1. The Question

"Come on! What do you mean, you won't give me any?" cried the boulder of a woman beneath layers of sweatshirts, scarves, and a floppy winter hat. Thin tangled hair clung to her reddened cheeks, which were hollowed out by cravings and desperation.

"I mean," said Micah Stillwater through his teeth, "that Lilydale's foods will remain in Lilydale. Go back the way you came and tell your friends the supply is dead." He was shirtless in sweatpants and boots, the muscles of his back dotted with rapidly cooling beads of sweat from his exercises.

The woman's dark eyes flooded with tears. She braced herself against a naked oak tree with the backdrop of Saint Paul behind her, cloudy with a heavily falling snow. "You don't understand what you're doing," she hiccupped. "We need those foods."

Micah shook his head, wincing as Andrew Vidasche's fingers dug into the underside of his bicep. "You need help."

"What can help us?" the woman insisted, her voice rising.

"Go back the way you came," Micah ordered. "You will get nothing from me."

Drawn to the raised voices and the smell of Andrew's fear, the wolf Fionna slipped between broken cobblestones in the fence around Lilydale, tawny hackles raised like thorns between her shoulder blades. Her black lips peeled back in a silent snarl of warning as she brushed against Andrew's leg and remained there, protective and on edge.

The woman looked briefly alarmed, but then her eyes roamed past Fionna, searching the copse of trees past the fence for any glimpse of the food she was yearning for. "What about that little white child with the braids?"

"Wex," Micah said under his breath. Loudly and decidedly, he said to the woman, "Nobody will give you anything today." He straightened, taking a slow, deep breath that made his shoulder tense with a lightning bolt of pain. "You will leave the bluffs and tell your friends the supply is dead." Andrew's shoulders tingled when Micah spoke, the scent of sweet mulberries clinging to the frozen air and making him light-headed.

The woman blinked, eyes darkening, her jaw going slack. She let go of the tree and moved away, arms swinging, boots crunching through a heavy snowdrift, beginning a laborious trek through the snowy, desolate bluffs back towards Cherokee Park.

"Shit," said Micah, hand on his face. "That worked?" Charming the woman felt easy and intuitive, especially while holding onto his birchwood staff, its point stuck in the snow near his duck boots. Because of the staff, he could now access so much more of the power that stirred like twining ivy beneath his sternum. It was no longer a tiny seed lost in a wasteland. Now it was a whole wilderness. Foreign, exhilarating, and…terrifying.

When Andrew remained silent, Micah looked up to find a drawn, carefully neutral expression wrung onto Andrew's face. Finally, after Andrew had explained the shape that his depression and trauma took, Micah knew what that face meant.

"Hey." He lifted Andrew's chilled hand and set it on his bare chest. "Babe, talk to me."

"I'm…" Andrew was about to say he was good, but he knew Micah wouldn't believe that. Hanging onto Micah's hand, he lowered himself onto the cobbled fence, tucking his scarf into his chin and brushing his auburn hair back from his cheeks. "Shit." His thoughts were on his mother and the ache in her bones she'd described even though it had been over a decade since she'd last consumed Fae-spelled foods.

And how he'd left her two weeks ago at her cabin in the North Shore, ruefully and without mercy. He found the Superior agate in his palm, cool and smooth and grounding. It did that a lot: jumped from his pocket to his hand without prompting, particularly when he became untethered.

Fionna whined and nudged her wedge-shaped head through Andrew's elbow. Dropping an arm around her neck, he looked up at Micah. How his bonds had changed in the past seven years. Sam first. Steady and easygoing. Micah, sweet and tender and devoted. Micah's people here in the bluffs, feral and loyal. And Fionna, like a familiar, ancient yet childlike, fierce yet vulnerable.

Micah picked up his sweatshirt where it sat next to Andrew and struggled into it, his features screwed up when his head popped through the hood. He still wore a square of gauze taped to the stab wound near his shoulder blade, and, since he'd just finished a physical therapy regime, there was a spot of blood framed in the center of it. The Folk had been vastly helpful as he healed, with plenty of experience among them on healing wounds without the use of modern Western medicine.

Andrew asked, "Are people still coming up here all the time looking for Fae-spelled foods?"

