The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy, 2019 Edition

Lime and the One Human ^{S. Woodson}

Once in early autumn, a particularly small and ragged fairy emerged from a hole at the roots of a tulip poplar, into the dazzling green light of the woods. The fairy wore a tattered dress of petals. A purple orchid, withered and vaguely sticky, perched atop her head, and around her neck hung a crude bit of jewelry fashioned from a bit of string and seven irregular beads. Each bead contained a book, shrunken to minuscule size and encased in a shell of magic. She carried no other provisions.

The fairy, like all of her kind, was nameless (which is to say that her true name was secret even to herself). Her preferred nickname was Lime, after the tree from which she had first germinated. Alighting on a yellowed leaf, she sprawled in the sun and began, briefly, to doze—for her long journey through the roots of the world had wearied her.

Five minutes later, she awoke, feeling much refreshed. She yawned, exposing the bulge of her venom glands and a mouthful of pointed green teeth. Her nose twitched. On the breeze, she could smell flowers.

Leaping into the air, Lime followed her nose to a clearing overgrown with the most wonderful variety of plants: clusters of verbena and anise hyssop, heliotrope and pansies, double-petaled impatiens and cone-flowers in every hue of the rainbow. With a cautious glance forwards and back, she flew into the clearing and landed on a mound of impatiens. She held one of the flowers in her hand.

She plucked the flower from its stalk, and at that very moment another fairy burst from cover of leaves and tackled her to the ground.

“I thought you looked like a thief!” squealed the fairy. “And now we’ve caught you red-handed!” More fairies emerged from the leaves, giggling and pointing.

“What a dummy!” they cried. “What a dunce!” They pinned down Lime’s arms and legs, and sat on her wings. Lime cursed and hissed and bared her fangs, but the other fairies only laughed.

“You don’t get it,” said a violet fairy in a handsome cape. “You stole from us and we caught you, so that means we get to punish you.”

“The Law says she has to be our prisoner for sixty months,” said a fairy with coiled antennae, “and do whatever we say.”

“Who wants a prisoner, though?” said a blue fairy with wings like rumpled silk. “Let’s just toss her in the mud, or make her eat a bug.”

“You won’t make me do anything,” said Lime, “because I haven’t stolen anything! Am I supposed to believe these are your flowers?”

“They are,” said the violet fairy. “This is our community garden.”

“Fairies,” said Lime, “don’t garden.”

“We do,” said the blue fairy. “It was Old-Timer’s idea. She has all kinds of wild ideas.”

“That’s because I’m the only one around here with any brains in my head,” snarled a voice from the trees. The crowd stilled their laughter as an apple-red fairy swooped into the clearing. The fairy’s crooked fangs protruded over her lips, and the horns of beetles crowned her cap.

“Let the loner go,” said Old-Timer. “A prisoner’s just another fairy for me to keep in line and I don’t need it.”

With groans of disappointment, the other fairies unhanded Lime. “You’ve come from far away, haven’t you?” said Old-Timer, eyeing Lime’s shriveled hat and ragged dress. “Wearing that worn-out tropical flower, looking like you haven’t sewn new clothes in a decade. You have a clan?”

Lime glared and shook her head.

“Well, you can’t join ours,” said Old-Timer. “And you can’t take from the community garden unless you’re part of the clan. But I’ll let you have a cup of nectar, if you want it, out of hospitality.”

“I don’t want your hospitality,” said Lime, “or anything else to do with this terrible forest.”

Old-Timer snorted. “Suit yourself. But if you won’t take my hospitality, maybe you’ll at least take my advice. This place here is called the Woeful Woods, bordered on one side by the meadows and the other by a human town. If it’s flowers you want, feel free to look in the woods or the meadows or even the lands beyond, but steer clear of human territory. They keep plenty of gardens, but just as many dogs and cats and children. A lout like you would be caught in a second.”

“I’m not stupid or slow enough to be caught by any human,” said Lime. “And I’m not afraid of pets, either. Is that all your advice?”

