Ivy and the Slow Door
The door in the hillside opened once a year, and Ivy had missed it by two days.
"Two days," she said, for maybe the ninth time.
"Two days," agreed the badger, who was called Sorrel and who was knitting something enormous and shapeless.
"That's so unfair."
"It is." Sorrel didn't look up. "Still two days."
Ivy sat down in the moss. She had walked a long way for this. She had a list, actually written down, of the things she wanted to ask whatever was behind the door.
"What do you do?" she said finally. "For a whole year."
Sorrel held up the shapeless knitting. It was, Ivy now saw, extremely long. It went off into the ferns and kept going.
"I make this."
"What is it?"
"Don't know yet." Sorrel's needles clicked. "That's rather the good bit."
Ivy watched for a while. The clicking was steady, like rain on a roof, and after a few minutes she noticed that her legs had stopped doing the jumpy thing.
"Can I have some?" she asked.
Sorrel handed her a spare pair of needles and a length of grey wool without comment, as if she'd been waiting for exactly that question, which perhaps she had.
Ivy was terrible at it. She dropped stitches. She started again four times.
The sun went down, and she realized she hadn't checked the door once.