"From what I understand," said Micah, grabbing his injured shoulder and rolling it carefully, "a lot of the Folk stopped giving out food when I came around two years ago. I have made a point to advertise what the Redwood Queen did to my father, and how I feel about that. But, yeah, Wex…" He trailed off. The chalky-skinned sprite had a bit of an attitude with him, and he thought this might be why. If the sprite was trading an apple or a heel of bread in exchange for one of the human contraptions they liked, then they would be angry Micah was discouraging such commerce with humans.

Andrew said quietly, "She looked about my mum's age. What if she'd been the supplier back then, too?"

"Yeah. I don't know, babe. Could be. You said your mum never came up to Lilydale for the Fae-spelled foods she got, which meant she could have gotten them from anyone down in the city. And anyway, what would knowing do for you?"

"You don't think I can go on a little vigilante mission?" Andrew grinned sidelong at Micah with a hard glint in his half-lidded eyes. Truthfully, his mother's words were heavy on his thoughts. She'd been so…desperate when she expressed that she thought Micah as a half-human had a responsibility to end the abuse of Fae-spelled foods by humans. Andrew didn't want to impose his agenda on Micah, but based on the way Micah's hand went up to his hair, he'd had no trouble sensing Andrew's thoughts.

Micah's sage-green locks were the only color in the bluffs right now, especially under the shale sky and the fat snowflakes that fell. He threaded his fingers through his hair like it was sweet summer grass. "We'll keep working on it, okay?"

"Yeah." Andrew pulled Micah onto the fence next to him so he could lay his head on his shoulder. "It's for the best. I can imagine putting an end to the Fae-spelled foods down in the city will be devastating for a lot of people."

Fionna stood up, stretched her front legs into a bow, and peeled off her wolfskin. It was still unnerving watching her do it; it looked fuzzy and gruesome, and yet as simple as discarding a blanket. Micah's nose twitched before he sneezed suddenly, which made him clutch his shoulder with a pained laugh.

"I know," said Andrew, rubbing the small of Micah's back. "It tickles when she shape shifts."

Drowning in one of Julian's sweatshirts, Fionna scrambled onto their laps and nestled between Andrew and Micah. Her cheeks shone bright as apples and the golden coins of her eyes glittered. Micah stretched his arm around her to Andrew's waist, pressing a warm kiss to Andrew's winter-cooled forehead.

When Micah went down to his brownstone a few days ago, Julian had done his best to contain his worry. Fionna helped. She stayed in her girl form and fawned over Julian, tried all his cooking with vigor, gawped at photographs and computer screens and stereos, and curled up in his lap by nightfall. It seemed like Julian would be a good intermediary between the bluffs and the city. It made Andrew wonder about what Ingrid had said—about fate. All these threads, all these souls that were once so impossibly distant, now woven together into some blessed tapestry, with Andrew and Micah the moon and sun at the epicenter.

Another two weeks of calm and healing passed. Clutching steaming paper cups from Amore Coffee, Andrew and Micah loped down toward the Smith Avenue bridge. Derelict houses were crowded among small business storefronts, cars lining the curb next to the sidewalk. Dirty, shrinking snowbanks encircled the street signs. Fortunately, it hadn't snowed for two weeks. The kind of high pressure that came with the snow made Micah's shoulder ache and he was happy for the break. After a month since his athame injury, he was almost, nearly, practically whole again. Except for the nightmares of women in black, and his tingling fingertips, and the general feeling of disaster lurking just out of sight. Aside from that.

Despite the horror of the ambush at Diana's house, Andrew's trip to the North Shore and subsequent return had completely repaired the damage between him and Micah. In fact, they were better than ever. Andrew had seen his therapist a couple of times, and had concocted a non-magical narrative for the events that transpired so he could still try to process everything.

Andrew sipped his spicy chai as he peered at the white domed state capitol building nestled across the river in the hills straight down Smith. They were just reaching the top of the Smith Avenue bridge, which cut determinedly across the Mississippi and pointed toward the modest skyscrapers of the business district downtown. He glanced down at Micah, his breath catching in his throat.