“It is,” said Old-Timer. “Whether or not you choose to listen to it. Now get out of here, lone traveler, and leave our clan to its business. Unless you’ve changed your mind about the nectar?”

Lime buzzed into the air and darted away from the fairies’ garden. “I’d rather drink frog-spawn!” she yelled over her shoulder. “I hope a whole crowd of humans comes through and tramples your awful flowers!” She fled, already thoroughly sick of the Woeful Woods and its denizens.

As she sped through the trees, an amber-yellow fairy descended from the branches and fell into pace her side. “Don’t you dare follow me!” Lime cried.

“Calm down, Loner,” said the amber fairy. “I’m not here to start trouble.”

“I’m serious!” said Lime. “Leave me alone or I’ll fight you! I’ll pull out your antennae!”

The amber fairy giggled. “You’re a bad liar,” he said. “Just stop a minute and talk. Where’d you even come from, anyway?”

Lime tried to outrace the other fairy, but he easily matched her speed. She stopped, lest he follow her all the way back to the hole at the roots of the tulip poplar.

“Where I’m from,” she said, “is none of your business. Did you chase me down just so you could interrogate me?”

“I was only trying to be sociable,” said the amber fairy. “You’re a real cagey one, you know that, Loner?”

“Stop calling me ‘Loner’,” said Lime, “and get out of my sight.”

“What’s wrong with ‘Loner’?” said the amber fairy. “It’s better than my nickname, at least.” He paused expectantly. Lime merely glowered at him.

“It’s Pipsqueak,” he said. “It’s one of those ironic nicknames, right? ’Cos I’m so tall.”

“Good for you,” said Lime.

“Did you come here flower-hunting?” asked Pipsqueak. He glanced at her threadbare dress. “Hoping to make new clothes?”

“Maybe,” said Lime, “And maybe not.”

“No need to be shy about it,” said Pipsqueak. “Listen: if it’s flowers you’re after, I know a place you can go: a place nearly as good as our garden. Follow me and I’ll show you.”

“And if I don’t want to follow you?” said Lime.

“I won’t leave you alone until you do,” said Pipsqueak. “So just come with me.” He flew through the trees, and Lime, with a sigh of resignation, followed after.

He led Lime to the outskirts of the woods and a solitary building: a squat house built of brick and green-tinged vinyl. A fringe of weeds sprouted from sagging gutters. A messy but thriving garden teemed with hostas and begonias, with roses and crepe myrtles still clinging to flower, and scraggly mums just beginning to bud. A gravel path ran through the garden, and at the end of the path stood a mailbox with the name “A. E. Erskine” stenciled on it in paint.

Pipsqueak settled atop an oak leaf. “There’s one human who lives in the woods,” he said, “apart from all the others. And this is the one human’s house. They’ve got plenty of flowers here, but no pets and no kids like in town. You can steal from them, easy.”

“If there’s one human,” said Lime, “what ‘them’ are you talking about? Who else is there?”

“No one,” said Pipsqueak. “The one human is one human, they’re just one of those humans who isn’t a girl, or a boy either.”

“Huh,” said Lime. “Then what’s the catch? If this place is so great, why aren’t there any other fairies here?”

“We’ve got our community garden now,” said Pipsqueak with a shrug. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t,” said Lime. “I bet there’s a whole troop of children in that house, with nets and plastic jars. Or maybe this one human of yours is a witch, the kind who likes to trap fairies and cook them into potions. I bet you’re waiting for me to go flying over unawares, and when I’m caught, you’ll laugh and laugh. Am I wrong?”

“Now you’re just being silly,” said Pipsqueak. “Witches live in towers. Who’s ever heard of a witch in a house? If there were kids around, there’d be toys all in the garden, and as for cats and dogs: if there were any nearby, you’d smell ’em.

“Stake the place out for yourself and you’ll see,” he said. “The place is totally safe. Or don’t I guess. I can’t force you.” He dropped from his leafy perch and spiraled lazily to the ground. “All I wanted was to point a wandering loner in the right direction.”

