Dustin runs across the dirt road, struggling to keep the brown packages steady in his arms.

‘Oh Dusty,’ Dustin’s mum chuckles, dropping back in step with him. ‘Let me hold a few.’

‘No, it’s fine, mama,’ says Dusty, juggling the packages in his arms until he has them under control. ‘It’s just this one.’ Dusty wedges the largest brown package under his chin. ‘What’s it made of? Gold?’

‘If only,’ sighs Dusty’s mum, taking the package from under his chin and cradling it to her chest.

She has a bag draped over each arm and folded fabric wrapped against her back. She looks like a pack donkey as she hunches over, hurrying through the night.

Dusty trots a few steps to keep up. ‘Do you think he’ll really buy them?’ he asks, tucking a piece of his curly brown hair behind his ear.

Dusty’s mum wrinkles her nose, the silver locket she always wears hanging around her neck, shimmers under the full moon. ‘I hope so,’ she says, taking a long, slow inhale. ‘If he likes my work, that is.’

‘Mama,’ Dusty laughs. ‘You’re the best tailor in the entire village.’

‘It’s a small village, Dusty.’

‘Mr Samuel comes from three villages over to buy his robes.’

Even with night surrounding them, Dusty can see his mother’s cheeks turn pink.

Dusty’s mum reaches a hand to her son’s shoulder and pulls him to her side. ‘My number one supporter.’

The edges of Dusty’s lips tug into a smile as he leans into the warmth of her hug.

‘Are you tired?’ she asks.

He shakes his head, ignoring the fog of sleep nudging at the edges of his brain. ‘Not at all.’

‘Lies.’ She laughs. ‘I’m so sorry we must walk through the night.’

‘It’s fine,’ Dusty says. ‘If Lord Requiem will only be there in the morning, then the morning is when we shall arrive.’ Dusty pulls his shoulders back and lifts his head up as he pushes forward through the night.

‘My boy,’ Dusty’s mum whispers, pride filling her words.

As they continue down the dirt road, a distant cloud of grey appears on the horizon. Dusty winces as the evening air turns icy and frost collects on his breath. The mist moves quickly, seeming to gain speed as it rolls over the meadows and spills across the ground.

‘Mum?’

‘I see it,’ she replies, dropping her packages to the ground and pulling Dusty tightly against her.

The fog rushes over them, an ice cold mist that slithers across their skin.

‘What is it?’ Dusty asks, shivering.

Dusty’s mum pauses for a moment, her grip on Dusty loosening as the fog seems to settle into a thick cloud around them. ‘Just a bit of mist,’ she says finally. ‘A hit of cold air. I’m sure it will be gone in a moment.’

Dusty’s teeth chatter and his knees tremble together as he peers through his mother’s arms off into the distance. The fog is thick along the ground, but as he looks off to a nearby hill, a large estate stands proudly above the white mist. It’s pitched roof and yellow windows glow like a lighthouse in a storm.

‘Over there,’ he points.

Dusty’s mum squints into the distance. ‘Where did that come from?

‘We mustn’t have seen it,’ Dusty shrugs. ‘We must hurry, the fabric will get all musty in this weather.’

Dusty’s mum hesitates, nibbling on her bottom lip as she looks to her left and right. But when a howl echoes through the night air, she grabs hold of Dusty’s hand and nods.

‘Best get out of the open,’ she says. ‘Wolves are better hunters than humans will ever be.’

‘Wolves?’ Dusty wrinkles his brow. ‘Along these roads?’

Another howl pierces the night and Dusty’s mum gathers her packages in her arms. ‘Stranger things have happened.’

Dusty and his mum rush across the path, using the yellow windows of the mansion as a guiding beacon. They step into a line of trees, walking through a densely packed forest. Fog lingers on the branches, and drips from the canopy. Dusty grimaces as the smell of something musky and metallic pervades his nose. But soon enough they make it to a set of stone steps and climb their way to the top where the fog has thinned and a dark grey mansion sits upon a flattened hill.

Dusty’s mum rings a silver bell and they both wait in silence until the door opens.

The hinges creak and Dusty’s stomach turns. Something doesn’t feel right.

As the door peels back, a dim orange light filters through the crack, and a shadow hovers at the entrance.

‘Hello?’ says Dusty’s mum. 'Is there anyone there?’