After a month with a sallow, washed out hue to his skin, Micah's hazelnut complexion was finally restored to its former glory. His hair was tucked under a chocolate-brown beanie that partially obscured the shiny gold plugs he wore in his stretched lobes. The shoulder injury had improved his posture, since he couldn't slump anymore or it would pull on the healing stab wound. Plus, the month of strength training to ensure his left arm didn't weaken meant he was more toned than before. The sleeves of his fleece pullover stretched taut over his biceps. Rosy lips pursed, Micah lifted his latte and took a drink that sent a little puff of steam across the stubble on his cheeks. Since he was spending so much more of his time in Lilydale, he finally felt bold enough to let his facial hair grow into a mossy shadow some days.

He felt Andrew staring and coughed into his drink, wiping foam off his upper lip when he glanced. "What?"

Andrew shrugged, his knees growing weak at the sparkle in Micah's lilac eyes. "You're beautiful. Can't help but stare." He switched his chai to his other hand and put his arm around Micah's shoulders. Micah hummed happily, holding onto Andrew's waist and nestling into his chenille scarf. The sweet sound of Micah's voice, like wind in the reeds, made Andrew's next few steps feel like he barely touched the sidewalk.

Andrew pulled out his phone and, tilting it slightly away from Micah, he sent a group text to Julian, Sam, and Chamomile.

As they passed a community garden and crossed the street, Andrew steered them toward an overlook with a bench tucked into a grizzled topiary plot. Micah went happily to the ornate railing to gaze at the park clinging to the riverfront below. He was precisely represented by the scene spreading out before them: the toothy gray bustle of the city and the quiet, relentlessness of nature impassively watching over.

His limbs going numb and just as quickly turning to fire, Andrew rocked on his heels and reached into his pocket. "Micah, I…I've been wondering something." His voice strained with anticipation.

Micah blinked at the tremble in his voice and turned from the view of the city as Andrew dropped to a knee, cupping a small wooden box in his hands, eyes bright with tears held back.

Gasping, Micah fell against the railing. "Andrew? What're you doing?"

"Ever since I came back from the North Shore," said Andrew, "it was apparent to me that I had to make my devotion to you as clear as day. Screwing up like I did was the kick I needed to realize that I want to be by your side every day until I die, which will probably be long before you, I know. But all of the struggling will be worth it if I get to spend my days with you. So that's why I'm hoping you'll marry me, Micah Stillwater."

With a little clack, the wooden box popped open. Frantically, Micah tried to clear the tears leaking from his eyes so he could crouch to see the ring on the velvety green pillow. It was a frothy green moss agate, which looked like there was a tiny forest suspended in the stone. The crystal was ensconced in golden branches dotted with rough leaf-like emeralds.

"Oh, Andrew!" Micah mopped his face dry with his sleeve. "It's perfect!"

Andrew gave him a strangled look. "And—?"

"And of course! Yes. Get up." He drew Andrew to his feet and wrapped him up in a strangling embrace until he pulled back and captured Andrew's narrow face between his hands to kiss him. Nudging him back after a moment, Andrew picked up Micah's left hand and slid the ring onto the finger next to his pinky. It was a perfect snug fit that made Micah start crying all over again. A pair of runners paused at the top of the bridge, a woman with a bobbing ponytail clapping and the dark-haired man with her calling out congratulations. Though Andrew usually despised attention like that, the couple made him grin and blush as he gave them a wave.

"I never imagined you could be so secretive as to surprise me with this." Micah held his hand close to his face, turning it this way and that as he intensely scrutinized the new adornment on his finger, heart swelling.

Andrew gave a little bow. "Yes, thank you. It wasn't easy. I'm not sure that I could have if you hadn't been recovering. You slept a lot more than usual." He tipped Micah's chin up with his finger, inhaling the smell of sun-ripened strawberries and basil that rolled off Micah's lips as they kissed again. They swirled their tongues together, soulful, hopeful, Micah leaning back into the railing as Andrew leaned over him.

When they finally separated, cheeks flaming with deep color, Andrew brushed aside Micah's fringe and told him sheepishly, "Now, the gesture was important to me, but uh…picking a date, or having a big production is less the point—"

"Ostara!" Micah blurted. His face somehow lit up even more. "Holy shit. How perfect would that be?"

Andrew blinked. "Um. The spring equinox is in five weeks, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah, but…c'mon, babe. Renewal, new beginnings, planting seeds. It's practically begging to be our wedding day." Micah adjusted the knot of Andrew's scarf, his brow crinkling as he sighed, "Our wedding day. I'm gonna marry you."