With a wave goodbye, and an offer to “Look around the woods if you need me!” he slipped into the shadows of the undergrowth, leaving Lime alone.

Lime cast a wary eye at the house and its abundant, quiet garden. She still didn’t quite trust Pipsqueak, but the place seemed safe enough from a distance, and at the very least there were no more giggling fairies to harass her. Tucking herself into a fork between two branches, she watched and waited for any sign of danger.

In time, a human appeared in the window. The one human looked to be a younger adult, probably not far along in their twenties, but more than old enough to have outgrown the ability to see fairies: an ability most lost around the age of twelve. Their hair was short; they wore a T-shirt with a mended hole in the shoulder. As far as Lime could tell, they were utterly ordinary and entirely alone.

The one human made a pot of oolong and sat down to drink. Lime watched as they sipped tea, read a paperback book, picked at one of their fingernails, and eventually returned to the interior of the house, out of sight, having done nothing whatsoever suspicious or even interesting. Pipsqueak hadn’t lied. The human was no threat.

Reassured, Lime took wing and ventured closer. A most beguiling vine grew along the kitchen window. It was some species of morning glory, but strangely and richly colored, with flowers banded in pink and gold and pale, translucent green. Lime imagined the suit of clothes she could make from this vine: beautiful, colorful clothes that would be the envy of all fairy-kind. Plucking the stamen from a flower and transforming it into a glowing needle, she set to work.

All afternoon, Lime struggled to recall the tricks of weaving, sewing, and spell-casting involved in the making of clothes. She harvested flowers and leaves. She spun green fibers into glossy-smooth thread. By the time the sun had begun to sink beneath the horizon, she had sewn a fine hat of petals. She removed her old, wilting cap and placed the new one on her head, proud to have remembered the lessons of her childhood.

Lime held her old hat, the withered purple orchid, in her lap, and thought back to the warm and southern island where it had grown. Unpleasant, long-forgotten emotions swelled in her chest. She shred the orchid to bits, and cast it to the ground.

Night fell and the flowers closed and Lime could no longer work, so she passed the late hours in other ways. She spied on the human again, watching as they cooked and ate dinner. (Dinner, she noted with a little thrill of disgust, was roast chicken.) She re-enlarged one of her books and read by the pale green glow of her own body. She waited eagerly for morning.

At the first light of dawn, she sewed the bodice of her new dress, which she embroidered with a pattern of interwoven suns. She placed each stitch with utmost care, pouring all of her heart and thought and magic into that one little garment. She had almost completed the circle of suns when the sound of footsteps broke her concentration. The human had come outside and was stomping into the garden, right towards Lime’s window. Snatching up her bodice and thread, Lime flew into the trees.

The human lingered in the garden for a while, pulling weeds, pruning dead flowers, and humming an off-key tune. They ventured indoors and back several times, then at last returned inside for good. When Lime was certain all was clear, she flew back to her vine, where she found a scrap of notepaper scrawled in enormous handwriting.

“To the fairy who’s probably doing this,” read the note. “Please stop killing my Convolvulus magnifican vine. Thanks in advance—Erskine.” A more cautious fairy might have been afraid, but Lime was too close to finishing her dress, and wasn’t about to let a mere piece of paper scare her. She crumpled the note into a ball and picked up her sewing.

She had finished her bodice, and had just started piecing together a skirt, when a fairy—the same blue fairy from the community garden—twirled down from the sky and landed at her side, exclaiming “Ha! So you really are here!”

Lime edged away, scowling. “What do you want?” she said.

“I was just curious what happened to you,” said the blue fairy. “That’s a nice hat, by the way, and a nice dress—what’s done of it.”

Lime clutched the dress to her chest. “You can’t have it,” she said.

“I don’t want it!” said the blue fairy, laughing. “I was complementing you.”

“Oh,” said Lime.

