Page 10 of Basket Case

“What do I call you?”

The kitchen stayed quiet for a long moment.

Names have power. Fae do not speak their names easily.

“Fine. I’ll call you Basket.”

I am not a basket.

“You very much look like a basket. You're the shape of a basket. You have a handle. You're made from wicker."

I am bound within the creel.

As if that made any sense. “Creel, then.”

He made a disgruntled creaking sound.

I smiled as I picked up my abandoned glass of water. “You should have told me your name.”

The thick wicker cock had not softened. It rose higher as I watched, strands moving beneath its smooth surface.

Would you like to discover why I made this?

THREE

“Yes,” I said before I could talk myself out of it. “But we’re not doing this in Gran’s kitchen.”

Why not?

“She eats her breakfast on that table.”

She has done far worse things on it.

I stared at him. That was not something I ever wanted to think about. Not when we were talking about my elderly grandmother.

Or so I have heard.

“That statement has killed the mood.”

Sorry.

The wicker cock dipped slightly.

I kicked my jeans and knickers off the rest of the way. They were muddy and damp, and there seemed little point putting them back on when I planned to be naked again soon.

I sniffed my hair. Bonfire smoke. I sighed. “I need a shower.”

The cock tilted towards me.

“No.”

You have not heard my suggestion.

“I don't need to. You want to come with me.”

Yes.

“You’re made of wicker. Gran said the damp would ruin you.”