Not only is my coachman missing, but the pair of horses as well. The carriage sits in the middle of this empty dirt road, alone and abandoned. I stare at the surreal scene before me, unable to make sense of it. Each beat of my heart thrums louder in my head, until I fear it must be audible for miles.
After several panicked moments, a strange sound catches my attention—and it comes from not far away. Perhaps I would have heard the odd noise sooner if it weren’t for the raven’s incessant cries…or maybe my brain was simply too addled to process it.
Either way, I now focus on the shuffling and snorting. It sounds like a dozen pigs rooting through the undergrowth. Twigs snap, and bushes rustle. Something tiny squeals as if suddenly snatched from the safety of the ground by a predator.
My instinct to flee is strong, but where would I go? I could run in the opposite direction, into the forest on the other side of the road, but what new danger awaits me there? I stand frozen like a spooked rabbit as my eyes dart around me, first looking for protection and then a weapon.
I’m just leaning down to pick up the largest rock I can hold when I’m snatched around the waist and pulled into the brush behind me.
Before my mind can wrap around my predicament, my abductor briefly presses a hand over my mouth. “Don’t scream.”
I’d defy him if I were capable, but the shock has stolen the air from my lungs. I’m tugged to the ground, made to crouch precariously between the roses and raspberries, barely able to avoid either’s wicked thorns. The position is awkward, especially since it puts me so close to the man who snatched me from the road.
Dressed in black, he wears a mask over his eyes like a thief. His wide-brimmed hat is black as well, and it further shields his features in the fading light.
He yanks at my layers of skirts, which have caught above us in the brambles, tugging them out of sight. The sound of ripping fabric makes me cringe, but my dress matters little right now.
I suck in a strangled gasp when the bushes on the other side of the road shift as the owners of the strange noises reveal themselves.
Goblins.
I nearly say the word aloud, horrified to discover they’re real.
Pinkish-gray like pigs, with patches of coarse hair and snouted noses, they wear rags over their thick, stout bodies. Their eyes are beady black and too small for their deeply wrinkled faces.
With snorts and cackles, they surround the deserted carriage.
A particularly ugly one, the tallest of the bunch and about as tall as a five-year-old child, climbs the carriage rack and hoists the largest of my trunks over his head. The others crowd around, squealing with glee.
I cry out when the vile creature throws the trunk to the ground, but the man’s gloved hand presses over my mouth once more, muffling the sound.
“Shhh,” he murmurs into my ear before dropping his hand. “You don’t want them to find us.”
“Can they hear that well?” I ask, feeling faint at the thought.
“It doesn’t seem like the best time to test their abilities.”
I glance at the man, and my attention latches onto his eyes. They’re shadowed under the brim of his wide hat, impossible to make out in the growing night.
Filled with dread, I turn back to the goblins. Silken gowns, lacy petticoats, stockings, and hair adornments scatter over the road, trampled by the creatures in their haste and greed. They claw at my belongings, fighting over them, ripping the fabric and awkwardly fitting their newly won treasures onto their bodies.
One tugs a corset over his fat torso, and another plops a hat onto his head. They raid my jewelry box and drape necklaces over themselves like drunken pirates.
It’s a disturbing sight and so ridiculously absurd, so darkly amusing, I almost laugh. But the hysterical giggle catches in my throat when they move on to the last piece of luggage.
“No,” I murmur, struggling against my rescuer’s grip, determined not to let the monsters get their hands on the contents of my second trunk.
“They’ll rip you limb from limb,” the man whispers impatiently, holding me firmly in place.
It’s too late anyway. A goblin throws the trunk, and the latch breaks as soon as it hits the ground. Precious tins of paint scatter with brushes, waxes, oils, and all my other supplies.
I breathe in a heartsick gasp that draws the man’s attention.
He studies me, but my eyes are on the goblins. The wretched creatures poke and prod my most cherished possessions. They jab their grubby fingers into my prepared tins of paint and then slather it over their bodies, snorting gleefully. They snap my brushes and dump colorful, powdered pigments onto the ground.
A particularly stealthy goblin shuffles to the side of the road and tucks my palette into his new corset while the others aren’t looking.
I turn away, feeling ill, hiding my eyes against the stranger’s shoulder.