Mr. Barem kicked the door shut behind him and kicked off his boots. The fire in the potbelly stove smoldered in the damp shadow of the silent house.

The empty coat-hooks by the front door taunted him. Mr. Barem separated his coat and scarf, and threw a blanket over the third. 

But it looked too much like a shawl and he rent the iron hook from the wood with a great screech of nails.

It had been a year, but the echo of his wife remained like a specter in the window. Mr. Barem had tried chasing away any remembrance of Nadine in her frilly curtains, the blanket Mr. Barem's mother had made them for their wedding, faded dresses hung limply in the closet.

Nadine said that the house was too quiet now that Liina had moved into town. Mr. Barem had disagreed; he'd loved the remoteness of their cottage, the solemnity of their cloister. He revered the ground, the soil his great-grandfather had built upon.

But now his wife's words returned, coiled and sharp to curdle his work into toil. He cursed his garden and the great open sky, but it changed nothing.

He kept watch for his daughter throughout the evening. He dreaded her arrival as a drowning spirit dreads the air. Her visits were becoming sporadic of late — likely on the account of his telling her not to come.

But when the knock came and Mr. Barem wrenched open the door with wretched impatience, it was his sister, not Liina.

Mrs. Seaver looked over his limp grey shirt with a distressed little huff. "Well, will you invite me inside or will you wait until I grow old?"

"We are old," he reminded her.

Mrs. Seaver ignored him and bustled past him through the door. She shuddered at the sad state of the home they had shared as children. The Barem's had been in their day one of Derpham's leading families, guarding the ways and traditions of their beloved town, living out the values they held most dear.

Now she looked at the state of the Barem name and wanted to scream, but her brother was hurting. Her pain would only aggravate his suffering. So instead she made herself insufferable.

She shook the empty kettle and shoved it in Mr. Barem's arms. "Make yourself useful."

But Mr. Barem would not be moved. The kettle hit the potbelly stove with a clang. "If I wanted tea, Wella, I'd bloody well make it myself."

Mrs. Seaver planted her hands on her hips, gripping the linen to keep the edge out of her voice. "Who said it was for you?"

Mr. Barem rubbed his sweat-lined face. "For fek's sake, what do ya want?"

Mrs. Seaver smacked his arm. "Wellard Barem!" 

She scoffed, the disapproving harumph minted by elder sisters. "Is that kind of language what chased Liina off?"

Mr. Barem's eyes flashed. "Liina moved out a long time ago."

Mrs. Seaver's voice dropped lower with her chin. "You know why."

But Mr. Barem only chewed the inside of his lip, shaking his head.

She risked a touch, gentle this time, but somehow worse than the slap. "She's not the one who left."

He withdrew, shrinking away from the sting of her words. "Go, please. I just want to be alone."

She gave chase arms outstretched. "You are always alone."

"Did you ever think I preferred it that way?"

Mrs. Seaver flinched back, and Mr. Barem ushered her from the house. The bolt slammed in the latch before she'd found her tongue again. She pounded on the door, kicking it once for good measure.

His sister's angry shouts trembled in the rafters. "We can't knock forever, Wellard! We're not Nadine. Liina and I won't always be waiting around for you to realise that!"

Good, he thought.

§

Mr. Barem set the last of the crates down with a sharp crack of wood.

"Don't bruise them," tutted Mrs. O'Dell coming to hover behind him, a coil of black wool and anxiety.

The badger spirit bristled. "Have I sold ya bruised produce before?"

"Only recently," said Mr. O'Dell from his seat on the back stoop. Pipe smoke wisped around his curved horns as he took up sentry at his wife's side.

The mercantile bumped her hip against her husband's. "Mr. O'Dell you really should assist poor Mr. Barem."

Mr. O'Dell looked over 'poor Mr. Barem's' hulking figure and, hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, bleated ruefully, "How's Miss Liina faring, Mr. Barem?"

"I expect she you would know better than I, sir," Mr. Barem said refusing to balk at the older spirit's chastisement. "If that is all, Mrs. O'Dell, I'll take my due."

"Oh, yes, of course," muttered the proprietress, patting the pockets of her maroon skirts until she located Mr. Barem's payment behind the counter.

Mr. Barem was unhitching his mule from the post when familiar whispers slipped through the O'Dells' open window to his ears.

"...a divorcé, not an invalid."

"He's still wearing his ring, Tesch — have a little pity."

"His own daughter doesn't see him. What does that tell you?"

"Surely you cannot take her side! Nadine—"

"There are two people in a marriage, Viela. Or three in their case."

"Don't be crude. That city-spirit was rotten from the first — all suave and slick ears. She was only foolish enough to fall for Mr. Vyiore's charms."

The hare-spirit's name burned like acid in the air. Mr. Barem spat on the ground.

Trembling and stumbling in pain or fury, he found himself in the alley, arms braced to the wall and his breakfast splattered in the dirt.

Groaning when the retching knotted a now empty stomach, Mr. Barem spat again and scuffed dust over his sick. He swiped his mouth and bit back the curse when he heard footsteps come down the alley.

