Spells

Rowen’s face fell and she started to pout. “But I want to play with Laurel.”

“Laurel will be back another time,” Rhoslyn said, her eyes darting to Laurel’s as if to test the validity of that promise. Laurel nodded quickly, not certain if it was the truth. “You can sleep in Tam’s bed,” Rhoslyn added when Rowen still hung back. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said to Tamani, who shook his head.

The little faerie’s face brightened considerably and Rhoslyn herded her down the narrow hall, leaving Tamani and Laurel alone.

“Is she really only three?” Laurel asked.

“Aye. And very normal for a faerie her age,” Tamani said, lounging in the broad armchair. It was fascinating for Laurel to watch him. She had never seen him quite so at ease.

“You told me that faeries age differently, but I…” Her voice trailed off.

“You didn’t believe me?” Tamani said with a grin.

“I believed you. Just, seeing it is something else.” She looked over at him. “Are faeries ever babies?”

“Not in the sense that you mean.”

“And I was older than Rowen when I went to live with my parents?”

Tamani nodded, a small smile flirting with the corners of his mouth. “You were seven. Just barely.”

“And you and I – we went to school together?”

He chuckled. “What good would Fall faerie classes have done me?”

“So how did I know you?”

“I spent a lot of time at the Academy with my mother.”

As if sensing she was being spoken of, Rhoslyn walked back into the room with cups of warm heliconia nectar. Laurel had tasted it once at the Academy, where she was informed that the sweet beverage was a favourite in Avalon and often hard to come by. She felt complimented to be served it now.

“What is a Gardener?” Laurel asked, addressing Rhoslyn now. “Tamani said it was like a midwife.”

Rhoslyn clicked her tongue disparagingly. “Tamani and his human words. Can’t say I know what a midwife is, but a Gardener is a Tender who nurtures germinating sprouts.”

“Oh.” But Laurel was still confused. “Don’t the parents take care of them themselves?”

Rhoslyn shook her head. “Not enough time. Sprouts need constant and very specialised tending. We all have daily tasks to do, and if every mother took off a year or longer to tend her sprout, too many jobs would go undone. Besides, a couple might decide to make a seed just to get out of a year of work, and new life is far too important to be undertaken for so frivolous a reason.”

Laurel wondered what Rhoslyn would have to say about the many frivolous reasons humans found for having babies, but she remained silent.

“Sprouts are nurtured in a special garden at the Academy,” Rhoslyn continued, “like all the other important plants and flowers. Spring and Summer seedlings learn to work by watching others, often their own parents, so Tamani spent a lot of time at the Academy with me.”

“And I was there?”

“Of course. From the time your sprout opened, just like all the other Fall faeries.”

Laurel looked up at Tamani and he nodded. “From the very first day. Like I said. They don’t know you.”

Laurel nodded forlornly.

“Laurel’s having a little difficulty with her lack of fae parents,” Tamani explained quietly.

“Oh, don’t fret,” Rhoslyn chided. “The separation is an important part of your upbringing. Parents would just get in the way.”

“What? How?” Laurel asked, a little disturbed by the casual tone that Rhoslyn – a mother herself – was using to dismiss Laurel’s unknown parents.

“Chances are good your parents were Spring faeries; they would have had no idea how to teach a young Fall seedling. A Fall must be free from these kinds of random attachments with lower faeries,” she said calmly, as if she were not speaking of herself. “They must learn to cultivate their minds to do the work they’re expected to perform. Fall faeries are very important to our society. After even this short time at the Academy, surely you must see that.”

Laurel’s mind latched on to the phrase random attachments. Parents were far more than that. Or at least they should be.

Despite the cosiness of Tamani’s home, Laurel found herself wanting to flee the conversation. “Tamani,” she said abruptly, “we’ve walked so far; I’m worried that we’ll be late getting back to the Academy.”

“Oh, don’t concern yourself,” Tamani said. “We’ve been walking along a big circle, just catching the edges of the settled districts. We’re not far from the Queen’s woods now, and that borders the grounds of the Academy. Still,” he continued, addressing his mother now, “we should be going. I promised the Academy staff this would be a short visit.” Tamani looked at Laurel with concern in his eyes, but she looked away.

“Of course,” Rhoslyn said warmly, completely unaware of the tension she had created. “Come back anytime, Laurel. It was lovely to see you again.”

Laurel smiled numbly. She felt Tamani’s fingers twine through hers, tugging her towards the door.

“Will you be back, Tam?” Rhoslyn asked just before they crossed the threshold.

“Yes. I have to return to the gate at sunrise, but I’ll stay tonight.”

“Good. Rowen should be gone by the time you come back. I’ll make sure your bed is ready.”

“Thank you.”

Laurel said goodbye and turned, leading the way back to the main road they had walked down only a short hour before. When Tamani released Laurel’s hand and resumed his place a few steps behind her, she grumbled incoherently and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Please don’t be this way,” Tamani said quietly.

“I can’t help it,” Laurel said. “The way she talked, she—”

“I know it’s not what you’re used to, Laurel, but that’s how it is here. I’m sure none of your classmates give it a second thought.”

“They don’t know any better. You do.”

“Why? Because I know how humans do it? You’re assuming that your way is better.”

“It is better!” Laurel said, whirling around to face him.

“Maybe for humans,” Tamani countered in a strong, quiet voice. “But humans are not faeries. Faeries have different needs.”

“So you are saying you like this? Taking faeries away from their parents?”

“I’m not saying either is better. I haven’t lived around humans nearly enough to judge. But consider this,” he said, placing one hand on her shoulder, his touch softening the edge of his words. “What if we lived here in Avalon like you do in the human world? Every time some Springs get a Fall seedling, it gets to live with them. They get to raise her. Except that she leaves them to go and study at the Academy for twelve hours a day. They never see her. They don’t understand anything she’s doing. On top of that, they don’t have a garden at their house – a garden she needs to do her classwork – so now she’s gone for fourteen, sixteen hours a day. They miss her; she misses them. They never see one another. Eventually they are like strangers, except that, unlike now, the parents know what they are missing out on. And it hurts, Laurel. It hurts them, and it hurts her. Tell me how that’s better.”

Laurel stood in shock as the logic sank in. Could he be right? She hated even considering it. And yet, it had a certain brutal efficiency she couldn’t deny.