The only millinery shoppe in Derpham never sold a single hat.

Not one derby or cloche; not a bowler, bonnet, or beret.

It was a fine shoppe. It sold fine hats: pillboxes with felt bows; top hats trimmed in velvet; and turbans woven of elvish silk.

But to the spirits of Derpham, who watched the caps, brims, and fascinators settled in the window of the narrow shoppe half in dismay, half affront, the shoppe held no appeal.

The townsfolk were simple spirits, agricultural in tradition, complacent in nature, contented and soothed by all things practical and precedented.

A milliner's was neither.

Not that it seemed to matter to the Milliner, who's silhouette could be seen moving about the workshop above the street, crafting a new design that would appear in the window next week.

Children came to the window, pressing little faces against the glass, gasping at the colourful fabrics before their mothers could rush them away. Later, these same mothers would linger as they walked to the baker's or apothecary next door, craning their necks to see what else they could and, perhaps, a glimpse of the Milliner themselves.

They never saw much, just the shadow of the Milliner's long and sweeping frame.

It seemed that the Milliner never left the shoppe — at least not during the day.

Though the goblin, Warlock Jai, told his assistant, Liina Barem, who then told the baker's wife, Mrs. Seaver, who took it upon herself as duty to inform everyone else, that early one morning, before the light of dawn had yet to yawn over the horizon, the Milliner was seen walking back to the shoppe, black cloak whispering like smoke along the ground, the wide shadowed brim on their black hat edged in gold sweeping over their shoulders in a way that Mrs. Seaver described as "obscenely impractical".

And while Mrs. Seaver was known for her embellishments (both in her pastries and her stories), every word of it was true.

Mrs. Seaver, who was of the opinion that tarts were superior to cake; yellow was a colour never to be worn; and that hats were generally to be avoided, had disliked the Milliner from the first.

Not only was the shoppe a thing of gaudy taste, not at all catered to the earthy and grounded spirits of Derpham, of whom she was a proud resident, but the Milliner had not introduced themself to her upon their arrival. All of this seemed to say that the Milliner sought to change her beloved town and thought themself to be above the spirits of the village.

It would not do.

She warned her customers not to be swayed by the trappings the Milliner sought to sell. "Cheep," she decried to them all, "none of it made to last. Like a dandelion in winter, I tell you." She shook her head, each time her high striped ears lying flat against her head, nose twitching.

"All your money gone and naught to show for it," Mrs. Seaver huffed, folding a loaf of bread in crisp brown paper — simple and to the point — just like her.

She reached across the counter to hand the package to the seamstress' eldest daughter only to find the spirit's dark eyes unfocused, staring over Mrs. Seaver's shoulder.

"Miss Culler, are you listening?"

The girl squawked, white feathers flying into the air as she jumped. "Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Seaver, a mother herself, narrowed her eyes and repeated her point. "Plain and simple. Remember what you are."

Miss Culler swallowed, nodding once, snatched the parcel and shuffled out of the shoppe, still trembling nervously as she waddled past the bakery window.

She smoothed the downy fly-aways against her scalp with a grimace. It was becoming a most inconvenient habit of hers — dropping feathers as a nervous tic. And Mrs. Sever startled the feathers right off her head.

It did not matter that she spoke to the spirit every day and had done for as many years as Miss Culler could recall. Yet every day she scuttled up to the square glass window and swore that today would be the day she would not get flustered.

She might even say, "No, Mrs. Seaver."

Miss Culler giggled (a honking sort of laugh) at the thought, then watched another downy curl loose from her head.

She snatched it out of the air and twirled it between her fingers, brushing it over her lips.

It hadn't always been so bad. But now the more she did it, the more she fretted she would and around and around the water-wheel went.

So preoccupied with her thoughts was Miss Culler, that she nearly tripped over little Asper Raften as the young squirrel ran across her path.

"Asper!" Mrs. Raften huffed, loose lock of ashy hair hanging limply about her grey face as she jogged up the street toward them. She shifted her youngest on her hip and made her apologies to Miss Culler.

