It was the only explanation that made sense. Betty had tried to warn her not to go near the stone circle that night. Tamsin remembered her friend’s strange, ominous words: You’d be surprised what’s lurking in the fields. Especially around Fair Hill.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. And then there was the odd way that every dog always loved Betty, how she’d always exuded an almost supernatural aura of strength and power…
Betty had to be Wild Hunt. She had to be.
Which meant that she might be the only person who could help her.
“Wild Hunt?” Motley’s shoulders twitched, like a bird ruffling up its feathers. “Dangerous, them. Don’t like my kind, no, no. Not at all.”
“I know my friend,” Tamsin said. “She’s a good, kind, fair person. I know she wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Then again, she’d also never suspected that her friend might secretly be a renegade shapeshifting faerie. Despite her staunch words, Tamsin felt a pang of doubt. Did she know Betty?
Motley fidgeted, still looking uncertain. He reached into a fold of his ragged clothing, pulling out the button that Cuan had cut from her shirt earlier. He rolled it between his fingers, eyes going unfocused.
“She wears the armor of a knight.” His voice was suddenly deeper, more resonant. The words flowed smoothly, without his usual erratic pauses. “Though in your world, it is a uniform of blue, and her shield is a badge of gold. Tall and dark, with hidden fire in her eyes and true love at her side. She brings you the lost and the hurt. She hunts down evil and brings law-breakers to justice. You have not known her long as time is measured, but some friendships do not need years to grow deep roots. You would trust her with your life.”
As Tamsin sat there open-mouthed, Motley blinked, his head twitching in one of those sharp, nervous tics. He hid the button in his pocket again.
“Betty. Yes. Good. Good person, good idea, yes. Worth a try.” In a single swift, jerky movement, he was on his feet, turning on the spot. “Need a door.”
What was that? Tamsin wondered. But this wasn’t the moment to ask. She got up, joining Motley. He was poking around the enormous tree roots, muttering under his breath.
“Door, door.” He bent to peer through a tiny gap where a root arced free of the ground, then shook his head. “Too small, too small. Hmm. Where to find a door?”
“I thought you just…” Tamsin gestured, sketching the outline of a rectangle in the air. “You know, kind of made them.”
Motley clicked his tongue, throwing her a mildly exasperated look. “Can’t hang a door on nothing. Need a frame for it. Otherwise it can’t open.”
Tamsin wasn’t quite sure she understood the logic of that, but she had to assume that Motley knew what he was talking about. She looked around, searching.
“Could you use Aodhan’s front door?” she asked.
Motley gave the carved oak panel a long, considering look, then shook his head. “Too tangled up with Aodhan’s magics. Wouldn’t want to turn his tree inside-out. He’d be cranky.”
“Uh, yeah. Let’s not do that.”
Angus bounded up to her, a stick clenched in his jaws. He dropped it at her feet, tail wagging, and barked imperiously.
“Sorry, baby,” Tamsin said, still scanning the meadow for anything even remotely door-like. “I don’t have time to play right…now…”
She trailed off, an idea hitting her. She picked up the stick—much to Angus’s excitement—and stared at it thoughtfully. They didn’t need a big portal…
“Hey, Motley?” She waved the stick at him. “Could we make a door?”
Sometime later, with some help from Motley and a lot of interference from Angus, she’d cobbled sticks and strips of cloth into a small, crooked frame staked into the ground. It was only a foot high and leaned to one side, but Motley seemed satisfied. He propped a sheet of loose bark up against the rickety construction and sat back on his heels, dusting off his hands.
“Door,” he said. He reached for the bark again. “Ready now.”
“Wait! I still have to write the letter.” Tamsin patted one-handed at her pockets, gripping Angus’s collar with the other. “Crud, I don’t have a pen. Do you have something I could write with? And, uh, on?”
“No,” Motley said. “Wouldn’t work, anyway. Can’t go through a portal to the human world, here.”
I am not going to scream. Motley can’t help the way his mind works. I am not going to yell at the poor guy for not mentioning this before.
“Why not?” she said, and was proud of how calm she sounded.
Motley frowned, looking as though he was trying to think of how to explain something. He held up his hands, palms parallel, about four inches apart.