Spells

“The seed I was born in, it was made by two faeries, right?”

Tamani hesitated, then nodded.

“Then where are they? Maybe I could—”

“I don’t know,” Tamani said, cutting her off. “No one knows. The records of it are destroyed,” he finished quietly.

“Why?”

“Fall and Winter faeries don’t stay with their parents. They are children of Avalon; children of the Crown. It’s not like in the human world,” he added. “Relationships are not the same.”

“So the relationship you have with your mother isn’t like the relationship I have with mine back home?” Laurel asked. She knew referring to someplace besides Avalon as home would bother Tamani, but she was too angry to feel bad about it.

“That’s not what I meant. When you make a seed, it’s just a seed. It is very, very precious because it is the potential for new life, but the relationship does not begin with the seed. It begins when the sprout blooms and the seedling goes home to live with its parents – but only Spring and Summer faeries live with their parents. Your…seed makers—”

“Parents,” Laurel interrupted.

“Fine. Your parents might have been disappointed when they found out you wouldn’t be their seedling, that you would never come home with them, but they would mostly celebrate their contribution to society. As far as they were concerned, you weren’t a person yet. They wouldn’t have missed you, because they didn’t know you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Yes, it is.” His hand came to her shoulder, pulling her to a stop before she could turn on to the broad central road. “Because I know how unselfish you are. Would you rather you were able to experience the reunion with a long-lost set of parents who had been suffering for years missing and loving you, or would you rather they weren’t hurting while you were raised by human parents who adore you?”

Laurel swallowed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Tamani smiled softly and lifted a hand to her face, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and letting his thumb rest on her cheek. “Trust me, it’s no picnic missing you. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

Without meaning to, Laurel leaned into Tamani’s hand. He shifted forward until his forehead rested on hers, hands cupping the sides of her face, then trailing slowly down her neck. Only when the tip of his nose brushed hers – ever so softly – did she realise he was about to kiss her. And that she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to stop him.

“Tam,” she whispered. His lips were just a breath away from hers.

His fingers tightened ever so softly against her neck, but he stopped and pulled back. “Sorry,” he said. He moved his face, letting his lips fall instead on her forehead before pulling away and pointing back down the wide road that cut through the meadow. “Let’s keep going. I should probably get you back to the Academy in another hour or so.”

Laurel nodded, not sure which emotion was strongest. Relief. Disappointment. Loneliness. Regret.

“How…how did my parents know I would be a Fall faerie?” Laurel asked, trying to find a more neutral subject.

“Your sprout opened in the Fall,” Tamani said simply. “All faeries emerge from their sprout in the season of their powers.”

“Sprout?”

“The flower you were born from.”

“Oh.”

Laurel had nothing else to ask without bringing the subject back to faerie parentage, so she was silent, trying to absorb this new development – and Tamani followed her lead. They walked a little farther until the pedestrian traffic thickened and more houses began to dot the road. These were different from the ones she’d seen around the Summer Square. They had the same climbing vines that decorated much of the Academy – the ones with flowers that opened when the moon came up. But rather than the transparent walls she was used to, these buildings were made of wood and bark – sturdy leantos, small houses, a few cottages with loosely thatched roofs. They were charming and quaint and every other fairy-tale word she’d ever heard used to describe small homes. But a sense of difference permeated the air.

“Why aren’t these houses transparent?” Laurel asked.

“These are Spring faerie homes,” Tamani replied, still hovering at her left shoulder.

“And…?”

“And what?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Summer faeries need to photosynthesize enormous amounts of sunlight in order to create their illusions and the light needed for fireworks. They need to be exposed to every hour of sunlight possible. Plus,” he added after a brief pause, “these houses are easier to build and keep up. There are a lot of us, after all.”

“How many Spring faeries are there?”

Tamani shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. Somewhere around eighty per cent of the population.”

“Eighty? Really? How many Summer faeries?”

“Oh, I’d guess fifteen per cent. Probably a smidge more.”

“Oh.” She didn’t ask about Fall faeries. She could do the math. Tamani had told her that Winter faeries were the rarest of all, with maybe one born in a generation, but Fall faeries were apparently rare enough. Laurel supposed that subconsciously she’d also realised there were fewer Fall faeries, but she hadn’t understood just how limited their numbers were. No wonder they didn’t have their own square.

The housing was growing dense, and other faeries were teeming around them now. Some were gloved and carried gardening implements, several quite alien to Laurel despite her mother’s passion for plant life. Others busied themselves outside their homes washing clothing too delicate to be their own. Laurel noticed several carts laden with food, from raw fruits and vegetables to fully prepared meals wrapped in grape leaves or the petals of some enormous flower that smelled vaguely like gardenias.

One Spring faerie who hurried by was carrying a staff like a shepherd’s crook, with a small pot dangling from the curved top. At least a dozen vials of liquid were strapped across his chest. Laurel cast a questioning glance over her shoulder, but Tamani just pointed one finger forward with a smile.

Laurel turned and realised that the low murmur of the crowd was rising in pitch and timbre. But only when a cloud of buzzing insects materialised, seemingly from nowhere, did Laurel understand why. She bit off a shriek as she found herself enveloped in a cloud of extremely active honeybees.

As quickly as they had come, they were gone. Laurel turned to watch the swarm disappear into the crowd, following the Spring faerie with the shepherd’s crook. Laurel recalled from her reading several ways animals and insects “and other lower life-forms” could be influenced and even controlled by scent. She momentarily pondered the usefulness of tame bees to a society of plants, but her musing was derailed by Tamani’s laughter.

“Sorry,” he said with a chuckle. A smile still ticked at the side of his mouth. “But you should have seen your face.”

Laurel’s instinct was to be mad, but she suspected her face had looked pretty funny. “Am I going the right way?” she asked, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.

“Yes, I’ll let you know when it’s time to turn.”

“We’re in Spring now, right? Why does it matter if you walk behind me? It makes me feel lost.”

“I apologise,” Tamani said, his voice tense. “But this is the way things are around here. You walk behind a faerie who is more than one rank above you.”

She paused and Tamani almost bumped into her. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” She turned to Tamani. “And I won’t do it.”

Tamani sighed. “Look, you’re privileged enough to have standards like that; I’m not.” He glanced at the crowd flowing around them and finally said, quietly, “If I don’t do it, it’s not you who gets in trouble, it’s me.”

Laurel didn’t want to let it go, but she didn’t want Tamani to be punished for her ideals, either. With one more glance at his downcast eyes, Laurel turned and continued walking. She was increasingly aware of how much she stood out; much more so than in Summer Square. Aside from their various trade implements, everyone around her looked…well…like Tamani. They were dressed in simple, canvas-like material, mostly cut into breeches or calf-length skirts. But as with all faeries, they were attractive and neat. Rather than looking like a stereotypical working class – with worn faces or shabby clothes – they looked more like actors pretending to be working class.

Much less charming was the way everyone who caught her eye stopped their conversation, smiled, and did the same slight-bend-at-the-waist thing Tamani had done when he’d met her at the Academy. As she and Tamani passed, their chatter would begin again. Several greeted Tamani and tried to say something. He waved them away, but one word in particular kept floating to Laurel’s ears.

“What’s a Mixer?” she asked once there was a break in the crowd.

Tamani hesitated. “It’s a little weird to explain.”