Spells

Laurel thought back and realized that all the men in Summer Square had been wearing gloves. It made sense now. She hurried to change the subject to rescue Tamani from his obvious discomfort. “So what next?” she asked, her hand at her forehead, blocking the sun so she could see what lay farther down the road.

“I’m taking you to my favorite place in all of Avalon.”

“Really?” Laurel asked, excitement causing her to forget, momentarily, that she’d asked to be surprised. “Where?”

He smiled softly. “My home. I want you to meet my mother.”

FOUR

A CHILL RIPPLED UP LAUREL’S BACK AS NERVOUSNESS and confusion battled for control. “Your mother?”

“Is…that all right?”

“You told me faeries didn’t have mothers.”

Tamani opened his mouth and then closed it again, his brow furrowing — the look he always got when he was caught in a half-truth. “I never actually said faeries don’t have mothers,” he said slowly. “I said things are different here. And they are.”

“But you — I…I just assumed that since, you know, faeries come from seeds — you said you take care of yourselves!” she demanded, a little angry now.

“We do,” Tamani said, trying to appease her. “I mean, mostly. Mothering is not quite the same here as it is in the human world.”

“But you have a mother?”

He nodded, and she could tell he knew what was coming next.

“Do I have a mother? A faerie one, I mean?”

He was silent for a moment, and Laurel could see he didn’t want to say it. Finally he shrugged, a tiny, almost invisible shrug, and shook his head.

Shock and disappointment surged through her. It didn’t help that, despite the tension at home, she missed her mom acutely and was feeling more than a little homesick. Tears threatened, but Laurel refused to let them come. She spun on her heel and continued walking down the hill, glad there wasn’t anyone close by. “Why not?” she asked peevishly.

“You just don’t.”

“But you do. Why do you have one?” She knew she sounded childish and petulant, but she didn’t care.

“Because I’m not a Fall or Winter faerie.”

Laurel stopped and turned back to Tamani. “So? Are we born differently?”

Tamani shook his head.

“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 onto 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 realize 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 they 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 lean-tos, 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 percent of the population.”

“Eighty? Really? How many Summer faeries?”

“Oh, I’d guess fifteen percent. 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