Mrs. Pavski's granddaughter -- Lulo or Lucky maybe, he thought without much conviction -- approached one of the doors and knocked. When no answer came, she tried the handle.

But Mr. Barem had already started forward in alarm. He grabbed the girl's shoulder, pulling her away. "What are ya doin'? That's the--"

The back door to the millinery shoppe swung open to reveal its elusive owner, a shadow in the narrow portal. The golden embroidery on the brim of their hat glimmered in the dart of daylight shining between the rooftops.

The badger-spirit quickly put himself between the girl and the foreign spirit with a derisive snort. The Milliner's clothes were finely crafted, that much even rough and rotten Mr. Barem could tell. Fine things only meant a spirit had something they wished to conceal of themselves. 

"Goodday, neighbour," said the Milliner evenly. "I haven't often seen you about."

Suspicion lowered the badger's voice to a warning growl. "Care to tell me why Lucky here is coming to your alley door?"

"Luna? Oh, I expect it is because she has my pins."

"I do," chimed the girl (not Lucky it seemed). "Master Therdencalper finished early."

"Mr. Therdencalper, I believe, Miss Luna," the Milliner corrected gently, moving aside to let her through.

Mr. Barem slammed his hand against the open door. There was no way he was going to allow this child to be left alone with a strange spirit. The Milliner made no acknowledgement or objection, nodding to the farmer as he pushed past, following the girl.

Luna had already made herself comfortable at a tea table in a parlour off the hall. A paper package lay forgotten next to the kettle as the fox helped herself to the mini sandwiches laid out on a milk-glass plate.

The parlor was cozy. His sister would have called it cluttered. There were too many mismatched cushions on the settee, the shelves crammed with too many books and oddities: china figurines, mirrored puzzle boxes, and foreign machines. An odd grandfather clock stood in the corner with stars in its face rather than numbers. The only window looked out on the alley, across from the wall that Mr. Barem had leaned against minutes earlier.

He stared at the spot in stiff, horrified silence.

"Would you care to sit, Mr. Barem?"

Mr. Barem hovered in the door.

The Milliner moved past him in satin shadow and gestured to one of the green armchairs either side of a spindle-legged table topped with a sparse bouquet of daffodils.

The spirit opened the package and thanked Luna before producing a plate of ham sandwiches and beckoned with them to Mr. Barem. "Sit, there is enough for friends."

Luna looked up from her own plate, licking mustard from her chin. "You always say that."

The Milliner's glowing eyes, rounded up into crescents. "It is always true."

When Mr. Barem did not move but glared at the pair in mortified confusion, Luna sighed at the Milliner. "I told you. Mr. Barem hates everything — and everyone."

The glowing eyes dimmed slightly, but rather that chastising the girl, he turned to the badger. "Do you hate everything -- and everyone?"

"Only some days," Mr. Barem heard himself reply scratching the white scruff down his jaw. "Other days I suppose I just hate myself."

"That makes no sense," muttered the little fox through another bite of meat and brown bread. "Just because Missus—" The child paused there, unsure what to call her. She frowned at her food, picking seeds absently from the crust. "She's just one person. How can one person make you hate everyone? That's just silly."

Mr. Barem wasn't surprised this child knew of his wife's infidelity, he had no doubt she'd overheard many discussions of the subject in her cousin's tea shoppe. The thought made him bristle. "So's chatting away about things ya know nothing about, little miss."

Luna only rolled her eyes and went back to her sandwich.

"I am sorry," said the Milliner, "about your wife."

"She's not dead," grumbled Mr. Barem.

"Neither are you," said the Milliner.

Mr. Barem looked at the empty face of the Milliner with a hard set in his jaw. "Might as well be."

The world he had created for himself had withered like a flower in drought and turned to dust. No amount of scrabbling in the dirt would change that. He discovered. 

Liina had come to him that afternoon, sprinting down the road just as he'd come up from the field to find his home and hearth empty. Nadine's clothes (save a few tired things), her bags, brushes, and their coins were all gone. 

He'd been frantically calling her name and he'd thought Liina rushing toward him was her, then that she'd been hurt and Liina sent to fetch him. His daughter was weeping. The dark stripes over her eyes damp with tears. 

When she found her voice, she told him her mother was gone; taken off with the station master, Mr. Vyiore. She'd left a note to Liina promising to send a telegram with word when she was settled. The letter was that of a girl eloping with her love, not a word of her husband. 

The shock had settled in his gut like rage and Mr. Barem had taken off after them, making it all the way to the station before he realised he had no idea where to go. They could have gone anywhere and Mr. Barem no longer had the money to pay for a ticket to the next town, let alone the cities. 

He returned to his home, Liina trailing behind worrying wrinkles into her skirts.

Nadine's dreams of grandeur -- of mansions with walking gardens flashed back to his mind as he looked over their rustic homestead. He'd thought her dreams silly. Lofty. But he'd planted her a walkway of tulips, daffodils, and calla lilies around the fringe of their kitchen garden anyway. 

He'd torn half of them up before he'd realised what he was about. Liina was crying for him to stop. But he didn't. Not until every last one was gone. 

