Gnarlan got out of bed with a huff. His straight as a pin black hair fell around his thin, sharp face, and he scrubbed one clawed hand across his forehead with a heavy sigh. It had been another sleepless night, full of the same memories, the same thoughts, over and over again.

            He still heard the soft titters of the courtiers from that fateful day when King Maxon denied his entry to the ranks of the wizards of the realm. He still remembered Seneschal Kestry’s words in the great hall afterward. “Goblins just can’t be trusted not to follow their natures. I’m sorry, Gnarlan. You were our best apprentice.”

            An old, familiar rage rose within him, and he knew he wouldn’t be getting any sleep that morning, either. “Best apprentice,” Gnarlan snarled as he rummaged through his closet. “I’m the best magician, full stop.” He wrapped himself in his brocade dressing gown and walked down the drafty hall toward the library. The soft dawn light cast a hazy glow over his volumes of sorcery, hard-won spoils of his tireless search for knowledge over the decades. His newest acquisition sat as yet unopened on a side table by his favorite armchair near the fire, and he made his way over to it. A slight scuffle caught his attention, and he flicked his golden eyes toward the noise to find one of the scullery maids crouched by the fire with a basket of wood, staring up at him.

            When she saw that he had noticed her, she sprang to her feet and curtsied with a clumsiness that reminded Gnarlan of his own awkward attempts at courtesy when he first went to court to earn his mastery. “Begging your pardon, my lord. I was just starting the fire,” she said with eyes downcast. He towered over her. While he normally didn’t mind looming over humans, this morning his memories held a vice grip on him, and he felt a stirring of empathy for the girl.

            He waved a hand, his ringed fingers catching the light. “Proceed.”

            The maid hesitated, then nodded and crouched back down to continue laying logs in the fireplace. He sat in his chair and ran a hand over the cover of his newest book. The power within felt oily and unpleasant on his skin, and he rested his hand over the latch that held it closed with a whisper of foreboding. Voltan’s Encyclopedia of Necromancy had earned its bad reputation honestly as the cause of many catastrophes, but a catastrophe was just what Gnarlan wanted. He wanted the realm to burn. He wanted the king and all his courtiers to rue the day they scorned him. It had taken a long time for Gnarlan to build his power and resources, and now this book, the final puzzle piece of his plan, had slotted into place. Gnarlan only had to open the book, pick a spell, and begin.

            A log tumbled to its side in the fireplace. Gnarlan considered the maid, who was now arranging kindling. Some strange whim picked at him, and he asked, “What’s your name?”

            The maid dropped her handful of twigs and darted a glance at him. She quickly lowered her eyes and said, “Elmyra, my lord.”

            “Elmyra.” Gnarlan spoke the name and felt the grace of the syllables and the character they contained roll off his tongue. “I haven’t seen you before.”

            “I’m new, my lord.”

            Gnarlan hummed. “And do the other maids treat you well?” he asked, curious about the inner workings of his staff.

            Elmyra looked up at him again. Her eyes were a warm honey brown that matched her skin and hair. While it was a common color among humans, brown was rare among goblins, who tended toward golden or silver eyes, green skin, and black hair. It never ceased to amaze Gnarlan how often humans failed to appreciate what they had, from the smallest of things, like brown eyes, to larger things, like a talent for great workings, no matter the vessel it came in. After a long pause, Elmyra said, “Well enough.”

            Gnarlan tilted his head. The strings of gemstones twined into his hair chimed faintly, hinting at the magic they stored. “Has someone wronged you?”

            Elmyra looked at her hands. “No, my lord.”

            Gnarlan narrowed his eyes. “Don’t lie to me. I can see lies, you know, they don’t work on me.”

            Elmyra stopped working and shrank in on herself. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, my lord.”

            Gnarlan frowned. “Why not? You should take your revenge as the opportunity arises. How else will you protect yourself?”

            Elmyra carefully struck a flint, and a spark hit the kindling. “The world has enough misery in it without me adding more.” She blew on the spark, and it grew into a small, warm blaze.

            Gnarlan looked at his book and tapped a finger on the latch. His sharp claw vibrated ominously. “What do you know of misery?”

            “Plenty.” Elmyra took the poker and prodded a log closer to the flame. “My parents will lose their house to a termite infestation that we did not have the money to treat. It will happen this summer, or maybe the next, and then we will be out on the street unless I keep this job. The others know it, and take advantage of me because of it.”

            Gnarlan thought back to his own days as a student, and how his classmates and teachers had given him all of the least desirable tasks, all while telling him he should be grateful the academy had even accepted him. “Which house in the village is yours?”