Unintelligible screeching split the air, making both of them jump and cling to each other as a small blur of a woman launched herself onto their shoulders as though they were a jungle gym. In their ears, Chamomile screamed as she showered both of them with kisses. Micah pried her free of them, holding the short goblin out at arm's length as she flailed with glee.

Ingrid stood behind her, a long and thin shadow relative to the bouncing sunspot of the goblin. She wore a gauzy red dress that made her bound burgundy curls look darker, but her scarlet eyes brighter. Her slender lips were spread in a smile; she padded silently over to Micah and embraced him.

"Wait, wait!" Micah squirmed out of his taller sister's hug. "You guys knew?"

Feet clad in fuzzy sandals back on the ground, Chamomile flipped open a small pad of paper bound with pink ribbon. "Sam and Julian are mobilized, but will need about three hours to prepare. The Folk will be ready for you by dusk, though the triplets are quite stressed out." She paused, shooting Andrew a glare with sky-blue eyes before adding, "Since someone couldn't agree to a specific time for a proposal." Andrew shrugged, unapologetic. Chamomile continued with a sharp-tipped finger pointing at them, "Don't overeat at Saint Claire, since you'll be due back at moonrise for your engagement party in Lilydale."

Micah's jaw dropped. "So much planning, Andrew!"

With a squeeze of Micah's newly ornamented hand, Andrew said wryly, "Well, since the wedding is on Ostara, it seems we're only getting started."

"Ostara!" Ingrid and Chamomile shrieked, talking over each other, sharing disbelief and outrage over the closeness of the date, yet breathlessly agreeing that the symbolism was extraordinary.

"Aw, we're doing it?" Micah wrapped his arms around Andrew's waist, leaning into him to kiss his chin.

"I would do anything for you," Andrew said softly, his eyes slipping shut as he met Micah's lips with his own.

A blue-skinned pixie with pink flashing dragonfly wings flitted in the air over Lilydale. Spinning like a suncatcher, Spirulina trilled a warm, wordless melody while Leif strummed a lyre where he sat on a mushroom underneath her. They played for the Folk who pranced joyously in celebration around the enormous roaring fire that overlooked the river valley and the city of Saint Paul to the north. On such a clear winter's night, the distant shape of Minneapolis rose in the northwest.

Someone had thrown a capsule of herbs into the fire so that the scent which rose from it was sweet and complex, so that the air in Lilydale was almost intoxicating on its own. The men for whom the Folk danced were seated on a log tossed with blankets and cushions before a broad, flat-topped toadstool that held an array of foods—mostly human-made from the city or from Julian—and several bottles of open champagne. For Andrew, Wex fetched a large selection of take-out food from a fancy restaurant in the neighborhood up the hill. As a sprite, they could pass as human well enough with chalky white skin, round pupils in big green eyes, and textured hair in braids, the hue an iridescent silver that just looked professionally dyed. When they wore loose clothes, you couldn't see how inhumanly bony they were.

Half-teasing, Andrew asked, "Did you enchant this?"

Eyes gleaming fever-bright, Wex presented Andrew with fistfuls of take-out bags. "No. You are fortunate to be under the protection of Lord Heartwood. Nobody wants to fall under his ill will, so we all obey when he says we cannot play tricks on you."

"What makes you think you could trick me?" Andrew asked them softly. He smiled sweetly when their eyes widened slightly.

Disgruntled, Wex sniffed and pranced off to the fire.

Micah watched the sprite leave as he rubbed his chin. For the last two weeks, he'd been monitoring Wex closely to see how often they disappeared with fruit or bread or jugs of honey mead. So far, they'd only left twice. So if they were bringing the foods to trade with humans, it was about once a week. Micah wasn't confident enough that he could make Chamomile or Ingrid care about this as much as he did, so only Andrew knew that Micah was keeping an eye on Wex.

Leaning forward, Andrew put himself in Micah's line of sight with a bright smile and flushed cheeks. He had on a sheer cream-colored shirt with a collar and bow that made him look like an old-fashioned magician. It highlighted his lean torso and displayed the scars from his duel with the Redwood Queen as a reminder to all how capable he was for having survived.

"Tonight is not the night for worries, my love."

Micah scoffed. "Right, right." He tried for a smile. "Yeah. Sorry."

