Garden & Fairies

FAY

I'm flying west, keeping a steady eye on the horizon, or rather, keeping a lookout for the angel, hoping shame is eating him alive and that he's crying his eyeballs out somewhere on a stupid cloud!

As it turns out, forgetting to get dressed was actually a good thing. This hiccup made me realize that not only did I need a handbag with my ID and phone, but also Tyke's gift—a well-loaded gun.

Skipping the bank was easy because I don't have an account. So that's one box ticked.

I cock my head. I don't hear it anymore... I was doing pretty well a few moments ago. That is before female screams rang out in the distance. Long minutes of agony, in fact. Filling not only this smog with dread, but my blood as well.

The first rule I was taught when the war started was to never respond to screams. Their purpose is usually to lure you in.

And yet, I hope whoever that was is okay.

I swallow and force myself to fly in a straight line. Can't see much down there, but the way I see it—or, in this case, hear it—things aren't looking good.

And now angst keeps stiffening my wings at every gush.

It has been raining for the past thirty minutes, but it's not the weather, it's my eyes.

They keep watering as I fly into noxious twisters looming up to the sky and thick floating particles that won't disperse with the wind. Everywhere I look, desolation grows. Towers of black clouds twist in all directions, stemming between the high-rises, probably from cars on fire, dancing to thousands of shrieking sirens competing against each other.

Whatever is happening to this country, I hope it settles soon.

It has to.

I keep flying.

Try to empty my head, let minutes pass without lingering on a thought.

At last, the air becomes sweeter, and the clear sky defines itself crisper, patches of blue pushing through the fog.

Looks like the suburbs are untouched by all the chaos.

I smile when I recognize my parents' house—well, the tree where the cottage is. Despite being nestled within the branches of a giant weeping tree, it has everything a non-winged home has: a little pathway leading to the main road from its foot and a letterbox.

I land on the most prominent branch and shake my wings.

My searching eyes crease. I know my mom's there, hidden somewhere in the lush.

She never leaves the house and barely checks the mailbox.

Turning to my right, my hands plunge into a curtain of green strings, and I open them wide, searching for the familiar glint of my mom's olive-dipped wings. I do the same to my left.

I know her by heart. She's a creature of habit, preferring to spend her days amongst the branches, whispering songs to the buds, or in the garden doing pretty much the same but to flowers.

She's not here.

I twist the silver doorknob and smile at how oxidized it is. How many times have I turned that big bulb, my careful fingers those of thieves, sweating from my silly nightscapes. The elf boy, Rius, who lived next door, was to blame... Piercings garlanding the side of his spiky ears, a bundle of criminal strands always covering an eye, the other always gleaming bad intentions.

No matter how I knew my father was waiting behind that door, I always had hoped the house was sleeping and I could return without being noticed. The roasting that automatically followed never changed. Same bark, same veins popping out of his head, same way of spitting his words...

Childhood memories fill my nostrils. It's Mom's famous blueberry muffins—the smell of love.

I remove my sneakers and twin them together on the side. I can't wait to hug her. It's been a month and one too much. Pushing the door, the bastard creak that has sold me out countless times squeaks under my heel. It triggers me to smile, so I'll let it slide this time.

The moment I enter the room, my gaze flies over the cozy floral sofa and climbs up to the raw stone fireplace. My mom's wand is mounted above it. Gold laced in twirls envelops the scepter with deep, rich plastic rubies. It's one of those things that, no matter how old you are, still evokes fantasy and adventures. It's always fascinated me.

My mom bought it in one of those souvenir shops during Fidr's coronation day, years before my birth. Even if it's fake, it doesn't matter. Something about it is hypnotic.

As a kid, I'd often fantasize about being a wand wielder, whirling my wand like a royal fae, sending powerful magic blasts, and bringing monsters from my bedtime stories to their knees. Quince would play the mountain beast Kirul or the cruel sea maiden of the south as I clumsily manipulated a branch in his direction. He'd always lunge at me, and I'd flip him over on the floor and tickle him until his wings turned purple.