            Elmyra seemed to regret telling him as much as she had, but she couldn’t ignore a direct question. “We’re over by the forest, next to the tannery. Our house is the one with the roof half fallen in,” she mumbled with a bowed head.

            Gnarlan absorbed the information. He let his hand fall from his book and stood. “Come with me,” he told Elmyra. He led her to the back of the library and took his basket of knitting from its cabinet. “Sit here,” he said as he drew out a chair for her at the nearby table and sat across from her. Elmyra gave him a puzzled look. He handed her a ball of yarn. “Hold this.”

            He took the string of yarn from the ball she held and readied his silver knitting needles. The silver made them efficient conduits of magic. “Think of your home, and don’t stop until I tell you.” Gnarlan took a moment to center himself, and then he began to knit. Magic sped his fingers along, and every so often he imbued the yarn with spells of cleansing, strength, and renewal. The yarn gleamed with magic to his eyes, and slowly, a picture of Elmyra’s house formed in his mind. He could feel his spells rushing through him, and bit by bit, the roof rose, and the beams strengthened, and the frame of the house became firm and steady once more.

            When the scarf was done, Gnarlan set his knitting needles down and told Elmyra, “You can stop now.” Elmyra stared at him, so Gnarlan continued, “Your house is restored.” She stared some more, and he fell into her warm, surprised eyes despite himself. He saw her shame at being poor, her love for her family, her determination to succeed, and her intrinsic goodness that kept her from wishing ill for her tormentors among the villagers and staff. She blinked, and he returned to himself.

            “What about the scarf?” she asked.

            The scarf was now a powerful magical artifact of healing. Gnarlan folded it and held it out to her. “Keep it.”

            Elmyra took it and ran her fingers over it. It wasn’t much to look at, being only one color with no pattern, but the burgundy red of the yarn warmed her skin, and there was something about it that brought a sense of cheer. “Thank you.” She looked up at Gnarlan. “I suppose I should get back to work.”

            Gnarlan nodded. “Go.” He busied himself with putting his knitting supplies away so that he didn’t sit and watch her leave. After that series of spells, he didn’t feel like returning to his armchair and his book that day, so he didn’t.

            The next day, Elmyra found him in his workroom with a tray of tea. She set it carefully in a space he cleared for her, and then she met his eyes and said, “Thank you, my lord. You’ve returned my home to me and given me some measure of independence again.” She was wearing the scarf, and Gnarlan could feel its healing properties seeping into the room.

            He poured a cup of tea. “I hope the others are treating you better.”

            “I told them you gave me this scarf, and now they leave me alone.” Elmyra smiled at him. “They have assigned me to your care, so I suppose you’ll be seeing more of me.”

            Gnarlan’s lips twitched, and he didn’t find the idea objectionable. “All right.” He had a feeling that the staff were relieved to find someone who didn’t shrink in fear from his presence.

            Elmyra began to bring him meals and talk with him while he ate, and every time he saw her, she was wearing the scarf. He learned about her parents and her brother, who lived in the neighboring town. He told her about his projects, and listened with delight to her commentary. She might not know much of magic, but she had unusual ideas, and he learned to value them.

            That spring, as the crocuses bloomed, the staff began their yearly cleaning effort. Gnarlan forbade them from rearranging the library, where he did his own reorganizing. He enlisted Elmyra’s help in the attempt, and one day, he happened upon his armchair and Voltan’s Encyclopedia of Necromancy, which had slipped his mind entirely. He picked the unpleasant book up and felt no urge to open it.

            “What shall we do with that one?” Elmyra asked from where she stood by with a scroll and quill.

            Gnarlan considered the book and tried to remember the last time he couldn’t sleep through the night. It had been a while.  “Lock it away,” he said, and he put the book in the appropriate pile.

            “Very good,” she said, and he watched her carefully mark the designation down. She had become dear to him, with her unique mind and her straightforward nature. Somehow, he realized, she had stolen into his heart while they talked of other things and made a home there. He took a step forward, and suddenly they were standing very close together. She looked up at him with a furrowed brow. “What is it?”

            “You have a smudge there,” he said slowly, and he reached out to touch her cheek. She became very still as he wiped the ink away, but she didn’t flinch or shrink back. She never had. In fact, he noticed a slight flush to her cheeks. He looked at the scarf around her neck, and then he looked into her kind eyes, and he said wonderingly, “You saved me.”

“You saved me first,” Elmyra replied softly. Almost disbelieving, he leaned forward. She leaned to meet him, and he kissed her.