Miss Culler waved the mother off and smiled at the tufty-haired boy and his red-cheeked brothers as they scrabbled up behind him.

The gullible young goose bent down to see what one demanded to show her. A toad, just small enough to fit into his little hands landed on her face.

Miss Culler squawked in horror, dropping her packages and sending a burst of feathers into the air. The trio of boys chittered in malicious delight.

Mrs. Raften stumbled over herself in apologies, plucking the fallen loaves from the ground and handing them back to the girl.

Miss Culler was a silly sort of goose, more often caught up in her own worry to mind her feet and meet her neighbour's eye. But if one had the pleasure of catching her look, they were struck with the pure darkness of her eyes framed with a sweep white lashes.

Mrs. Raften pressed the packages back into the girl's grasp and pushed her own loose hair behind her ear self-consciously.

"Come now, boys," she called after her sons who now had their faces pressed to the window of the new Milliner's shop.

Sticky fingers and warm breath mucked up the glass as she tugged lightly on Asper's collar.

His brown eyes blinked longingly up at her. "Ma, can we go inside the Milliner's instead — the 'pothicary stinks!"

Mrs. Raften sighed. "Some other time, dearest."

"You promise?" Asper snatched at the promise greedily, frozen with excitement.

Skirting around a direct acquiescence, she headed her children forward and into the apothecary with much whining and gnashing of teeth.

Warlock Jai's plumby voice greeted her warmly as she walked in. "If it isn't my best customer," he winked cheekily, and straightened his leather apron. 

Mrs. Raften hitched her youngest, Illoma, higher on her hip. The child turned to wipe her face across her mother's patched frock. She set the girl on the counter, ignoring the smear she'd left behind.

"I think it's the same as the boys had, but I've run out of your tincture," she said, pushing her hair back again. That was the thing with so many little ones, they shared everything.

Warlock Jai looked Illoma over, plying her with a sweet and letting the girl tug on one of his large green ears as he listened to her breath. He tucked his monocle into the breast pocket of his apron. "I'll prescribe the same — smaller dose."

The warlock hopped down from the wooden stool that raised the goblin to the height of the counter, calling out for his assistant.

Miss Barem emerged, ducking into the shoppe with a smile and more sweets for the riotous boys. She plucked jars off of the high shelves and placed them on the work table, as the warlock told Mrs. Raften to return that afternoon when the medicine would be ready.

The beleaguered woman thanked them and ushered her boys out ahead of herself, Illoma on her hip again.

"She's running herself into the ground," Miss Barem muttered.

Warlock Jai looked up from his bench, one silver eye magnified by his monocle. "I beg your pardon, Miss Barem?"

She waved him off, returning to the store room for the rest of the morning. After the afternoon came and went, bringing Mrs. Raften and another farmer with a similar lung complaint, Miss Barem, packed her bag and started the three mile walk to her father's.

"Are you sure I can't drive you? The buggy won't take but a moment," the goblin said, loosening the ties of his apron.

She shook her head, thinking that the goblin-sized cart would be crowded indeed with the both of them. "I enjoy the walk."

The statement was true enough if not entirely transparent. The longer it took her to get there, the less time there was before she could return to her rented rooms in town. 

The dusty road bent down the valley towards her father's farm, leading past the black shingled awning of her father's cottage, tucked into the side of the hill.

The old badger spirit didn't so much as look up from his garden as she approached. She walked past him into the house and assessed. Her childhood home had long been stripped of its feminine edge; curtains, coverlets, pillows, and pictures burned or destroyed. One shred of blue muslin curtains hung along the front window.

Miss Barem tidied quickly, setting the bare room to rights.

The door slammed open and Mr. Barem shuffled into the house, scuffing dirt over the freshly swept floors.

Yellow eyes flicked over the kitchen and seemed to take his daughter in for the first time. "I told ya, I didn't want ya coming by. I don need a housekeeper."

"All the same, please sit," she said gesturing to the set table with more patience than she felt.

He remained by the door. "Go home, Liina."

"Can we just eat?"

Mr. Barem crossed the room and plucked the basket of dried goods his daughter had brought him from the table and shoved it back in her arms. "I seem to recall ya swearin you don want anythin to do with me. And we, Barems, we dun go back on our words."

