Page 38 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

I slide into the group. “What’s this?”

The men grumble at my interruption, but the woman gives a wide, gap-toothed smile, happy to restart her tale. “They caught it over the body of Ana Leon. She was dead. Murdered. And the monster had eaten her hands.”

I make the appropriate exclamation, hand flying to my mouth. “How ghastly!”

“There was blood everywhere. It was terrible,” she says, eyes shining with such glee that, if I were her husband, I would treat her well or sleep with a blade under my pillow.

“You said it was a dopp— dopp—” I pretend to struggle for the word.

Her look chastises me for thinking her pause marked the end of her story, but she allows the interruption and says, slowly, as if to a child, “Doppelgänger. They can take on any form, which is what it did. First, it changed to one of the men who found it. They say that was a sight.” She cackles. “The men did not know what to do, which one was their friend and which the monster, and then it attacked the man whose form it had stolen, and they really could not tell then. Imagine it, two of the same man rolling around on the floor. They settled it by grabbing both and planning to haul them off to the sheriff, but then the monster changed to a tabby cat and tried to flee. Yet Bobby – the miller’s boy – kicked it into the wall so hard that the beast was knocked out and it changed to human form. Or they thought it was human form.”

She pauses, and this time, I know to lean forward, my eyes rounded as I await the next part of the tale.

Her voice lowers, conspiratorial, and everyone moves closer. The men seem to have already heard this part, but clearly it deserves a retelling.

“It seemed human for about five heartbeats. Then its hair began to change color. It changed to every shade of the rainbow. The skin changed, too, not only its color but…” Her voice lowers more. “To scales. To feathers. To fur. Can you imagine?” She shudders, but her eyes glow brighter.

Another pause, and someone fetches her an ale.

“What happened next?” a man asks.

“They put the shackles on the creature and got it to the jail as quickly as they could, for surely, it would transform again when it woke. And it did wake. Halfway across town, in the back of a cart.”

Another pause, and she takes a long quaff of her ale as even those who’ve already heard the story shift with impatience.

“And do you know what happened?” she asks.

“It transformed into a mouse!” someone calls from across the inn.

“No, a dragon!” another says.

“It did not transform at all,” the woman says with satisfaction. “The shackles held it. Do you know why?”

“Iron,” I whisper to myself, but she hears and nods.

“Iron,” she confirms.

Iron affects fae. I’ve never heard of it stopping a doppelgänger from transforming, but we know ridiculously little about them, and when I think of it, I wonder whether they are fae. That would make sense – humanoid tricksters that can take on any shape and sow confusion and discord.

“You said the beast was taken to the arena,” someone says.

“It was, and once they have determined whether or not they’ll allow it to trans form in the arena, they will execute it in a fight, open for all to see.”

“Oh, I hope they allow it to transform,” someone else says. “What a fight that would be.”

When the excitement ebbs, I fetch the woman another ale and ask, “Did you say it was male? Or female?”

“They said it looked male when they first saw it, though they could not be sure.” She cackles. “I ribbed them for that. Surely, when it changed back from being a cat, they could tell whether it was male or female. But they said no, that it transforms fully dressed.”

I feign confusion with the rest, though I actually know this to be true – for a doppelgänger, clothing is like an extension of its skin, and it can take on any form, including one fully dressed.

“But it first appeared male,” I say. “Old or young?”

Her brows rise. “You seem very interested in what it looks like.” Before I can protest, she raises her hands. “I’ll not judge. It was a young man, around your own age. Middling height. Middling looks. Brown hair. Very average in appearance.”

“Ah,” I say when everyone peers at me. “I think I saw him – it – earlier that day. It offered to buy me a drink, and there was something odd about its eyes, so I refused.” I shudder. “I am glad of it.”

“As you should be,” the woman says. “Ana was not so lucky.”