Andrew frowned, brushing his knuckles along Micah's defined jaw. Micah relaxed under his touch, wishing not for the first time since Andrew had been away that drinking hadn't become so problematic. Being sober all month had been…grueling. Recovering from his injury and the constant anxiety of the witches might have been more tolerable if he'd taken a finger of whiskey every night or something. But after how sloppy he'd been with Andrew gone, sobriety seemed necessary.

"We're all right," Andrew whispered. "You're safe."

Micah kissed the delicate blue veins on the underside of Andrew's wrist before he nodded. "You're right. I should be focused on us—" He looked up at the Folk and declared, "Because I'm getting married!" The Folk cheered and hollered and clinked crystal glasses of honey mead. A dance began, chaotic yet orchestrated, like the coded steps of honeybees.

Micah took a forkful of chocolate cake from a crystal platter in front of them. Julian had attempted three cakes before it but wasn't satisfied, despite Andrew's insistence that each were divine. This one had pale purple buttercream frosting and real yellow buttercups decorating the top. He glanced at Andrew, whose eyes followed the fork and traced Micah's open lips with heat and hunger, a blush shooting up the nape of Micah's neck and into his cheeks. Andrew's lips quirked, his tongue flicking out briefly to wet them—heavens, how he made them glisten—before he cleared his throat.

"You put my childhood romantic fantasies to shame, Lord Heartwood." The sound of Micah's newly acquired title on Andrew's supple lips sent a shiver up Micah's spine.

Humming and swaying her hips, Ingrid sauntered closer to them. "You know…" Her tone was conspiratorial. "If we were in the Redwoods, there would be no reveling for an engagement. I knew one couple that were so frightened of their romance being found out that they simply fled. But the Queen caught wind of this and turned them both into doves."

Andrew grimaced.

"I know, Red." Micah gave her a sad smile. "But you found a way to teach me how to be loving anyway."

"Did I?" Doubt wedged between her eyebrows as a slender crease in her skin.

Despite the way she had traumatized Andrew after he injured her seven years ago, Andrew firmly believed in Micah's sentiment. It was impossible to miss how deeply the woman cared for her younger brother. She'd murdered a witch to save his life just a month ago. And any efforts Ingrid made to look stoic or fearsome evaporated like mist in morning sunlight whenever she laid eyes on Micah. No matter what other instincts the Redwoods had taught the siblings, they learned from each other how to fight for the ones they loved.

"What are you doing?" Ingrid glared down at where Andrew's fingers curled around her hand.

Embarrassment heated Andrew's already flushed cheeks as he let her go. "Feeling…sorry for you?"

Micah choked on his sparkling water. While Andrew might have risked such a gesture when he was sober, he really went for it with all that champagne turning his blood to honey.

"Hm," was all Ingrid said, eyes slitted as she took another two spears of asparagus off Andrew's plate before drifting off like a cat that lost interest in him.

Andrew's gaze drifted away from her; she left a residue in his vision like he'd been gazing at the sun. He found Chamomile watching Ingrid like the goblin also thought she was a star.

When the goblin's lips turned down in a rueful frown, she glanced over to meet Andrew's eye and gave him a glare as if regretful he'd caught her pining. He crooked a finger at her, beckoning her over, and against her better judgment Chamomile came to him, climbing a stump beside Andrew and swaying into his arm. She was wearing a jagged spruce crown, her loosely tied silk robe fluttering open over a provocative peek of flesh when she moved.

"What do you want?" Chamomile's birdsong voice warbled slightly.

"I have a question."

"You always do," remarked Chamomile. She began braiding Andrew's hair with deft fingers that made his scalp tickle. Past her, Leif had set aside the lyre to blow bubbles for Fionna while she wore her wolfskin. When the iridescent spheres popped, they became colorful pansies. One of the blossoms landed on her nose, and the wolf gave a great sneeze that scattered the petals to a roar of Fae laughter from the spectators.

Andrew watched Ingrid fiddle with the hoops in her ears. "Am I missing something, or are there really no other faeries like Ingrid here?"

Chamomile lost her balance, her chest squishing into the back of his neck.

Andrew winced. "All right—"

"Whoa!" Micah exclaimed. "Bad goblin. Get your boobs off his head." He hefted her off Andrew and let her hang onto his wrist when she lost her balance. "And to answer your question, there are many fewer Folk like Ingrid than like those here. Most call her High Fae."