"While New Orc braces for another violent night, troops have been gathered at the junction of Thorn and FizzleDove. Central Arc remains closed until further notice..."

I cock my head and snort. Mom and her news...

"How long do you think the curfew will last, Ferek?"

"Koral, that is a good question. President Fidr's press communicates that the population must remain behind closed doors between eight p.m. and eight a.m. The curfew will remain in effect until all fractions and dissidents have been arrested. Given the many business closures, people are beginning to develop online businesses. We have Gorul on the line. Gorul, you are from the mothman kind, and you sell tufts of your own fur as..."

Mom's phone is always beside her, streaming the news on loudspeaker.

She must be in the garden—no surprise there. The woman has everything you'd expect from a Tree Fairy, from her sage-toned skin and moss-covered fingertips to wings as vibrant as chlorophyll, coming alive each time to the smell of fresh grass and pollen.

Following the news rolling from outside, a short walk takes me from the sofa to the balcony. I lean over the guardrail; Mom's at the tree's base, crouched between two gigantic roots veining a good part of the yard, weeding as usual...

Sometimes it's frustrating to find her there, amongst her flowers, whistling to them, feeling wholesome in her element.

I inhale. There's a weight to my breath that feels heavier than an anvil, holding my insecurity in place. No one can tell me for sure what magic I inherited. Doctors think I took my father's powers but that I might suffer from a mental block. Never came out right, merely a physical reaction I never seemed to fucking control: pixie dust or what the fae call Heartsbleed... I don't even have an element. I honestly thought it would be earth like my mother. She told me her powers didn't fully reveal themselves until she was thirty, reassuring me that I, without a doubt, inherited my father's Peacemaker ones. But when I asked my father for a demonstration of his magic, his only response was, "As a figure of the force, I cannot break any laws."

How supportive...

I never saw my father's heartsbleed, admitting he has trouble with it. Guess it's a family thing.

I leap over the guardrail feet first. My wings open wide at the last minute, making a sound nearly as thunderous and thick as Deon's, like wind-crushing blankets powerfully beating the air into delightful submission.

"I recognize those dragonfly flaps from a mile," Mom says. Well, not really wind-crushing blankets, but it makes me feel grand.

Whatever.

"Fayra, you're going to end up straining one. You have to stop landing like this. I don't like it." Sitting on her knees, Mom is digging through a thick dirt trench. Three lines of this black, fresh soil have already been turned. "Here, take this and help me," she says, shoving a yellow-handled shovel at my face without so much as a smile or a glance.

"Come on, get on your knees. I could do with some help. This garden is an endless source of work."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," I simper, studying a small crate full of tiny plants behind her. "Forget-me-nots? You went to the garden center?"

"Your father went to get them two days ago before that one closed, too. This country's a mess. Anyway, nice, aren't they? Already in full bloom." Legs folding beneath me, my lips pinch to the humid mucky feeling swathing my bare skin, the wetness of grass soaking into my jean shorts, wishing I was eating blueberry muffins instead of getting my hands dirty.

"It would do you good to leave the house sometimes. A walk through the neighborhood, maybe?"

"I love my garden. Why would I leave it? Stop worrying about my old bones, and tell me what you've been up to," she says, turning the volume down on her phone.

Perhaps I could tell her about my recent ordeal, but it might be best to skip that part.

I'm thinking hard. Almost every event has been a bit strange lately. Maybe I could get right to it with how Tyke and I plan to leave New Orc.

A small grunt of frustration hatches in my throat, never fully leaving me. That's neat, Fay. What a lovely introduction for Mom!

Okay, perhaps I should start with something dull, boring, yet necessary, like paperwork.

"I need to renew my ID. Could you give me my birth certificate? The social administration's website mentions it's a requirement."

"No. I'll take care of it." Her tone is razor-sharp, but not enough to slice my will.