“Have you decided to stick around the woods?” asked the blue fairy. “If you’re planning to settle down, you know, our clan will take you.”

“Your boss said the clan was full,” said Lime.

“Old-Timer says a lot of things,” said the blue fairy, “but she’s a pushover. If you hang around a few weeks, she’ll get sick of telling you to leave and let you in. Promise.”

“And why do you want me in your clan?” said Lime. “You were going to make me eat a bug!”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” said the blue fairy. “Like you’ve never eaten a bug on a dare before!”

“I haven’t,” said Lime.

“Really?” said the fairy. “I have—or a slug, at least. That’s why everyone calls me Slugsy now. Anyway, do you want to join the clan? You can tell us stories of all the places you’ve been.”

“I haven’t been any places,” said Lime. “And I don’t need a clan.”

“You have to have been some places,” said Slugsy. “Where’d you come from?”

Lime picked at her embroidery. She supposed, really, there was no harm in telling. “I came through the roots of the world,” she said, “from the Great Origin Tree Library.”

“And before that?” said Slugsy.

“Nothing before that matters,” snapped Lime.

“And why’d you let your old clothes get so raggedy?” asked Slugsy. “What happened?”

“I was reading,” said Lime, “and I lost track of time.”

Slugsy scratched at her head. “You were reading so long that your clothes went bad?”

“Right,” said Lime.

“And how long was that?”

Lime consulted her inner clock. “About twenty-five years.”

“I see,” said Slugsy. “You know, you’re kind of weird, Loner. But you’re also pretty brave, messing with Erskine the human.”

“Why?” said Lime. “They’re just one human, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

Before Slugsy could finish her sentence, a bundle of amber sparks shot from the trees and snatched the hat from her head. “Got your cap!” shouted Pipsqueak.

“I’ll get you!” said Slugsy, hopping into the air. “Sorry, Loner. See you later.” She chased after Pipsqueak quick as a bat on the hunt, and the fairies’ twin lights, blue and amber, vanished into the distance. Relieved, Lime took up her needle.

In the low light of afternoon, she stitched a ruffled lining to her skirt, attached skirt to bodice, and enrobed the whole garment in sparkling, semi-visible strands of protective magic. Casting her old dress aside, she changed into her freshly-made clothes. The skirt billowed around her soft as dandelion fluff. The embroidered suns gleamed clear and bright as words on a page. The dress was perfect: colorful and comfortable and scented and clean.

Lime nestled into the coils of the morning glory vine—now bruised and nearly flower-less—and watched the sunset, aglow with contentment. She was so content, so peaceful, so snug in her new clothes, and so warm in the early autumn sun, she didn’t even hear the window open. She didn’t notice the gamy, chemical smell of human presence; she didn’t see the looming shadow. When she finally felt the rush of air, and heard the scrape of metal against glass, it was too late. She was no longer snug among the leaves. Glass walls closed around her and a metal lid, pricked through with holes, sealed her in. She had been trapped inside a great salt-shaker and holding the salt-shaker was the one human, Erskine.

Stifling a cry of panic, Lime dropped to the bottom of the salt-shaker and curled into a ball, pretending not to exist.

“I can see you, you know,” said Erskine. Lime glanced up. Her eyes met the human’s own. It was then she realized she had been deceived.

“You can’t,” sputtered Lime. “You can’t, you can’t, you’re too old to see me.”

“I can,” said Erskine. “Some people never grow out of it. Did you really not know? I figured all the fairies around here knew about me already.”

Lime caught a glimpse of amber light among the trees. She heard the trill of a fairy’s laugh. Her heart thudded in her chest. “If you don’t let me out,” she bluffed, “I’ll put a curse on you! I-I’ll turn you to stone! I’ll give you the pox and the palpitations and the red-hot feet! Let me go right now or you’ll pay, I swear!”

“I won’t,” said Erskine. “And you’re not going to curse anyone. You’ve done me wrong by killing my plant, and I’ve caught you, so you’re obligated to be my prisoner for sixty lunar cycles, AKA five years. I know the Law.”