He watched her go with a grimace, standing alone in the empty house for several minutes, before moving to dump the stew still bubbling on the stove out the front door.

Mr. Barem's arms froze mid swing, some soup sloshing on the ground at the hobnailed boots of Station Master Pouste.

The interloping spirit let out a cry of alarm, falling back on his rump. The station master squeaked in dismay, brushing dust from his uniform.

Mr. Barem's lip curled at the sight. He clutched the pot's handle tighter and snorted at the little dandy. If Wellard Barem was a knot of clay; thick, grey, well-beaten, packed with stones and not much life; Zolan Pouste was a knot of wood; overly stiff, starched, and a splinter of inconvenience to all that crossed him.

The shrew spirit straightened his coat and thrust a telegram at Mr. Barem.

The farmer did not even glance down at the yellow paper. There was no one he wanted to hear from that would send him such a missive. Mr. Barem slammed the door in the spirit's face.

Mr. Pouste stood a few seconds in shock, then knocked.

"Get out." Came a growl from behind the door.

"Telegram."

The door was nearly ripped of its hinges and the badger loomed out of the portal. "I have eyes. I said get out, unless you want to finish bathing in my dinner."

"I say," said Mr. Pouste stepping back in alarm, flinging the telegram at the badger's feet and scrambling to the safety of his wagon.

The cart skipped back up the dusty road, passing Miss Barem clutching a basket to her chest.

He slowed the horses, turning to face the young spirit with what Mr. Pouste considered to be his most gallant air. "May I offer you a ride into town?"

Miss Barem stiffened looking between the way she had come and the station-issued cart Mr. Pouste drove. Her expression twisted to one of distaste. "I thank you kindly, sir."

Mr. Pouste cleared his throat once they were on their way. "Your father seems well."

Miss Barem crossed her arms over the top of the basket and rested her chin on the handles. "My father is a ghoul."

"Right, well," Mr. Pouste choked, wondering if the badger spirit would notice if he reached for the policy and conduct handbook in his breast-pocket. "Have you met our new neigbour yet? Mrs. Seaver said they are fond of early promenades."

"Please don't feel the need to make conversation, sir," said Miss Barem. "If you would drop me at the edge of town I would me most appreciative."

He did as she asked, risking only a farewell as she jumped from the wagon. He had moved to help her down, but she was already walking away by the time he'd gotten to his feet.

The station master expected it by now. He was familiar with the suspicion that the townsfolk held for all things foreign. He had been relieved when the Milliner had arrived in Derpham, thinking -- hoping perhaps -- that now that he was not the newcomer, he might find some conreaderie among the townsfolk. Evidently not. 

This post had not been his first choice either; backwater nowhere with no chance of promotion. But the position had needed filling in all urgency after the last station master up and quit.

Mr. Pouste suspected the antagonistic locals the cause. He hitched the wagon in front of the tea shoppe.

The bell rung merrily as Ms. Ulkand emerged, blue eyes bright with excitement. "Is my shipment here, Master Pouste?"

"Mister — if you please, madam," Mr. Pouse corrected through clenched teeth, unwilling to let the jibe slide. He may have been small, but he was not a youth. "Yes, they are. Last of the day. Two cases of Berdergon's Halfling tea, and one case of Gilded Blend coffee. Which comes to—" He checked his ledger. "—six silver pieces."

Ms. Ukland's narrow eyes flattened even further. "six -- for what? I paid upfront."

"Tariff, I'm afraid, madam. Luxury imports must be hand delivered. Policies is policies."

The white fox planted her hands on her faded skirt, taking in the little spirit with an ominous glare.

"There a problem?"

Ms. Ukland's watched young Master Therdencalper lope up the street, hands in his pockets. 

"Master Pouste won't give me my goods."

"Six pieces?" Master Therdencalper scoffed large grey hands moving to his hips. "The old station master never charged us that much."

"I don't," Mr. Pouste blustered, but their gathering was joined by the cobbler as the hedgehog approached the shop.