"Don't you think I'm old enough to handle this alone?"

Even though she doesn't look at me, I can tell the glare she's giving to her digging is for me. "I'll take care of it, just like I've always done, Fayra. End of story."

"Mom..." I pinch my lips, all the wrong words a fringe from pouring out of me. How I want to protest. Stop this invisible chokehold that confines me in their sick girl silos. It's trust that I want.

Just trust.

Even before my accident, they acted as though I wasn't fit to leave the house. The closer I got to my majority, the more they got tense. I was down to the wire. Leaving this place of pressure was my best course of action. I feel ill at the thought and what followed...

Donna changed so many things. I smiled when I watched her convince my parents I was the perfect flatmate, underneath, dying of shame that she had to do that.

Yet.

For the first time, I was alone in a big city, a New Orc flat, without anyone checking my whereabouts, purchases, and personal relationships.

For the first time, I felt free. I was alone. Just me. No one watching. No one judging, no one putting me straight when I tilted. And maybe I wanted to see what happened when I did.

To just tilt.

Tilt to Quince, stop his suffering, stop mine. And maybe I'm lost without him. Perhaps I can't stop searching for a boy that is no more.

And I got lost looking for him, lost in time, in my dreams, and these overgrew became so big they swallowed me whole.

I stare down at a grass blade I'm fidgeting with, fingers pressing the juice out of it.

"Fay?"

I share a stare with my mother.

Part my lips, showing my intent to speak. What should I say? "Stop treating me like a kid?" "I'm dating an orc, the kind who killed your little boy."

Tyke. No one is limited to their kind. No one should be. "We can meet again somewhere." One of his first texts.

We, again, somewhere. I liked the prospect of how it sounded. To be together anywhere but where I was.

I briefly hang my head low, releasing a faint snort. The opportunity he offered me. To build pretty on something ugly. Get away from myself. Build anew. The opportunity to leave the silence to burn between us. Never pushing me. Always taking me as I am. The patience. And I'm holding on, not on him but beside him. How do I convince my parents I managed to lift myself off the ground if they don't let go of my hand?

"Fayra? What were you about to say?"

My lips squeeze in a smile as I push back the urge to vomit everything inside me.

Instead, I lay down my arms at the start of this conflict I don't wish to see between us. "Thanks."

"Donna tells me you finally met someone nice." My eyes bulge so much I'm scared they'll drop. It's not my mom who needs a warmup, it's me.

I take a deep breath and stab at the earth, my shovel buried a mile deep, or so it feels. "Stop calling her. Please."

She drops her hand fork and claws at the roots. "Do you call me?"

"No need. Apparently, Donna does all the telling."

"Look..." Bringing her green-gloved hand to her forehead, she wipes a damp itch at her temple, along with a few strands that escaped her bun, and turns her hazel eyes on me. How long has she been here? It looks like she ran a marathon across some swamp. "Don't start this. We've had this conversation before. I need to know how you are."

"Mom. I need air sometimes. And maybe for you to start trusting me."

"What you need, sweety, are people with you. All the time," she exhales, forking her fingers on the inner side of a pot's rim. "Remember Dr. Hoofengrive's words. You let your monsters loose when no one is around. Until you recognize you are the only one who can stop them, the people around you ensure they stay away. Donna was worried last week..."

I stop breathing. Then let a staggering but whistling grunting breeze out of me. Why is she doing this now?

"Don't go through her things again. Certainly not her sleeping pills!" She removes the sapling and places it in a freshly made hole. "And speaking of trust, a bond of it requires both sides, Fayra."

I watch the plant being inserted into the hole, her hands patting the soil, establishing a firm bed... establishing how I should feel, live, breathe...

No matter where I am in life, no matter how much water ran under the bridge, she's still camped solid on what I did.

I grind my teeth. And suck it in because I'm not here for me, but for her.

