“If fairies don’t have souls, then what happens to them when they die?”
My nephew asked the question, and I turned to him to answer. But I stopped in the midst of taking a breath, for I saw that he was turned away from me, toward his grandfather, the storyteller.
I studied fairies for my profession. My nephew knew this. But he also knew that I had no spellbinding stories tell.
Except that this time, I did. For I had seen a fairy die once. A prince, he was. He glittered like a star.
Read More The Ghost of the Fairy Prince
Lucinda held her breath, as she raised the glass rod above the vial and tapped the rod to release the single drop of liquid that clung to its end.
The drop fell in the vial, joining the muddy liquid within. The liquid turned ruddy, then clear. And it stayed clear.
Lucinda dared to exhale just as the liquid began to swirl and turn ruddy, then muddy. She ducked under the table just before the vial shattered, spraying red flames and charred bits of glass in every direction.
Read More Lucinda of the Ashes
Mischievous, capricious, boisterous Sun never took her cosmic duty seriously in her younger days.
Many cast light upon the mortal world, but only one, only Sun cast warmth upon the mortal world.
For Sun was always laughing. Always. And her great warmth came from her perpetual laughter.
Her elder sister, Moon, cast a light that was calming and dim enough to let other lights shine, like the stars and the planets.
Read More When Sun and Moon Fled the Sky
When I was born, a clever mage, who was also my mother, made for me a triptych: three panels, attached in a row by hinges, depicting paintings of our home. The middle panel depicted our capital city, where we lived. The left panel depicted my mother, her hands raised as if in the casting of a spell. The right panel depicted the Arx, the great tower of knowledge where mages learned their trade. The flanking panels were each half the width of the middle one, so they could be folded inward, and the image could be hidden. And strangely, my mother had built a lock into the triptych. Once folded, the triptych could be secured. I did not know why it would need to be locked. There were no secret or blasphemous things depicted in the paintings, as far as I knew.
Read More The Magic Triptych
My mother named me Felicia, after her favorite flower, the blue daisy.
When I was young, I would always tell people she named me after the word in that ancient language that meant “lucky” and “happy.” What good was a flower after all? Why would she name me after something that wasn’t good for much other than looking lovely? Why didn’t she name me after something strong like the wind or an animal? I’m older now. I know why.
Mother needs me. And the only thing that stands between her and the sorrows and sufferings of a painful death is a flower.
Read More Felicia Incantata