Lime stared at Erskine, for the moment speechless with rage. “And how,” she said, finally, “do you, a human, know about the Law?”

“I have my ways,” said Erskine with a smirk. “But don’t worry. I’ll let you go right now if you grant me a wish.”

“I’d rather die!” spat Lime. “I’d rather stay in this salt-shaker for a hundred years! A million!”

“Really?” said Erskine. “Because I wasn’t going to ask for much.”

“Either let me go or don’t,” said Lime. “But I’m never going to grant you a wish. Never! Do your worst: torture me or snip my wings. I don’t care!”

“Geez, I’m not going to hurt you,” said Erskine. They drew Lime and the salt-shaker inside, and closed the window. “You’re really not going to grant me a wish?”

“Never and not for anything,” said Lime.

“Fine.” Erskine climbed down from the kitchen counter and sat Lime beside the sink. “Then I’ll just keep you here until you change your mind.”

“You’ll be keeping me for sixty months,” said Lime, “because I’m not changing my mind.”

“We’ll see,” said Erskine. “Anyway, who’s that yellow-orange fairy outside? Are they your friend?”

“He’s not my friend,” said Lime. “I have no friends.”

At the edge of the forest, Pipsqueak capered from branch to branch, squealing with laughter. “The other fairies haven’t been bullying you, have they?” said Erskine.

“Don’t patronize me, human!” said Lime. “I’m not some mewling little infant. No one bullies me!”

“Do you want me to run him off?” asked Erskine. “I can go throw a rock at him.”

“Just shut up, shut up, shut up!” wailed Lime. Sparks cascaded down her back. “I might be your prisoner, but that doesn’t mean I have to listen to you blather on and on!”

“It kind of does,” said Erskine, drawing the blinds, “but point taken. I’ll leave you alone for a while and make dinner, okay?”

Lime simply glared.

“Oh, but before I do,” said Erskine, “did you want anything to eat? I have honey and maple syrup and I think some leftover molasses.”

“I refuse,” said Lime. “Weren’t you going to leave me alone?”

“Alright,” said Erskine. “Just let me know if you change your mind. Not only about the wish, but about the food, I mean.” They busied themself in the kitchen, and for a little while at least, left Lime to her thoughts.

Lime huddled at the bottom of the salt-shaker, hating everything: humans and fairies and the whole world and, most of all, herself. She cursed herself for ever trusting Pipsqueak, for being slow enough—stupid enough—to be caught by a human.

Sparking like a firecracker and overwhelmed by anger, Lime felt she would explode if she couldn’t calm herself down. She tried breathing deeply, and when that didn’t work, she enlarged one of the books around her neck and began to read. At first, her eyes slid from the page. She would read the same sentence over and over, only for the words to jumble together and the meaning elude her. However, she pressed on, and began to make slow progress through the novel. The furious sparks dissipated from her body.

She didn’t know how long she had been reading when a shadow fell across the page. “Where’d you get that book?” asked Erskine.

“I’m allowed to have a book,” said Lime. “There’s no Law saying prisoners can’t have one.”

“No, I wasn’t going to take it away,” said Erskine. “I was just wondering if you had summoned it from somewhere, or what.”

“It’s none of your business,” said Lime. “Shouldn’t you be cooking?”

“I already cooked and already ate,” said Erskine. “You must have been really preoccupied not to notice. What book is it? Is it good?”

“That’s none of your business, either!” said Lime. “Why do you care?”

Erskine shrugged. “Just curious. Is it a fairy book? Is it a novel? Do fairies publish many novels? Because if they do, I’ve never had the chance to read one.”

“Fairy novels are written in Vernacular Fey,” said Lime. “You wouldn’t be able to read one even if you had it.”

“I can read Vernacular Fey and Classical Fey,” said Erskine. “They’re not that hard to learn: I mean, they’re both pretty regular, logical languages.”

“You’re a liar,” said Lime in Classical Fey, “and a despicable person.”