"I'm sorry I didn't visit earlier. I missed our weekly get-together, but with Dad and then some stuff happened?—"

"It's all good. Don't worry. And as far as your father goes, he might have his reasons, but don't let them affect you. It's his reasons, not yours."

She's smiling at me, and it feels good. She doesn't smile much, and I count them as blessings.

She goes back to shoveling—pulling, twisting, digging with hands, then sword her trowel deep and scrapes at what she can. Something's on her mind, I can tell. She's working on the task as if butchering some chicken. "By the way, how have you been coping with your magic?" Her voice is dry like this same old question.

"I get back pain from time to time."

"You must go to an energy center to release the surplus. When was the last time you went? Leaving the house comes with the agreement that you go every two months. Have you been going? Tell me you have." Her neck twists in my direction. Instantly, I stare at the brown mush below me.

There hasn't been a single trip aside from those parent-imposed times. "I hate that place."

"I know. However, it's the only way to evacuate whatever is building up inside you. Go before they... close."

"Mom, please, please, don't do this again. I'm fine. The pain is mild. Maybe I should wait and watch. What could happen? At worst, back pain. At best, my magic might finally be revealed." I laugh.

My mother's lips snap, the rest of her obscenely fixated on a bag of fresh soil. "Go to an energy center before it closes. I don't want the authorities to flag you because... you set Donna's flat on fire. I consider this to be done." To this, she tears into the bag and empties a pile of fertile shit.

With my pot shaking in my hand, my murderous stare intensifies, yet she gives me no heed. "Fayra."

"I'll go." I won't.

"Your hole is big enough. Grab a pot behind you, remove the young darling, and ensure his roots are not crumpled. We want these to travel in all directions."

I don't understand. She should be helping me get my magic fixed, not suppress it.

There is a long pause before her exhale overruns mine. "This one is done. Right. On to the next. Mind passing another pot?"

Handing a plant over to her, I ask, "Mom, don't you miss using magic sometimes? Aren't you a bloomer and all?"

"Young lady, didn't I tell you it's offensive? A Tree Fairy is more appropriate." My eyes cartwheel. "Plus, manual work frees my mind. I ground myself better."

She turns her head to me, her lips curling up playfully. "But I can tell from your eyes that you want me to do this..." She waves her hand slowly without detaching her gaze from mine. A corner of my eye traps the lining of flashy green contouring her wings.

Then, silken, long-winded whispers flow from her lips as she recalls an old forbidden language.

I've never seen her do this.

Never felt this.

My mother's eyes, circles of intense amber, trap me, sucking me into a tint of shady oak.

Everything blurs and distorts, my mother's face turning into a forest of trees.

Where am I?

I spin around, moss sliding under my heels.

Woods of darkness.

Thousands of fireflies are drifting between the oaks, illuminating the woods as much as lanterns. Branches are covered in icy lace lichen, dipping into the void similar to discarded drapes blown over by the wind.

And I gape.

Across from me, a fae, her wings adorned with thin, sparkly stripes of white, like dew glistening on a spiderweb.

Cradling a bundle of black shawls in her arms, a glassy voice grows out of her, blending with my mother's.

She's lulling the empty bundle, comforting a nonexistent infant.

Shivers rush.

Skin lifts, shifts...

Rise...

Rise...

Rise…

A blink shuts me out of what felt like a dream. Nothing could push me out of my trance if not for what feels like an endless stream of snakes ebbing along my skin. I look down and gape in awe. Ivy slithers to my wrists and neck, blossoms etching across my forehead—a crown of forget-me-nots, my mother gifting me nature's jewels in the form of my favorite flowers.

"What were the 'Rise' words for?" I ask, still dazed from the experience.

"What words?"

"Rise?"

I watch the lump in her throat bulge as she wets her lips. "Alright, that was enough for today." Never got much out of her; why would today be any different...

While forgetting and remembering the law, we look over our shoulders. The neighbors. What if someone saw her?

Nobody.

We glance at each other.

