All those fairy tales, and in any one of them, you ever caught mention of the fae mail service? Yeah, me neither. It's because with a single spell--"Lex!"--wizards send a letter to the king's hand. Us lesser folks make do with the post. That's okay because that's what I deliver.
       A mail troll like me, I don't have magic enough to best a dark lord or repel invading hordes. What I have are two strong legs and a strong back. In my sack, I carry name day cards and that eye of newt you need for your spell. Elflings and troll kits like it when I come round at Yule Tide.
       And toward the end of my route, after I've trekked ten miles through the darkling woods and kelpie-infested swamps that have swallowed many an unsuspecting postal worker before me, I crest a hill and see it. Her mailbox.
       Short and squat and shaped like a toad, with its green mouth open for letters and packages, it's hexes-above adorable. Nobody else has a box like that.
       Down the dirt lane is her candy-coated cottage. Gingerbread and licorice and gumdrops as you'd expect, but with an eye-popping shade of pink icing at the eaves and around the front door that shows she's not afraid to stand out. I like a lady who's got a mind of her own.
       Each time I put a letter in the mailbox, I pause to trace her name, The Witch Bezuela.
       Three syllables: Beh-zway-la.
       A name to make a dark lord pale and invading armies retreat. A name the king calls on when he's in a pickle.
       Me, I've never met the king. His pickles don't demand a mail troll with barely enough magic to fix their own bridge.
       "Leave the packages!" a voice croaks. "Be on your way."
       I jump and give the toad mailbox a glare. I don't need a reminder that I've been daydreaming at the end of her lane again.
       "Yes, yes," I mutter and open my sack. The box is just doing its job.
       I do, in fact, have a package for Bezuela. Packed it myself this morning inside the special padded flap at the top of my sack so it wouldn't get damaged. It was square and wrapped in brown paper. And squishy. Odd, but no odder than other things that go through the mail.
       Except it isn't in the flap. For her, there's a credit offer from Mistresscard, coupons from Brooms 'R' Us, and a glittery pink envelope that can only be a Happy Solstice card. No packages.
       That's strange. I paw through my bag, past envelopes and boxes, sure it's got to be in there. I can't have lost it. I've never lost a package. I'm a good mail troll with justifiable pride in my work because I never know which letter or package will put a dimple in a hag's cheek. But for her... For her, I'd wrest a package from a wyvern's mouth.
       Movement comes at the corner of my eye as I stare at the empty flap, and slurp! The mailbox's fat, wet tongue licks my cheek.
       "Hey!" I jerk back. My butt hits the gravel path. Slobber dampens my cheek.
       "Leave the packages! Be on your way!"
       "I'm trying!"
       Sheesh. The box never did that before. I must've lingered longer than I thought.
       I pick myself up, wipe my face on my blue postal sleeve. At least Bezuela didn't see. She's away saving the king's butt. A couple weeks ago, I saw her lift off on the royal dragon's back, her gingerbread-colored hair knotted on top of her head, her hands sheathed in leather gloves to her elbows. Responding to some royal summons, she looked like a princess.
       I pull my sack back a few steps, out of tongue range, and look again. No package.
       Now I'm starting to worry. I wipe sweat from my upper lip, imagine a wyvern's nasty breath, the crunch of its jaws. Desperate, I shake my bag. The package has to be here. Especially since she's away, I need to be extra careful with her mail. She has no one else to look out for it.
       There--at the very bottom. Under a stack of magazines, a brown paper package.
       I snatch it up. The label says The Witch Bezuela.
       Oh, thank hexes. I must have squeezed it out of its flap when I grabbed another package. I'm still a good mail troll, still a protector of packages for those away from home.
       With a sigh of relief, I put the package and the envelopes on the toad's waiting tongue. The box lets out a contented blurp.
       "That's right. I did do a good job. She'll be happy."
       She will be, but I'm not. I found the package, did my duty. That means I have no reason to pause anymore. Bezuela isn't gonna breeze out for her mail, her skirts flapping around her ankles, her voice husky as she wishes me a good afternoon. I won't smell the cinnamon and cloves of her latest spell.
       Time to finish my route. No good deed goes unpunished, eh?
       Before I shoulder my bag, the toad's tongue hits the ground. Plop! The envelopes that I'd just put on top scatter.
       "'eave the 'acka'es! 'e on your way!" the toad cries. Its poor tongue is pinned under the package.
       "What the--?"
       I'm dumbfounded. The package weighs maybe five pounds, easily less than the toad itself. In all my rounds, this has never happened.
       I try to pick it up, lifting with my legs, not my back. Might as well try to pick up the candy cottage. That package is stuck.
       Which means somebody spelled it.
       My back breaks out in kelpie-swamp sweat. I take two steps back, bite my thumb to ward off black magic. Swamps and forests aren't the only things that can swallow a mail troll in the line of duty.
       None of my business why somebody spelled that package. My mamas raised me to know better than to get mixed up in a witch's magic. But they also raised me to finish a job, and that means safely getting Bezuela's mail to her. Means I won't leave the package on the side of the path where any boggle with sticky fingers could spy it.
       A lever. That's what I need. A stout branch and a rock. I'll drag the package to her cottage and hide it in the bushes beside her gingerbread porch, then leave a note in the mailbox.
       I step to the side of the path in search of a branch. The toad shrieks.