“I surely speak the truth,” said Erskine in the same language, “and assure you that my character is of the utmost quality.”

Lime studied the human closely. “Just who are you?” she said. “Some sort of recluse linguist? Why do you know the fairy tongues?”

“Well, I’ve always been interested in non-human peoples,” said Erskine, “and I come across a lot of fairies in my adventures.”

At that last word, Lime nearly dropped her book. “You’re an adventurer?” she yelped.

“Pretty much,” said Erskine.

In Lime’s childhood, her fellow fairies had taught her this lesson: “Humans on the whole are dull and sluggish, but there are three sorts of human you should avoid at all cost. The first are the children, who see and chase. The second are the witches, who grind our wings for potions. The third are the adventurers, who snatch our treasures and bring mayhem in their wake.” Yet how could Lime have known?

“What’s wrong with you?” Lime shrilled. “What are you doing here, acting like a normal person? Reading and pulling weeds and eating—” She glanced down at the pile of soiled dishes in the sink. “Eating whatever this is?”

“It was tofu and eggplant,” said Erskine. “I was thinking of having meat, but I know some fairies get squeamish around meat and didn’t want to offend.”

“I don’t care if you eat meat!” said Lime. “What kind of adventurer just hangs around the house all day?”

“I mean, I have off-days like anyone else,” said Erskine. “And I don’t see why ‘adventurer’ and ‘normal person’ have to be mutually-exclusive. I feel like I’m pretty normal.” They lathered a sponge with soap, releasing a pungent smell of chemicals. “Did you want to hear about my last adventure though? I just got back on Wednesday.”

Taking Lime’s angry silence as assent, they continued. “I took the train down to the semi-aquatic kingdom of Crab’s Cairn, where there’s this hidden shrine…”

Erskine blathered on about their adventure, describing the forgotten shrine with its pillars of olivine and meteoric iron; the domed ceilings inlaid with the bones of fishes; the images of celestial serpents; and the half-submerged labyrinth, rumored to be the lair of hippocamps.

“I found this enormous shed skin, which I’m pretty sure is the skin of a hippocamp,” said Erskine, putting away the last of the clean dishes and carrying Lime to the living room. “If it is, I should be able to portion it out and sell it for a good price.”

“All those jewel-encrusted idols and pillars of rare pallasite, and you pass them up for a bit of snakeskin?” said Lime.

“I’m not going to loot a shrine,” said Erskine, looking a bit offended. “That’s disrespectful.” They plopped onto the sofa and sat Lime on an end table. “Have you decided to give me a wish?”

Lime made a rude gesture from her native island. “I don’t know what that means,” said Erskine. “Does that mean ‘No’?”

“Very astute,” said Lime. “Excellent guesswork.”

“All the times I’ve been caught by fairies in the past,” said Erskine, “I gave them something, and they let me go. So I assumed that’s how these sort of situations normally play out.”

“Well, you assumed wrong,” said Lime.

“It doesn’t have to be a complicated wish,” Erskine insisted. “Just reviving my convolvulus plant would be enough. Or, if you wanted, you could lend me a spell. Like an invisibility spell, something easy.”

“Do you ever, ever stop talking?” said Lime. “You’re interrupting my reading.” She opened her novel and turned her back.

Erskine remained quiet as Lime read: suspiciously quiet, in fact. After a certain point, Lime couldn’t stand it. She had to know what they were up to. She glanced over her shoulder.

Erskine had curled up with their paperback novel and was reading peacefully. They glanced over the top of the book and caught Lime’s eye. “Would you like to know what I’m reading?” they asked.

“I already know what you’re reading,” said Lime.

“Because you were peeping at me through the window?” said Erskine.

“N-no!” said Lime. Erskine smiled.

For the rest of the evening, the two read in silence. Eventually, Erskine said goodnight, asked Lime one last time if she would like something to eat (she refused), and went to bed.