Our lips press at first and frazzle up until bursts of breathy giggles erupt between us.

"Aren't you worried?"

"Why? Because of Fidr?" She lets out a small laugh. "She's just jealous, a bully."

I thought she admired her...

"Fidr is the best thing that happened to Faerhan country. She ended the wars," I say, not believing my ears.

She snorts. "And who created them, in your opinion?"

"Queen Daki and her conspirators."

She smiles sardonically at me. "Fidr's magicless, a jealous fae. If she can't have magic, no one can."

"How would you know that?"

"Ever saw her magic?"

Multiple times. Always on TV, beautiful streams of light exploding like fireworks each time she made an appearance...

"Where's your box of pills? I'll get them for you."

With a sad head shake of pity aimed at me, she switches moods and waves her hand over the garden. "Look, I did all the planters of the garden, even the one near the drive..." I follow her arm, slightly unsettled about how she's changing the subject. "You like it?"

Forget-me-nots are everywhere.

She returns to her mining, sighing as she works her hand in the dirt. "Whenever my thoughts turn to you, I'm immediately transported back to the garden, to the roots of my memories. And I plant your favorite flowers so I can have a little piece of you in my garden."

Mom turns her head to me, her winkles smiling as she says, "Ever since your little fight, your father's been taking the habit of sitting on that peacock chair over there, and I can tell by the way he stares at them that he misses you, too."

I never said I missed him!

She goes back to shoveling. Something's on her mind, I can tell. She's been digging the same hole for the past ten minutes.

"Forget-me-nots are my favorite flowers because they are yours, Mom."

After a moment of silence, she faces me and cups my chin with her dirty glove. "Ah, well, your father loves these because they remind him of you. Let's keep this chain reaction to ourselves because I like it."

I pause on her black freckles peppered all over her cheeks and nose, hesitant to speak. "I said I'll go back to work...even if he fired me in the first pla––"

"Don't be pettish with me, Fay. He suspended you; it's different. And now, he wants things to return to normal." She frees my chin and goes back to look after her substitute children.

"He suspended me because of personal life choices! Tyke's an orc and?—"

My mom's hand starts to tremble, the root she's holding oscillating like the needle of a seismic monitor.

"Mom, are you okay?"

A gigantic stem of forget-me-nots sprouts in my face, startling me enough to topple me on my backside. "Mom!"

"Sorry. Wrong flick of the hand," she titters.

I gather on all fours and sit closer to her. Since Quince's death, orcs have haunted her sleep, days, and every breath. And I can't be mad at her for that. How can I?

I clasp my hand over hers, her shivers contagious. "Mom, he's not of Haresh' Ti descent. He's a good guy."

Straightening her back, she rotates her folded legs toward me, removes her gloves, and rests them on her thighs, squeezing her fingers tightly around them. "I'm going to try to listen. You seem to like him."

"I do. He's just always a lift, a call, a shoulder away. He's... he's like..." I grab her hand and place it on my chest, releasing simpers like I'm having a demonic asthma attack. "There's something about him that hits different, you know."

She frowns, amusingly. "Sounds like a beat of love to me." Her glance slants south, giving me that inquisitive look that's guilt-inducing as hell. Heck... "Is it a serious relationship or just one of your infamous flings?"

"What do you mean?" I drop her hand, my own going for a furious scratch behind my head, sweat and dust itching my scalp. "It's a situationship, sort of..."

"A situationship? What's that? You sit all day and watch each other?" She then cocks her brow like she knows my lifestyle and the body count that goes with it, and I cringe because it's giving.

"Is a relation... ship a better term?"

"That's up to you."

I wet my lips and go all in. I can never hide anything from her. She always ends up knowing, anyway. "He wants to take me away from the city."

"Away," she repeats, unbothered by the 'take me' part. "He can't."

My smile drops. "What do you mean?"

"His kind is requisitioned to serve the Faerhan nation until his death."

"I know that. But it doesn't matter; we're leaving."