"Why do you say that, Mr. Barem," queried the Milliner, "because you loved your wife?"

"She made me a laughing stock. Worse! An object of pity," Mr. Barem spat.

The Milliner sat quietly for a moment, stirring their tea before setting it down in the saucer and looking back up at him. "I see. But I cannot help but point out that you did not answer my question."

He swallowed convulsively, narrowing amber eyes at the stranger. "That would be ridiculous."

"Love does not make us ridiculous. Pushing it away does."

Mr. Barem advanced on the reclining spirit, hands clenching into tight fists. "I did everything I could to satisfy that spirit. Just wasn't enough for her anymore." 

The Milliner placed their spindle-tipped fingers on the arms of the  velvet chair and drew up to their full height. "I speak not only of Nadine -- but of Miss Barem, and the Seavers."

Used to this unwanted accusation, Mr. Barem only drew his self-righteous anger more tightly around his shoulders like a cape. "You don't know me, Milliner."

The Milliner loomed over Mr. Barem, their shadow filling the room like unfurling night. Their eyes glowed bright white with a cold anger. 

"I know you. I know your temper and your stubborn pride. Arrogant, just like your father; too respectable to cry for help. I know you hate those flowers, which is why you won't sit. I know you'd rather have everyone think you a poor husband, rather than face their pity."

Luna paused toying with one of the foreign trinkets she'd picked off the shelves and stared in shock at the Milliner. 

Mr. Barem's mouth opened and closed.

"I know you think your daughter hates you, which is why you push her away. You are not the only one that was betrayed by Mrs. Barem. Miss Liina lost one parent. Now you would have her lose the other?"

The Milliner's voice gentled, and the shadows receded. "Perhaps Miss Luna is correct: you are a silly spirit. But you were also generous, quick with a laugh, and an expert gardiner; a brother, and a father, a friend."

"Mayhap," Mr. Barem said when his voice found him again, "mayhap I was. But I can't go back. I don't know how." 

The tic of the great clock in the corner knocked between them. 

The Milliner bent, pulling a box from underneath the table. He brushed the sharp points of his thumbs up either side to pop the lid. "Perhaps not back then. But forward."

"With a hat?"

The Milliner laughed at Mr. Barem's dubious expression. "An embodied change to remind you."

Mr. Barem lifted the straw hat from the box incredulously. A band of blue plaid fixed around the dome. 

"Try it on," Luna encouraged impatiently, bouncing on the couch. 

The twin holes woven in the straw fit perfectly over his ears. He tugged the brim down over his eyes, then off again. "This doesn't change anything. I still don't know how to -- to be anymore."

"Ask," said the Milliner. "And I think you know just the person."

§

The bell rang over the bakery door  the following morning, and Master Dau Seaver stood straighter behind the counter. "Uncle Wellard!"

Mr. Barem crossed the shoppe and asked, "Is your mother home?"

"Wellard?" Mrs. Seaver's steps faltered as she came out of the kitchen. "Is something amiss -- Liina?"

Mr. Barem shook his head, removing the straw hat he wore. "Nothing like that."

Mrs. Seaver bristled with embarrassment. "Well, spit it out then. You look like death."

The badger-spirit clenched the brim of his hat with the rustle of straw. "I came to apologize if you'd let me get the words in." 

Mr. Barem swallow more back and sighed, letting the anger whoosh out of him and leaving only exhaustion. 

Master Dau turned to his mother as she furiously sucked back her tears. 

"Oh," she said acerbically, "for what exactly? Cursing at me? Throwing me from my mother's house?"

His boot scuffed the floor as Mr. Barem inched forward. "For hurting ya--"

"Hurting me?" Mrs. Seaver scoffed. 

"--for pushing ya away when I needed yer help."

Master Dau could hear the little break in Mrs. Seaver's voice when she said, "You were never very quick."

"Ma..." Master Dau interjected. His mother was not a gentle spirit. Mr. Seaver always postulated that she not a badger-spirit but one of thunder and lightning.

Mr. Barem worried the fringe of his hat as he held his sister's gaze. "Can ya forgive me, Wella? I'm terrible sorry."

Mrs. Seaver swiped at something that looked suspiciously like a tear. She walked to him and took his hand. "Shall I invite Liina for dinner here? It seems we all could use a little time together. -- away from the farm."

Her brother squeezed her hand. "I'd like that."

My Dearest Readers,

Mr. Barem was one of the later characters conceived for Derpham and the last to receive a name. He is 'friendless farmer' in much of my brainstorming notes. The original conception of 'friendless farmer' was a spirit who'd lost his family to illness years ago and his reintegration in his community. 

However, it felt a little too close to the arc of our dear Mr. Pouste, whom you have already met. Alternatively, the infidelity and family torn asunder, seemed to contradict the cozy story I am attempting to tell.

But I was reminded that cozy is not the absence of darkness, it changes only how we tell it. It is perhaps the very presence of darkness that brings the contrast to our eye, like a literary chiaroscuro, drawing us ever closer to the light.

Until next time.

Your phototropic author,

Moe Lyn