Lime waited until she was certain the human had fallen asleep, then did what any reasonable fairy would do in her circumstances: she phased through the salt-shaker and explored her new surroundings. The Law forbid a rightful prisoner from escaping her bonds, but only if she were caught escaping. To slip one’s prison unnoticed, then return unnoticed: that much was permitted. Lime wouldn’t let the human to take her off-guard a second time.

She circled the darkened room, observing the well-worn sofa with its faded green cushions; the electric lamp; the rickety particleboard tables. A tall case housed neat rows of books, old and new, in every genre from novels to encyclopedias to do-it-yourself guides on lock-picking and astral travel. Most were ordinary human books, but not all. There were a few fairy histories among them, and a book of elfish folktales, and a runic dictionary. Among the books sat seashells, slivers of petrified wood, stones carved in strange languages, and similar trinkets. Lime could only assume they were mementos of adventures past.

Interested despite herself, Lime examined the rows of books, noting a few titles she had read already, and others she would like to read, given the chance. She fluttered down the hallway, peeking her head into a storage closet full of towels; into the bedroom where Erskine lay face-down in a pillow, fast asleep. At the foot of the bed sat a bulging, briny-smelling bundle wrapped in an old sheet: the hippocamp’s skin, presumably. An old chair supported a thriving colony of potted philodendrons; tiny bromeliads and cacti sprouted from jars of soil.

In the bedroom, there were even more books piled on shelves, stacked on the carpet, and wedged between plants. Lime felt a twinge of avarice. She saw the names of unfamiliar authors and titles of sequels she hadn’t known existed, fascinating covers and enticing summaries. She couldn’t restrain herself. She skimmed jacket flaps and rustled through pages. Surely, Erskine wouldn’t notice if one or two went missing?

There was a tap at the window, and Lime’s heart nearly popped. “Loner?” called a familiar voice. “Hey, Loner—is that you?”

Shaking the nervous sparks from her dress, Lime flew to the window and parted the blinds. A blue face beamed at her.

“It is you!” said Slugsy.

“Shut up,” hissed Lime. “The human is right there.” Slugsy nodded, and gestured for Lime to come outside. Lime phased partway through the glass, just far enough to stick her head through the window.

“What are you still doing here?” Slugsy whispered. “Did Erskine turn down your wish?”

“I’m not giving them a wish,” said Lime. “And you’ve got a lot of nerve, coming here.”

“Huh?” said Slugsy. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” said Lime. “You tricked me! You didn’t tell me the human could see us. You knew I’d get caught.”

“I figured Pipsqueak had told you,” said Slugsy. “I didn’t know he was playing a prank.”

“Liar!” said Lime. “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t anyone in these woods just leave me alone!” She was practically yelling. Her throat flashed green and golden as her venom glands flared. “Why did I ever, ever leave the Library? Why did I trust either of you? I—”

Erskine let out a soft, wordless cry. Fabric rustled. Lime clapped a hand over her mouth and froze, too terrified to even think.

“Come on, dummy—hide!” said Slugsy, grabbing hold of Lime’s wrist and dragging her through the window. The two fairies huddled in a rose bush, ears pricked and antennae twitching.

“Did they wake up?” said Lime.

“Go check,” said Slugsy.

“You check,” demanded Lime.

“I can’t go in there,” said Slugsy. “I wasn’t invited.”

Reluctantly, Lime phased through the window. Inside, the bed lay empty. Erskine had disappeared.

Lime sped down the hallway, cursing. She found Erskine in the living room, mere feet from the empty salt-shaker.

“I can explain!” said Lime, but Erskine ignored her and walked into the kitchen. Utterly bewildered, Lime flew after. She circled around to the human’s face. Their eyes were still closed, and their mouth was fixed in a dreamy smile.

Fumbling sightlessly through the cabinets, Erskine snatched a bottle of black vinegar, unscrewed the top, and upended the contents over their head. They grabbed handfuls of salt and brown sugar, rubbing it into their skin, smearing it onto their face. Lime realized this was more than mere sleepwalking. “Wake up!” she cried. “Snap out of it!” She tugged at Erskine’s hair and pinched their ears, to no avail. Erskine opened the front door and strode barefoot into the woods.