"When?" she asks.

As I inch closer to her, I think a hug might be in order because what I'm about to say might not go over well. "Tomorrow. Look, I wanted to tell you sooner, but stuff got in the way. I know it's late to say this to you now. I should've told you earl?—"

"Good," she cuts, ignoring my open arms.

I drop them at once. "What?"

"New Orc, what am I saying? Faerhan is on the verge of a civil war."

"It's not that bad, Mom. Don't over-exaggerate. It's going to simmer down."

She takes in a significant intake and stares at me without words.

"It will, Mom."

"Youth... always so full of hope and innocence. I miss those times," she says softly.

I play in the grass, kneading the earth, pulverizing a stem into tiny pieces. "By the way, you're not asking me where?"

Softness ebbs over my skin, and I close my eyes, melting against her touch as she braces a strand of my hair behind my ear. The number of physical contacts have been few and far between since I left the house, and I have no idea why. "No, my sweet child. I don't wish to know."

"I have to ask this. Are you off your meds?"

The smile on her face is tempered by a frown, the answer to my question pretty much squished between her eyebrows. "Does he treat you well?"

"Like a soap bubble he wishes to preserve."

"You always pop, Fayra."

"Queen Adrienne, known as the Everlasting Moon of Grym Cove, freezes Ulric Von Crimsonian's assets in response to Faerhan's embargo on Centaurus and Darfaen..."

"No, I don't!" I clip.

She cocks her head toward her phone and waves her hand. "Hush,

darling."

"The monarch reminds all that she controls most of the international financial system. Adrienne threatens further sanctions if her conditions are unmet: The identities of two countries on the Secret Trade list will be revealed if Centaurus and Darfaen's embargo is not lifted. The consequence on overall monsterkind markets could be devastating, the starting point of a banking witch hunt that could hit hard. As well as threatening wealthy Faerhan citizens to make their names public, lifting the secrecy treaty Grym Cove governs."

"Finally, a ruler who shows spine." Her breath escapes as she grapples her phone to turn the volume up.

"A move away from financial reporting, Barry OakBane, Viscount of Erefinal, was arrested two hours ago. As a reminder, he was a member of the old court of Fidr, and a schemer responsible for the war. Although the accountable household was sentenced to death fifteen years ago, three members escaped. This resulted in the most extended search warrant in the history of Faerhan, leaving two highly researched cases awaiting national trial. This latest news brings closure to Faerhan country in these trying times..."

"Barry..." my mom goes pale, her gaze jingling crazily on her phone.

"Mom, do you know him?"

She stares blankly at the screen, motionless.

"Mom!"

And I gasp when her gaze rushes to mine with an unsettling glow. "Do you remember the tale of Queen Mab I used to tell you when you were little?"

"Yes." I watch her every move, how her trembling hand removes a seedling from its recipient.

"I want to hear it."

I suck on my cheek. This is definitely a strange day. Maybe it's not a question of Mondays or months, but a year. Fucktastic!

I shift into a better position, stretching my numb legs on the grass. Sometimes Mom has manic episodes. Occasionally, she'll have an anxiety attack out of nowhere. Sometimes, she'll get all eerie, as if dissociating from reality. Why do I have a feeling it's one of those...

"Um... she was a fae who fell in love with Oberon, king of the faefolk."

"Fay, you can do better than that."

I rattle my throat and recite my bedtime story like a robot. It's not like Mom near-brainwashed me with it for the past twenty-four years... "Mab was King Oberon's lover, despite him being married to her sister, Titania. Mab fell pregnant, and although Titania was humiliated, she took Mab's child, fearing Oberon, greedy for power, would harm it. While trying to protect the child, Titania killed Oberon and left with the newborn. Sadly, Mab was never seen again. According to legend, Mab lost her mind due to grief and haunts people's dreams, giving them visions of children and love... or nightmares when she becomes jealous of others' happiness, as it reminds her of what she lost. She's a soother for the wounded and a cruel Dreamweaver for the blessed..."

