by Christine A. Verstraete
Anna stared out the window of the small cottage at the lone willow. She didn’t understand why, but the ancient looking tree, which stood like a sentinel over the moss-padded expanse of emerald green grass, made her uneasy.
“You’re shivering!” said her friend, Lee. “Are you cold? Should I get another sweater for the baby?”
“No, it’s okay,” said Anna, shaking her head. “I was just looking at that tree, that’s all.”
“It’s kind of creepy, isn’t it? Now I know why the Irish believe the *Sidhe Draoi,* the tree spirits, live in willows. See anything yet?”
Anna laughed. “Me? No. No lights, no music. The fairies aren’t revealing themselves to me today.”
She crossed the room and picked up her warm mug. “Mmm, I love this Irish Coffee,” she said. “It sure made the trip worthwhile.”
She took another sip and sighed. “I hope it hasn’t gone to my head,” she said. “I was wondering about something. Have you noticed anything different about Marjorie?”
“Different, how?”
“Watch,” Anna said. She edged closer to the baby playing on the rug and then stepped away. “I move and she doesn’t even look my way. See what she does? She reaches for the window, not for me.”
“Babies love sunlight, it fascinates them,” Lee said, watching the golden-haired tot wave her pudgy fingers in the air.
“I don’t know,” Anna said. “It’s been pretty gloomy since we got here. I sure hope we get some sun before we leave Ireland. But it’s still like–”
“Like what?”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Okay,” Lee said. “I promise.”
Anna took a deep breath. “When Marjorie stares at the window, she’s so involved. It’s like she’s watching something. See how she glances from side to side?”
“No wonder,” Lee said. “Finally! Look, sunshine! See? That’s what got her attention.”
“That’s not it,” Anna insisted. “She started laughing and reaching for the window just after we got here. She’d sit in that same spot and giggle for hours if I let her. When I take her away from there, she cries.”
Lee shrugged in response. “You should be glad she amuses herself. She’s usually a happy baby.”
“There’s more to it,” Anna said, plopping onto the couch next to her friend. She grabbed her handbag from the side table, rummaged inside, and pulled out a paper-covered book.
“This was my favorite when I was a kid,” she said, slipping off the paper wrapper. She handed the slim volume to her friend.
“Return to the Enchanted Glen?” Lee opened the book and gasped at the brightly colored drawings inside. “Fairies! The colors are beautiful. This is charming! Where did you get it?”
“I found it at the bookshop yesterday. It’s part of a set. My father gave me the other volume when I was six. I loved that little book. I spent hours drawing and coloring new clothes for the fairies.”
“What happened to it?”
“My mother took it away,” Anna recalled and frowned at the memory. “She got mad and said I should be jumping rope or playing with friends, not sitting inside by myself. I was devastated. I-I felt so alone, like I’d lost my best friend.”
“Did she ever give it back to you?”
“Not until I was in college,” Anna said. “She told me she’d saved the book because my father had given it to me and it was so beautiful. The strange thing is she said that if I had a daughter, I shouldn’t give it to her until she was grown up.”
“Why not?” Lee asked. “Any child would love a book like this.”
“I don’t know.” Anna flipped through the pages, her hand caressing the gold wings of the fairy on the cover.
With a sigh, she slipped the volume back into its protective wrapper. “It always felt like more than a book to me. Maybe it was just my imagination because I loved it so much. I remember how real the fairies seemed.”
“I envy you that kind of imagination,” Lee said. “I was always a more practical kid.” She pulled herself up from the couch with a yawn. “Sorry, I’m beat. I’m going to go take a bath.”
Mug in one hand, the book in the other, Anna gazed at the baby before padding into the small, slate-floored kitchen. She set the book down and carefully refilled her mug with coffee, a dash of whiskey and a spoon of sugar. She topped it off with a generous dollop of rich, double cream.
Back in the living room, she sipped the steaming brew and watched Marjorie with a wistful feeling. A ray of sunlight burst through the window, bathing the baby in an aura of shimmering color. Mesmerized, Anna swore she could almost see tiny sparkles in the bright beam.
Setting down her drink, Anna went to pick up the baby, then stopped and stared at the light-drenched rug. She leaned closer and, with a smile, picked up a discarded insect wing, its gossamer surface marked with flowing lines no thicker than pieces of sewing thread.
“What’d you find?” Lee asked, peering at Anna’s hand. “Oh, it looks like it came from a cicada,” she said in dismissal. “They have those here, right?”
Marjorie cooed in delight and reached out to her. Anna looked at the baby, then at the lacey piece of iridescence in her palm.
Hardly daring to breathe, Anna cupped the wing in her hand so she wouldn’t harm the delicate cells. She pulled a tissue from her pocket, gently placed the membrane onto the makeshift bed, and carefully set it on the window ledge where it glimmered in the trickles of light.
“Coming here was a good idea,” Lee said, settling into an armchair.
“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” Anna agreed, breathing in the pungent scent of coffee and listening to Marjorie’s giggles. She nestled into the couch and joined her daughter’s vigil, wondering what kind of fairy lost its wing and how long the repairs took.
© Christine A. Verstraete. All Rights Reserved.
Christine Verstraete is an award-winning journalist from Wisconsin who also writes online author interviews for EWG Presents. She enjoys writing and reading mystery fiction and has a story, “The Dotted Line,” coming up soon at Orchard Press Mysteries. Other stories have been published at flashquake.org, Cenotaph Pocket Edition, Laughter Loaf and in Futures Magazine. Visit her website.