A murmur of a reply seeps out of the mansion, reminding Dusty of the low growl of a pouncing cat. But before he can say anything, the door opens wide. A woman in a ball gown steps into the light. Her puffed sleeves are a stained yellow, and the corset around her waist a bright blue satin with holes eaten away from it. Her skirt is big and bulbous, and Dusty knows from his mother’s work that there must be a big cage hanging around her waist holding it up.

‘Oh my,’ says Dusty’s mum. ‘What a wonderful dress.’ She tilts her head to the side and Dusty wonders if she’s looking at the mud stains around the hem of the skirt or the deep gashes torn down the middle. Dusty’s mum purses her lips together and Dusty can sense a plan brewing.

‘My name is Bethany,’ Dusty’s mum says, balancing her packages so she can hold out a hand to the woman in the house. ‘And this is my son, Dustin.’

‘Hmmm,’ the woman purrs. ‘This is quite a treat.’

Dusty shuffles nervously between his feet. ‘Sorry?’

The woman leans forward, and the moonlight illuminates her greying features. Her skin wrinkles and dips, sinking into the hollows of her cheek bones. Dusty gasps as he stumbles back, his mother’s hand steadying him.

‘Elizabeth,’ the woman says. ‘My name is Elizabeth.’ Elizabeth’s gaze drifts over Dusty’s shoulders, landing on the fog, still heavy in the air. ‘Would you like to come in?’

Dusty’s mother straightens her shoulders. ‘Actually,’ she chuckles. ‘That would be nice. Just a few hours perhaps. We really should get back on the road. But this weather is quite prohibitive. And I thought I heard some… animals out.’

Elizabeth’s lips curl into a smirk. ‘Wolves.’

Dusty’s mum nudges her son. ‘Told you.’

Dusty rolls his eyes, giving his mum a nudge back.

‘You must come inside,’ Elizabeth says. ‘It’s so cold out. And we have the perfect room.’

'How fortunate,’ says Bethany, wrapping an arm around Dusty’s shoulder.

‘Mr Penrose!’ Elizabeth calls over her shoulder, into the darkness. ‘These wonderful travellers look like they need a hand with their belongings.’

A dark silhouette shuffles through the corridor behind Elizabeth. Dusty squints into the dim light and sees a frail, thin man hobbling towards them. His black waist coat and pants hang limply from his gaunt bones. As he reaches the door, he lifts his head. Pale skin and yellowed eyes, he looks in need of a good meal and trough full of hot soapy water. A faint smell of something rotten hovers around him like a cloak.

‘I wonder if we could come to some sort of arrangement,’ says Bethany as she hands her packages to Mr Penrose and steps inside. ‘I’m quite the tailor, you see. I could fix up some of these tears in your dress for a few hours of respite?’

‘I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement,’ purrs Elizabeth, ushering Bethany down the corridor.

A hand wraps around Dusty’s wrist and he realises Mr Penrose is standing in front of him. ‘Come child, it won’t do you any good out here. Catch a cold, or worse, you will.’

Dusty shuffles nervously inside, casting one last look behind him into the misty surrounding forest. Amidst the fog, branches shake, the trees themselves seeming uneasy and on edge. And for a split second, a pair of gleaming orange eyes seem to blink from within the shadows.

Dusty shakes his head, certain he didn’t see what he thinks he saw.

‘Inside is the better choice,’ whispers Mr Penrose, leaning over Dusty’s shoulder.

Mr Penrose’s rancid breath fills Dusty’s nostrils and he tries to cover his nose with his arm. ‘What’s out there?’

‘Nothing good, me boy. Nothing good.’ Mr Penrose steps back allowing Dusty a breath of fresh, crisp night air. ‘What’s your name anyway?’

‘I’m Dustin.’ Dusty smiles up at the frail looking man. ‘But everyone calls me Dusty.’

‘Dusty.’ Mr Penrose seems to roll the name around in his mouth like a foreign piece of food, before he winces, shaking his head. ‘I prefer Dustin.’

Dusty shrugs, glancing one last time back to the dark forest.

‘Well, Dustin,’ says Mr Penrose. ‘Do you wish to come inside?’

A howl echoes through the night and goosebumps dimple across Dusty’s skin. ‘I guess so,’ says Dusty.

‘Excellent,’ says Mr Penrose, holding the large wooden door open, allowing Dusty to step inside.

‘Thank you…’ Dusty pauses. ‘…Mr Penrose, was it?’

Mr Penrose smiles back, his teeth crooked and stained yellow with age. ‘Cornelius,’ he says. ‘You may call me Cornelius.’