Andrew giggled. "Sorry, what? I was just watching your sexy lips move."

"Oh, boy," Micah sighed.

Bright-eyed, the goblin deftly resumed braiding Andrew's copper hair before she added, "I just call her a Tall One."

Chewing thoughtfully on a pretzel bite, Andrew watched Ingrid nearly float up the limestone steps to sit by herself in the kiln throne. "It's descriptive," Andrew agreed. He paused. Twisting around to look at Chamomile—she glowered when he pulled his hair out of her fingers—Andrew asked quizzically, "But isn't that what you called me when we met?"

Chamomile's expression clouded. She opened and closed her mouth, her eyebrows hitching lower. Finally she echoed cryptically, "It's descriptive."

"There you go, babe. You go to sleep, hm? Do you want some water?"

"I want some cuddles." Andrew's words were a muffled mess; he was already nestling into their blankets with a contented sigh. All that remained was a tuft of glinting ginger hair.

"I'm going to stay up a bit longer." Micah found Andrew's knuckles over the edge of the blanket and pressed a kiss to a caramel-colored freckle. Andrew murmured something affectionate in Irish—all Micah caught was grá. All the Irish language books stacked next to the bed had done good for Andrew, but Micah had no gift for languages, as much as he liked to listen to it. Especially with how it seemed to roll off Andrew's tongue like he was meant to speak it.

Realizing how easily Micah could get derailed just watching Andrew sleep, he stepped back and dimmed the faerie lights dangling from the ceiling with a flick of his fingers and a tingle of magic. He picked up his staff and then backed through the tent flap.

Outside under a dome of pristine onyx dotted with diamond stars, Micah turned his staff in his hand with a sigh through his nose. It was so bulky; even when he brought it with him to the brownstone, it was knocking over lamps and scaring Cinnamon and clanging into pans in the kitchen. Yet he felt odd when it wasn't nearby, like if he didn't have any gauges in his ears and his lobes were just floppy loops of skin.

Confidently, he marched down to the fire pit and rejoined the Folk. Their dancing had tapered off and Spirulina and Leif were beside each other playing a slower ballad, Leif's baritone voice rumbling like gravel on a rustic trail and woven with the silky ribbon quality of Spirulina's singing. By their feet, Fionna was laying on her wolfish side, eyes closed, enormous furry paws twitching slightly. But he was looking for Syabira, and she wasn't with them, so he left the bonfire pit and went toward the evergreen garden where her bed was. Up here, away from the warmth of the fire, the thin air held a chill and muffled the sound of the music from below.

Syabira turned from her little abode tucked into the fencing around the garden and raised an eyebrow at him. She was gripping a thick blanket of quilt squares sewn together with glinting golden thread. "Do you need something, Lord Heartwood?"

"Bee, please. You've always called me Micah."

"You're different than you were." She draped her blanket over the loam and moss of her straw bed. "What is it?"

Swallowing, he gestured with his staff. "What am I supposed to do with this? Just go around Saint Paul looking like Donatello?"

The gnome stared at him.

"Um—can I change it?"

"You can do whatever you desire with it," Syabira answered, in true Fae fashion. "It is part of you, like your hair."

Well, this was a dead end. Micah suppressed a sigh, turning on his heel to leave. "Thanks, Bee."

She smiled faintly, turned away, and picked up a wooden spade from a tray of gardening tools. "I want you to sit down—" He obeyed at once. He always obeyed Syabira. She had a matronly air to her, despite her small stature. She had begun telling him what to do as soon as he arrived in Lilydale when he was twenty, asking her to let him help her garden. "—And close your eyes."

Micah was now level with the small gnome's eyes, so he knew she caught his skeptical pursed lips. He tugged on the collar of his sweater as if to distract before he forced his eyes shut. The garden swaddled him in the smell of fertile soil, the strawberry blossoms and bee hive touching his tongue with delicate sweetness. Though the ground underneath him was chilly and firm, he still felt the pulsing of water in roots crossing intricately like a net cradling Lilydale.

