(A/N: This novella was written for the ACA Ficathon. Prompt was supplied by Ellsbeta, so here's to you, love. I hope you like it.)

Caution: Rated T for some adult themes. The world is not pretty, my friends. Sometimes we have to hold our breaths and just dive in anyway.

Harriet was sobbing hysterically by the goose-pond when the golden-haired man sat down next to her and offered her a handkerchief.

“Who are y-y-you?” she managed, hiccupping wildly through her tears.

“You can call me Adrian,” he said simply. “Are you having a rough day, Harriet?”

She looked at him suspiciously through her golden bangs and blew her nose into the handkerchief. The sound so strongly resembled a honking goose that some of the fat fowls waddled forward expectantly. Harriet pushed them away in irritation.

“How do you doe by dabe?” she demanded, keeping the handkerchief pressed against her stuffy nose.

“You look like a Harriet.” He waved his hand as if to banish the bothersome question. “I’m not here to hurt you, Harriet, and I don’t want anything from you. I want to help you.”

Harriet regarded him for a moment in silence, her brow still furrowed in suspicion. He had kind eyes, the color of summer blueberries—like the ones she used to pick at home, before all of this. She sniffled and blew her nose again, but more daintily this time. He was undeniably attractive, and judging by his neatly pressed shirt and navy waistcoat, he was also well-to-do. She wanted to make a good impression.

“I’m listening,” she said, nudging a curious goose away with her toe.

“I know you’re in a hopeless situation.” He leaned in slightly, not enough to breach propriety, but certainly enough to create an almost tangible air of confidence between them. “I can help you, Harriet.”

Harriet checked her breathing and looked at him from the corner of her eye. She liked the way he said her name—unceremoniously, as if it were more familiar to him than his own.

“How?” she asked in a whisper, not bothering to deny that she needed help. One minute with this stranger had sent her emotions into a spiral, and she couldn’t help but think—what if this was her proverbial prince, come to save her from this nightmare? She was on tenterhooks, awaiting his next word.

“You have to tell Mr. Nichols who you really are.” His words were so flat, so ordinary, so…obvious, that his spell over her immediately dissolved.

Harriet started crying again.

“She said she would killlll meeee!” Her words were elongated with her sobs, and she made use of the handkerchief again.

“Alice can’t hurt you, if you just tell Mr. Nichols—”

Harriet climbed to her feet, tripping first over her skirts and then over her herding crook. She flung the soiled handkerchief to the ground and pointed a trembling finger at him.

“You can’t tell him!” she cried. “You can’t tell anyone! How do you even know?” The sudden, utter absurdity of it made her laugh shortly. Some stranger was snooping around her miserable life, and instead of drawing any obvious conclusions, she was ready for him to sweep her off her feet. It was his eyes, she told herself; they were disarming.

“Harriet, calm down.” He stood up slowly. There was faint knit in his brow, and Harriet realized he was studying her, probably trying to decide how she could be manipulated further.

Harriet’s newfound cynicism was strangely comforting to her. She drew herself up to her full, unimpressive height—still two heads shorter than this man who called himself Adrian—and waved her finger in his face.

“I don’t know who you are, or how you know all this, but you had better leave me alone...or…or…” She stopped. The only thing she could do was try to sic the geese on him, but that did not sound particularly threatening. Besides, the little blighters were horribly unreliable. So instead, Harriet turned without another word and headed back to the manor at a brisk walk, hoping that he wouldn’t follow—though a very, very small part of her hoped that he would. She didn’t know how much longer she could live as a goose girl while the maidservant Alice reveled in her stolen status.

Adrian brushed a few goose feathers from his waistcoat and checked his pocket watch. He had hoped to be home in time for dinner, but that seemed unlikely. He sighed irritably.

“You courting Harriet, mister?”

Adrian whirled around in surprise.

“Conrad,” he said. It was less a greeting, and more a general acknowledgment.

Conrad didn’t ask how the stranger knew his name. He just stared expectantly, waiting for the answer to his question.

“I’m not courting her,” Adrian said. “I’m trying to help her.”

Conrad snorted.

“What is it?” Adrian cocked his head slightly, trying to interpret the boy’s response.

“She might be beyond help, that’s all.” He shrugged.

“Meaning?”

“She talks to her horse.”

“Does it talk back?”

Conrad blinked, disconcerted by the immediate and inane reply.

“No…”

Adrian sighed.

“I suspected as much.”

“She talks to the wind too, and her hair. More than a bit touched, I’d say.” Conrad tapped his temple with a knowing expression on his face.

“Well, it was bound to come down to that eventually. There’s only so much magic left to go around.”

Conrad narrowed his eyes, beginning to suspect that the stranger was a bit daft as well. Adrien didn’t seem to notice. He glanced toward the heavens in thought for several moments, and then nodded to himself.

“Does she talk to her horse a lot?”