       "'eave! 'eave! 'eave!"
       Smoke billows up, flames licking the package's brown sides, now on fire. The air goes crisp with the smell of burnt paper.
       "No!"
       I grab my water bottle, the only one I have for a whole day of walking, and dump it over the fire. Not enough.
       What else? Bezuela's not a birdbath or watering can kind of lady.
       Frantic, I scoop dirt from the lane with my hands, throwing it over the fire.
       "Oh, thank hexes," a husky voice says.
       I know that voice. I glance up, dirt cupped in both hands. My heart dutifully delivers itself into my throat.
       The package is gone. In its place, Bezuela sits on the toad's tongue. She looks as strong and solid as the earth beneath my feet. Her shapeless brown dress can only be described as boxy.
       What can I say? I'm a mail troll. I like boxes.
       I drop the dirt. "Are you okay?"
       "Of course, thanks to you. Help me up?"
       I pull her to her feet. Her fingers linger warm on mine. The toad slips its tongue back in its mouth with a contented urp.
       "You hate traveling by dragon so much you turned yourself into a box and mailed yourself home?" I ask. Then I realize I've never asked her anything more personal than how she likes the weather. I cringe, wonder how to apologize.
       She sidles close. She smells of fire and icing. "Not at all. My mother's moving into a crone community and needs to hire a private courier to send me some family heirlooms. She's convinced no one's trustworthy enough for such a task. But I know you are." She lays a long-fingered hand on my arm. "I mailed myself home to get proof you would see me safely to my final destination."
       I swallow. My mouth goes dry. I would slog up the steepest volcano, dive into the deepest lake if she waited for me at the end.
       Still... I look at the hand on my arm. So warm, so wanted. So unlike anything she's done before. And I've given her plenty of chances, believe me.
       Something's changed. She's changed. It's enough to give me pause and think about what she's saying. Or not saying.
       I ask, "You know I'm trustworthy?" Odd, when we barely say more than a dozen words to each other at any one time.
       "Of course." She flutters her lashes at me. "You think I don't notice good service?"
       "So, the flap and the weight and the fire. Those were... tests?"
       "Which you passed brilliantly." She squeezes my arm. "Now, come inside. I know how to reward good service. Before we contact my mother, let me fill that water bottle of yours."
       I blush to the bottom of my warty toes. Somehow, I'm not sure we're talking about water bottles.
       I'd make it to her cottage in ten strides flat. Wyverns couldn't drag me away. But my mamas didn't raise no fool. Those weren't very hard tests. Any half-decent mail carrier would have done the same. And candy cottages aren't the only sweet things that can trap the unwary in Fairy. I think about the mail trolls who have disappeared from this and other routes recently. Four, that I know of. I wonder exactly which heirlooms her mother needs to send, how often Bezuela mailed herself home. How many arms her hand has been on.
       I ask, "Your mother fixing to have me deliver something that's going to kill me?"
       She blinks. She runs her hand down my arm a bit more forcefully. "I'm asking you to step inside."
       I swallow hard. She has the softest fingers. Deliberately, I pull my arm away. "It's your right not to tell me. Privacy is important. But you gotta be straight about it. Just because I'm no witch or wizard, doesn't mean I'm stupid." She opens her mouth, and I keep talking. "I know my duty. You need something delivered, I'll get it done. But I'm not going to deliver death into my own hands just because you smell good."
       Her eyes narrow. "I could spell you. Force you to deliver my heirlooms."
       "You could." She certainly has the magic for it. "But you won't. You need a mail carrier who can think. Not a mindless fool. Besides," I venture, thinking of her pink candy icing, "I'm guessing you like a partner with a bit of bite." I grin to show my teeth and hope my gamble pays off.
       She looks at me with narrowed eyes. I shift my body toward my mail sack, ready to throw it at her if she starts a spell.
       Then, one of her dark eyebrows goes up. Her mouth crooks. She breaks into a dazzling smile. "You're a cheeky troll."
       I breathe out. Oh, thank the hexes. She finds me amusing. This, I can work with. "That's for you to find out, if we both consent."
       Her laugh is sweeter than any gumdrop. "I underestimated you. I apologize. We do need your help. Desperately. She's been in that house 437 years. We've gone through most of her things, and now we're down to the dragon heart-stone and bottled phoenix fire."
       I whistle low. Priceless and dangerous heirlooms. Strictly against postal regulations and ones that dragon couriers would refuse to carry. The heart-stone alone would happily immolate any bearer it didn't want carrying it.
       She nods. "So, you see why we're having such trouble getting them delivered. Will you help?"
       I'd listen to her voice till the stars fell, even now. Such is a troll's heart. "Neither rain nor snow nor gloom of spell will keep the mail troll from their appointed rounds," I say because I adore our informal motto, and I want to share everything with her. I want to remind her that a dedicated postal carrier is the equal of any king. Because respect can build bridges across uncrossable divides.
       Trust a troll to know about bridges.
       I hold out my hand. "There are a number of ways to transport dangerous items. You know I once hand-delivered a live cockatrice?"
       Her dark eyes widen. "You did? Without getting turned to stone? How on earth?"
       And I've got her. Expertise is so sexy. This time, it will make sure I deliver packages for her for a very, very long time.
       "Let me tell you the story," I say.
       We go hand in hand, her stride matching mine. From the end of the lane, the mailbox watches with a proud grin.