Syabira stole back his attention although he could neither see nor hear her. She was doing something to her spade, directing her energy to the slivers and cells in the wood, merging with it till Micah sensed her and the wood as one entity, flowing in tandem. Their life was an even exchange. When he opened one eye, Syabira held a complicated knot of wood where the spade had been, and it twined around her arm like a serpent before returning to her hands and settling comfortably into its spade shape.

"Syabira, that's so cool!"

"Micah, I am but a garden gnome." Syabira's voice swelled with feeling, her eyes gleaming with the distant light of stars and bonfires. When she spoke, her doe ears quivered on the sides of her head. "You are the son of the Redwood Queen. You are capable of leagues more than a transformed spade." He frowned. "I see you trying to trust yourself but you keep tripping yourself. Nobody can stop you from doing so. You battle your own scars."

Micah's throat tightened. He gripped his staff to try to fight off the burning of his eyes. How Syabira had managed to grasp such a deeply buried root inside him and rip it out with medical precision was beyond him. But she was bound to speak truth, and he recognized it.

"Wh-what should I do with it?" His tongue felt thick and dry.

Syabira didn't answer, twirling her spade in her hand instead. She took a seat across from him, leaning against her bed, picking at a protruding needle of straw.

"Oh, I'm on my own now?" Micah narrowed his eyes at her, though his irritation was halfhearted. He just felt so…intimidated by his own power, by the fact that his power came from his mother. It was like when he was face to face with Tom last month, smelling the man's fear and wondering what he could do to heighten it. It was like any step toward being formidable he took made him more dangerous. More wicked.

But the birchwood staff wasn't wicked. Not on its own—it was his anger that had made him wicked. The staff arrived in his time of need, like some sort of priest's tool, and he knew it had helped him heal more swiftly. And that was what he wanted from his Fae side, he realized. Life and healing. And he had a funny feeling that the birchwood did, too.

The birchwood staff across his knees shone like pewter in the darkness, etched with slivers and whorls of midnight. He wasn't sure what he could have done without it this last month. And yet he needed a better understanding of his relationship with it. Its place in his day to day life, when he was pretending to be an average human to protect Julian and the kids at To a Tea.

Maybe like Syabira had turned her spade into a rope, Micah could wear it as a necklace. He frowned. Maybe the birchwood had an opinion on the matter. He took several deep breaths, in through his nostrils and out through his lips, stroking the staff as he let his eyes slip shut. The wood shivered like a dreaming cat under his touch and slowly turned pliant. It reached for his hand, and he invited it to his wrist as one would beckon a skittish wild beast. No, he realized. Not so coyly. It was like communing with an old friend. A fraternal twin. Come along, other self.

He felt the hairs on the back of his wrist catch as the birchwood raced to loop around it. Micah peeked as it formed itself into a pretty bark cuff. It was unbroken, one continuous bracelet that felt at once like armor and a second skin.

"Would you look at that," he breathed. He rubbed an admiring thumb on the wood. "How stylish."

"Well done, Lord Heartwood. See how easy it is when you approach it cooperatively?" Syabira's dark eyes gleamed.

"I never even thought of that," Micah admitted. He gave the bracelet a gentle nudge and it unwound to reshape into the staff, tickling his knuckles as it passed over the peaks and valleys. "We always think of asking nature for favors. But this was like seeing what it wanted to do with me." It arrived back to its full length with an excited shiver.

"You're finally approaching it like a faerie," agreed Syabira.

"Weird." He grinned. "Ten years ago, I'd have been terrified at that thought."

"It would have been hard for you to make your magic your own when you didn't know who you were." Syabira absently plucked off a wilting leaf from a strawberry plant. "If I may be so bold."

"I would expect nothing less from you." Playfully feeding off the eagerness from his staff, Micah called it back to his wrist, back and forth the birchwood went, leaving a mist of dewy green in its wake. "I've been fortunate to have someone with a similar gift as mine. It's just a pity I waited so long to figure my shit out."

"Folk don't often believe that things happen at the wrong time." Syabira stood up, stretched mightily, and sipped water from a large rhubarb leaf. "If you don't mind, my dear, I'm bound for sleep."

"Sure. Yeah." Micah clambered to his feet, the staff jolting back into his hand so he could support himself on it. "I knew you were the right person to look for. I owe you one, Bee. I owe you a lot. And now I think I can finally make good on my debt. You just name it, okay?"

The gnome smiled patiently before she gave him a slight nod. "Sure, Micah."