“Sure, every day.”

“Good.” Adrien left without a farewell. His long strides carried him to the manor quickly, and he did not even bother having the manservant announce him.

“Ah. Mr. Edgars, have you learned anything?” Mr. Nichols leaned over his desk, fingers interlaced in front of him. “My son came in earlier to tell me that Harriet asked him to call her Alice. She said it is her nickname. Is that not strange? I find it strange, and I’m growing increasingly uneasy about this whole affair. She just doesn’t have the air of the old money that she supposedly came from. You understand that there’s an air, I’m sure, Mr. Edgars.”

Adrian regarded him silently, wondering how much time they had, how much longer Mr. Nichols would be talking, and how offended he would be if Adrian simply interrupted. He decided to hazard it.

“Mr. Nichols—”

“Every time I see that goose girl, I grow more convinced that there is something about her…perhaps that air. You know she arrived with this Harriet-Alice character? It’s all very suspicious. The next time I arrange a marriage, the bride will be from this country, so I can at least meet the girl first.”

“Mr. Nichols—”

“I’m so glad that you arrived when you did, Mr. Edgars. What is it that you do for a living? No matter, I’m certain that you’ll be able to get to the bottom of this. You have that air, you see, and—”

“Mr. Nichols.” Adrian raised his voice to a level of irritation, and the wealthy old landowner blinked, presumably hearing the interruption for the first time.

Adrian took a breath to regain his equilibrium. This proved difficult in the face of the man’s incessant jabbering, which Adrian had been enduring for several days now.

“Mr. Nichols, if you would please accompany me to the stables, I think we can put an end to all of this straightaway.”

“The stables? Whatever for?”

“I have a feeling the goose girl will be telling her troubles to her favorite confidant, and if we are lucky you’ll hear everything you need to know.”

Mr. Nichols frowned in confusion.

“But why in the stables?”

Adrian just smiled and led the way.

“So the King heard it all and welcomed the goose girl, who was really the princess, into his home with open arms.”

“Well, he’s not a king—just a very rich man, and Harriet is just an heiress of old money from the West.” Adrien stretched and yawned, propping his black polished boots atop his orderly desk.

“And the princess and her prince lived happily ever after.”

“Or as happy as they can be, with one of them too dense to tell a maidservant from a lady, and the other too daft to notice that her horse isn’t talking back.”

“A bit cynical, don’t you think, Mister—?” The man who was sprawled lazily on the settee cocked his head and grinned. “Who were you this time, anyway?”

“Mr. Edgars.” Adrian sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You weren’t there, Rance. You didn’t see the look in her eyes.”

“Unrequited love, was it?” Rance sat up and winked. His dark eyes twinkled with mischief, and his jet black hair, grown too long around his ears, was tousled and boyish—a stark contrast to Adrian’s neatly trimmed head of golden hair.

“More like mild psychosis,” Adrian said.

“Same thing.”

Adrian grinned halfheartedly, more out of habit than amusement. He swung his legs off the desk and pulled open the top left drawer.

“Back to the grind, then,” Rance said, sounding disappointed. He watched in silence as Adrian set a thick, leather-bound tome on the desktop and began flipping through the pages. “We really need a holiday.”

“We? You never do anything.” Adrian glanced up and flashed a smile, then returned to his study of the yellowing pages in front of him. The variegated collection of handwriting swam before his eyes in a haze of black ink. The columns of numbers, resembling an accounting ledger, suddenly seemed completely illegible. He hadn’t realized how tired he was.

“I never do anything because I’m filthy rich,” Rance said. “I don’t have to do anything.” He flicked a piece of lint from the cuff of his sleeve, grinning when Adrian shut the antiquated book. Rance jumped to his feet and pulled a decanter and two glasses from the liquor cabinet.

“I wish my sense of duty were as easy to ignore as yours.” Adrien rubbed his temples.

“We can easily remedy that with a trip to the bank. I’m assuming the fortune your father left you is still there, gathering dust?”

Adrian shot him a deprecatory glance and said nothing. Rance sighed and poured the scotch, pushing a glass across the desk to his friend as a peace offering.

“I suppose I can’t complain too much,” he said, taking a sip from his own glass. “You kept the townhouse.” He waved his hand to indicate the opulent, mahogany-furnished study.

“Where else would you hide from your latest female conquest?” Adrian asked wryly, taking a drink.

“Where else indeed.” Rance plopped back down on the settee, setting his drink on the lamp stand. “Seriously, though, why don’t we take that new passenger train somewhere? I’ve heard you can rent out an entire railcar, if you have the right sort of money.”

“I can’t. I have to record these numbers.” Adrian snatched up his fountain pen and forced himself to reopen the book.

Rance groaned.

“I’m sure the damsels in distress and the breadcrumb-tossing waifs can survive without you for a week or two.”

