Mewling and scrabbling. From the plate safe? That was not possible.

He would prove it was not possible. Maybe that would quiet his head. For that he would need the plate safe’s key. Top drawer, next to the fire kit. The key, cold and heavy in his left hand, tucked under the rush holder, he headed toward the plate safe door.

Two more steps and the rush-light cast flickering tongues of light on the lock.

He tucked Da’s cane under his left arm. Why has his hand shaking so hard he nearly couldn’t work the lock?

Great merciful heavens!

The brass key clattered on the floor. He grabbed the side of the door for balance.

The silver plate! Forks and knives and spoons, platters and candlesticks—strewn about the safe, shelves in disarray, a large bowl and punch cups lolling lazily on the tile floor.

His was the only key, no one else could have—A ghost? Were that possible? What else could have gotten in?

Scraping sounds. Like talons?

No, not possible.

He dropped to his knees and pushed the rush-light out ahead, crawling along the cold stone tile, from one corner to the next, feeling along in the semi-darkness.

Under his hand, something leathery and vaguely… squishy? He held the light closer. A grey-green wrinkled lump, like a bit of discarded leather, but not.

He had seen that before.

No, it could not be.

Pushing the light out further, under a cabinet, something glittered from the back, near the wall, and it hissed.

Hissed?

His head and shoulders just fit under the cabinet. Five pairs of wide eyes stared back at him, one very familiar. He slid back out, pulling the light with him. “Quincy? Quincy,  come out now!”

Scratching talons on stone and Quincy’s face appeared in the flickering light.

“Hae ye mind to tell me who be that you’re keeping in me plate safe?” Rush-light set aside, he folded his arms over his chest and sat up very straight, barely able to see Quincy under the cabinet..

“No ones.”

“Quincy, dinna lie to me. I seen them meself. Tell me—or … or there’ll be no more buttons. Not now, not ever.” Hamish had never, ever threated Quincy’s buttons.

The little puck yipped and jumped, jaws agape and eyes wide. He licked his left eyeball, then his right, trembling just a mite. “Out, come out. All ‘o ye.”

Three little pucks, one grey with stripes, one green, and one deep red crept out, unfinished little versions of Quincy. A bright red puck, female, followed, her frill spreading wide as soon as there was space. She hissed, though it seemed more as a matter of form than anything else.

“Bless me soul!” He reached for the little family, fingers curled toward himself, and allowed them to sniff his hand. The little ones climbed over each other to get close. “A family, you got family. A new one by the looks.”

“Hatched a week ago.” Quincy puffed his chest just a mite.

“When I started hearin’ da voices.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “You might have told me.”

Quincy and his mate blinked up at him, eyes wide and soulful.

At least he was not going daft. Unless one considered befriending puck and his family daft. Which perhaps it was.