not, apt to treat them as indentured servants. One of the young maids wrote home about their treatment, but the letter was never sent. The mistress of the house, unable to read Gaelic, suspected the letter and set it aside in her chamber.
The house Bwbacod, or brownie, found the letter and read it. Furious at what it viewed as a breach of contract, the Bwbacod reached out to me through my own brownie.
I went to the home of these Boston folk and told them plainly it was time to set their servants free, to allow them to return to Boston and their kin. The Boston folk, whose names I refuse to allow posterity to remember, attempted to force me out of the house.
They attempted to force me, of all people.
I had the servants leave and offered the Bwbacod residence in one of my homes, which it gladly accepted. When all those I was concerned with left, I dealt with the Boston folk.
Neither they nor their house survived my wrath intact. The bones of the building still stand, surprisingly. Those of the Boston folk, well, those I gave to the giants, who ground them up to make their bread.
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