“That’s the point, Rance. They can’t.” Adrian ran his finger down a column, his lips moving faintly as he studied the numbers. He penned the date into the proper blank, along with a few other numbers that would have appeared random to anyone else.

“Right,” Rance said, rolling his eyes. “Because you’re the only one who can decipher the Grimmoire and predict the next cycle of whatever fairy tale is going to happen next, so you can save the day and right the wrongs and et cetera, et cetera, et cetera…” Rance moved his hand like a talking puppet, clearly not impressed.

“I told you not to call it the Grimmoire,” Adrian said, choosing to ignore the rest of the speech.

“Well, you wouldn’t let me call it the Professional Hero’s Guide to a Mastering of Folk Tales either, so what would you suggest?”

“It doesn’t have a name, so stop trying to give it one. That’s my suggestion.”

“Come on, Adrian, I put a lot of thought into that name. It’s a play on ‘grimoire’ and those German brothers. The historical and the contemporary.”

“First of all, the book is not a magical textbook from the Middle Ages. Secondly, the Grimm brothers butcher the folk tales more often than not. Thirdly, you’ve never read a history book in your life.” Adrian went back to his work, considering the subject closed.

It remained closed for a full thirty seconds, and then Rance spoke again, grinning wickedly.

“So The Professional Hero’s Guide is out as well?”

“I’ve told you a thousand times: I’m not a professional hero.”

“Just the mysterious stranger who always arrives in the nick of time with a happily ever after for the unhappy people, and then returns home for a glass of scotch with his incredibly handsome and witty friend, just to repeat the whole thing in the morning.”

Adrian glanced up from his work.

“That was very clever. How long did it take you to come up with it?”

Rance shrugged.

“I’ve been here all day, avoiding Miss Green, so I’ve had plenty of time. Too rehearsed?”

“Too wordy. I lost your point halfway through.”

Rance shrugged again, and Adrian returned to his study of the book.

“So what is tomorrow’s tale?” Rance asked resignedly, after a few minutes of silence. “Not another Juniper Tree, I hope. All of that decapitation and cannibalism and falling millstones is a nasty business.”

Adrian made a few more notations in the margins and sat back.

“Actually, it looks like there won’t be anything until next week.”

“Perfect.” Rance stood up and downed the rest of his scotch. “We’ll purchase our own personal railcar to celebrate. I’ll even introduce you to Miss Green. I have a feeling your golden-haired, blue-eyed heroism will be exactly the temptation she needs to put me out of her mind.”

“Are you regretting your lifestyle choice of dark-haired, dark-eyed, independently wealthy philanderer?” Adrian clasped his hands behind his head and stifled a yawn.

“Never. I just wish I wasn’t so unforgettable.” Rance flashed a rakish grin.

“At any rate, I don’t have time to gallivant across the country with you.” Adrian carefully replaced the book in its drawer and doused the reading lamp. “I have to meet with Mr. Hadley again tomorrow. I’m hoping to have everything resolved with him and Mrs. Hadley by month’s end.”

“Of course.” Rance took up his waistcoat from the arm of the settee and slid into it. “Well, try not to get cursed by any witches.”

“You know that magic is all but dead by now, Rance. Witches and dragons and fairies were adventures for Charles and Hiram.”

“Your predecessors get talking horses and enchanted princesses, and you get normal horses and insane heiresses. It doesn’t seem fair.”

“The tales recycle; the magic doesn’t. It’s a fact of life.” Adrian shrugged.

“I’m glad you’re so well-adjusted,” Rance said dryly. He buttoned up his waistcoat and headed down the stairs.

Adrian saw him to the front door, still clutching his half-empty glass of scotch.

“I’ll call the coach for you,” he said.

“It’s a nice night. I’ll walk.” Rance threw on his greatcoat, placed his hat firmly on his head, and pulled an umbrella from the stand. It was not a nice night at all. In fact, it smelled strongly of rain.

Adrian eyed him.

“You’re going to peek in the window to see if Miss Green is still there, aren’t you.”

“A coach would make far too much noise for stealth’s sake. I might come back for another drink or two, if she’s still there.”

“The guest room is always set for you.”

“I know.” Rance tipped his hat and left, whistling as he went.

Adrian shut the polished oak door behind his friend and glanced around his late father’s home. The portraits and furniture were immaculate, kept so by Cynthia, the only maid he employed. The rooms were neat but rarely used. Adrian’s life inside the townhouse was limited to his bedroom and his study. Through the parlor windows, he could catch glimpses of the light and life of the outside world, always tempting, but he could never give in. There was always work to do.

He climbed the stairs and lit the lamp in his bedroom, unwillingly recalling the glint of madness in Harriet’s eye. He wondered how she and her new husband could ever be happy, when they knew nothing of each other.

That night he dreamt in numbers—dates and street numbers and ancient ciphers. The language of the Grimmoire.