Breathing in air that went missing for twenty seconds, I grin. Definitely deserve a gold star for my performance.

And then, staring at her, I realize how sinister all this is—a realization one gains years later on the significance of things a kid cannot grasp.

"A very sad story to tell kids, by the way," I sneer.

She stretches her legs, a few of her toes niggling at my thigh. "It's not a fairytale."

"Okay." I can't help feeling concerned. Depression runs in my family.

"It's not my medication, you impolite."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your pitiful gaze is worth a thousand words." She pinches her lips into what an optimistic person would see as a smile. And I'm doing my best to stay positive here.

"Listen closely, Fayra." She's off her meds, I know it.

And now I have a hard time holding her unwavering stare. It's full of thick, lush viridescent greens.

"Titania, enraged, killed Oberon and took the child. And killed it!"

I don't say a word.

I play coy.

I listen.

"It was easy for Titania to blame Mab for Oberon's murder and child. But what you say is true about Mab. Grief had gotten her, rotting her bones with bad blood, and as she fled into the Neverwoods, she drifted there, the whispers of revenge sowing darkness into her mind. To such an extent, she was ready to curse herself for eternity if it meant damning Titania. And with Tootharn, her dagger, she slit her palm on the altar of the three elements and swore to the gods of Air, Fire, and Water that her grief would only end when her child returned."

She marks a brief pause and wets her lips, a smudge of teeth wracking over her bottom one.

I frown. Mom's chest is getting heavy with beats about to jump out of her.

"Mom, it's just a story," I say, reaching for her lazing foot, her spiky nails no more stroking me but carving into my skin.

"Let's get real for just a minute and pretend this story is true. Can you?"

I palm the grass, muscles awakening as I gather myself up. "You want me to get tea or something? How long have you been out here? All morning?"

"Sit! I'm not done."

The breeze in June is always warmer in this part of the state. I would have expected the same warmth coming from my mom. I drop my knees in the same spot, tucking them under me, and smile—or at least, try to. "Yes. Yes, I'm sitting. I love your stories."

Growing up was wonderfully blissful, as well as challenging and complex. Our conversations were intimate and more profound than any known oceans. Mom would listen to my fears, ongoing loops of poison coiling in my system. It was the kind of poison that would wake me in the middle of the night, intoxicating me with nightmares. The monster would always come into the house, creeping over our sleeping selves to slaughter us in our sleep. The number of times I shattered the house with my screams was incalculable. Mom would always race to my bed, knowing what was happening, probably sharing the same dreams... She'd kneel at my bedside and stroke my head endlessly, pressing my swelling lids with a cool towel, willing to spend hours in the middle of the night soothing me as she could until silence filled the room and words remained unspoken in our eyes. Fusional would be the word.

But every moment would darken with a memory, as if our past never allowed us to enjoy not even the flicker of what could've been a heartwarming moment, Quince always on our minds.

"Fay, pay attention."

"I am."

"Darling, please..." She parts her lips, eyebrows furrowing with concern. Is that pity I detect? "It is said that in every twelfth generation, Mab reincarnates as an offspring of Titania's descendants, killing the mother she was born from and what she truly wants, Titania's child, in one stone. It's a matricide cover-up, Mab taking Titania's children's lives. Fidr is?—"

Her phone rings.

She picks it up and sucks in her lips.

This is so messed up...Why would she tell me a story like this? Seriously, I've got more records at my therapist than the FFBI...

"I'm not fond of unknown numbers. Aren't you?" she asks.

"Nah. I never pick up when it happens. Scammers most of the time."

She keeps staring at it as it rings.

Curiosity finally beats her. She runs her digits across the screen and places the phone on the grass. She never brings her phone against her ear, always preferring to put it on speaker. The way my mom sees it, it fries the brain. I usually roll my eyes, but that's the way it is.

"Hello, who is this?"