My usual audience of fathers and brother no longer find my illusions a novelty, and while they are still act appropriately impressed by them, the comment about my talent from the green mare feels rather like a glowing compliment.
It is emphasized by the profusion of real flowers that sprout up (and through) my floral illusion.
“Oh!” I exclaim, bending down to look more closely. They are lovely, and to emphasize that I illuminate them with a clear light. It shows them off better than the fading, red-tinted sunset, and I smile happily even as Fern admits that she is not, after all, a fairy with a clue. I am not disappointed – how can I be, with these lovely flowers she seems to have grown just for my benefit? – and wait patiently as she ponders. In the meantime, I add a small yellow frog to the heart of one of the flowers, and then a hummingbird with stripes like the mythical zebras my Papa has told me of.
The solution that Fern offers is met with a small frown. Not displeased, simply thoughtful, and even as the frown begins to from I am already nodding.
“I think it might!” I announce, and then, a little more slowly, “and even if it doesn’t I bet the fairies would still like the present of your flower. I am sure they like flowers. One gave me some flowers one time even if they didn’t give me exactly what I asked for.” Fairies are tricky that way, her winged father had said. It is best to be direct with them, just as direct as one would be with the ancestors.
@[Fern]
A S E N A
i’d rather run the other way
than stay and see the smoke and who’s still standing when it clears