“Grandfather! Grandfather! You’ll never guess what just happened!”
The old man fixed his grandson with a world-weary gaze and cleared his throat once or twice. If he had had the strength to shift himself in his elaborate iron wheelchair, he would have.
“You were visited,” he said eventually, “by a spiritual being with a strong Scottish accent which took the form of a fairy-winged stoat. In exchange for a tribute of one hundred green copper pennies, it offered to grant you your heart’s keenest desire.”
The Scrivnarium 