The cobbler, Mr. Bhible, crossed his arms over his portly middle, lifting his pipe from his mouth. "I ain't paying extra for my packages."

"You will if you want them released from customs," cried Mr. Pouste, clutching his ledger.

"Oh, here," spat Ms. Ukland slapping coins into his leather-bound book, "take the money and be off with you."

Master Therdencalper hefted all three crates up at once, snatching them out of Mr. Pouste's reach. "Where do you want them, Ms. Ukland?"

"The kitchen is fine, thank you."

Mr. Bhible shook his spiny head and shuffled into the shoppe to his usual table. "Six pieces," he repeated to Ms. Ukland, "That's highway robbery."

The fox spirit bustled through her frustration, serving the cobbler tea and two blueberry scones from Mrs. Seaver.

Ms. Ukland counted the coins left in her purse and pulled out one more and handed it to Master Therdencalper when he came out of the kitchen.

"What's this?" he asked as she placed the little coin in his open palm.

"For your service with the crates," Ms. Ukland said, "Thanks again, Master Han."

Han Therdencalper — a troll of two and twenty years — rankled somewhat at the title of youth and the pitiful copper piece now gripped in his palm like he were some messenger boy and not a fully grown spirit. He straightened his waistcoat and opened his mouth but Ms. Ukland was already gone, off again speaking to her customers. 

"I'll have it," chirped a small voice.

Master Therdencalper looked down to see Luna Pavski's staring at his closed fist.

He produced the piece and handed it to the girl. He had no use for one copper and surely it was more of a prize suited for a child, such that she was.

Luna Pavski pocketed it with a happy smirk, rushing back to the kitchen at her grandmother's call.

Mrs. Pavski was elbows deep in dish water. "See to the drying, dearest, then it will be time for supper."

Luna only chipped one plate in her efforts and endured a lecture from Cousin Mulli throughout supper before she was put to bed, ears still burning from the scolding.

But the little spirit could not sleep, and when the last of the chatter of Mrs. Pavski and Ms. Ukland faded to the rumble of slumber, Luna left from her bed and padded downstairs, slipping her coat from the front closet before she crept out the front door and settling herself at her new post.

She had slept at her watch twice this week and was determined not to let sleep take her again. Luna's tail flicked pensively, tracing the flagstone steps of her grandmother's stoop. It was early yet — the first brush of morning swept across the hilltops.

Heavy footsteps echoed from across the street.

Her tail stilled with disappointment as Master Seaver, the baker's boy, came around the corner to open his father's shop.

Impatience set the tail in motion again. Swish, swish.

"Who do we wait for, Little One?" A low voice said next to her.

Luna bit back a yip of surprise.

Hunkered down alongside her, wrists settled over their knees, and wide brim sweeping down toward her, sat the Milliner.

Their golden eyes stared down at her patiently, and Luna started when she remembered they had asked her a question.

"You," answered the little fox-spirit honestly.

The Milliner's eyes curved up into little glowing moons. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Not at all," she said politely. "We have not met. But I already know who you are."

"And I you."

The little fox was inordinately pleased and (as it was her nature to be) a little skeptical. "You do?"

The Milliner nodded. "You are Derpham's night watcher; their own little moon."

Luna considered this for a moment and wrinkled her pointed nose. She did not much like the idea of belonging to Derpham. Already she ached with a frantic desire she could not yet describe.

Over the years she would call it many things: freedom, adventure, change, discontentment; for now little Luna just scratched her forearm under the cuff of her dress and looked directly into the dark and inscrutable face of the Milliner.

"What are you doing here?"

The Milliner straightened towering high above her and offered her one black hand. "Would you like to see?"

Luna considered the claw tipped fingers, tails of black smoke trailing from under the sleeve. She clasped her little hand in theirs, and let the Milliner hand her down the stair and across the street to the little green doors with burnished brass knobs.

The metal latch clicked and pushed inward like a hiss. The Milliner swept forward melting like chocolate into the velvet shadows of their shoppe.

Luna hesitated at the portal, nose itching with eagerness but legs still frozen.

"Do come in," said the Milliner.

And she did.