With a punch of sharp sulfur, the little match snapped to life, flame biting at its wooden stump, hungry for a wick to feed on.

My godfather’s voice rose out of the dark like a ghoul crawling from its crypt, all rustling leaves and the smoky taste of autumn.

“There once was a very foolish huntsman who lived at the heart of the Gravia Forest.”

The match’s flame was nearly at his fingertips, eager to singe his skin, the wooden stick all but spent, but he paid no mind.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” I said, and offered him a long taper to light. It was amber in color, rich and golden and warm and lovely.

The candle cast dancing shadows across my cottage as the flame grew stronger, more resolute. I met Merrick’s eyes—a strange combination of silver and red irises surrounded by a void of pure black—and smiled. I could recite this story by heart, but I let him tell it. It was his favorite part of my birthday.

“Throughout his life, this very foolish huntsman made series after series of very foolish decisions, until at long last, on one particular night, he finally made one very clever choice.” With a swift snap of his elongated, knobby fingers, the match went out, and a curl of silvery smoke wafted into the rafters. “The huntsman, you see, though very poor and very foolish, had somehow found himself a very pretty, very young wife.”

“And we all know what happens when very poor men have very pretty wives,” I cut in, unable to help myself.

“They’re blessed with lots of pretty children,” Merrick intoned testily. “Are you telling this story or am I?”