“What’s going on?” said Slugsy, darting to Lime’s side. “Is the human ensorcelled?”

“They must be,” said Lime. “I keep telling and telling them to stop, and they "won’t listen.”

“But why are you following them?” said Slugsy.

“What do you mean, why am I following them?” said Lime. “I can’t just let them wander off and get killed by who-knows-what!”

“Why not?” said Slugsy. “If they die, you can go free, right?

“I’m not saying I want them to die,” she added quickly, seeing the look on Lime’s face. “Erskine’s pretty okay, as far as humans go. It’s just…”

“Are you going to help, or are you going to leave?” snapped Lime.

“Help how?” said Slugsy. “What are either of us supposed to do?” All the same, she remained at Lime’s side.

The two followed Erskine through the woods, to the banks of a muddy river. Atop the water sat an exquisite white harp of curious design, its strings quivering soundlessly, strummed by some invisible force. As Erskine approached, the harp pitched upward and an immense body emerged from the mud: a serpent with the head of a mare, and a white harp for a mane.

The horse-serpent, the hippocamp, flowed onto the bank in a wave of sea-grey scales and encircled her great coils around Erskine, who stood there bespelled and helpless. Her mouth split open, gaping from ear to ear. White fangs unfurled.

“Stop!” screamed Lime. The hippocamp sheathed her fangs and turned one large, pale, unblinking eye to the trees.

“What are you doing?” hissed Slugsy. “She’ll kill us!” The hippocamp inclined her head, as though amused.

Lime didn’t know what she was doing, not really, but Erskine looked so small engulfed in the coils of the hippocamp, and she knew she couldn’t just fly away. “Let the human go,” she said, “or I’ll make you sorry you ever crawled out from the ocean!” Sparks spat from her mouth. She balled her fists tight so her hands wouldn’t tremble. “I’ll turn you into an eel and roast you! I’ll shrivel you up like a salted slug!”

“She’s never going to believe that,” said Slugsy, retreating into the leaves. “You’re crazy, Loner!”

“Don’t you dare tempt a fairy’s wrath!” cried Lime, ignoring her. “I’ll boil up this river and cook you into stew! I’ll send this whole wood crashing down on top of your oversized head! Let the human go and never, ever come back here again!”

The hippocamp chuckled. “What sights one sees on land,” she said. “What oddities: a little damselfly who talks like a conquering queen. Why don’t you show me these fearsome powers of yours, my damsel? I’ve never seen a river boil, nor a whole forest felled in an instant.”

“Don’t mock me!” said Lime. “I’m deadly serious!”

“Really?” said the hippocamp. “Then would you like me to treat you as a serious threat?” An invisible power plucked at the strings of Lime’s heart, and she heard music, each note as clear as water, as sharp as salt, and unspeakably, painfully beautiful.

“Cover your ears!” said Slugsy, but the song of the hippocamp pierced through flesh and bone, seeping through the runnels of the brain. The music flooded the deepest recesses of Lime’s memory, dredging up visions of the past, nostalgic sensations. There she was only a few days ago, in her ragged clothes, traveling through the roots of the world. There she was in the Library, in an austere but comfortable room, engrossed in a quarter-century’s reading. And before that…

The music grew languid and sweet, like nectar pooled in scented petals, like jewel-bright orchids dripping from the stalk. There was no more river, no more Woeful Woods. There was only golden sunlight rich as honey, and soft rain misting through evergreen leaves. Beneath the rainbow’s arc, the insects sang long-forgotten melodies, and branches swayed beneath the weight of flowers plump as grapes.

Lime curled in a nest of dried herbs and fragrant camphor, sheltered by the wings of her fellow fairies. All her clan were with her: the ones who had first found her when she was small and loved and petted her, the ones who had taught her all the secrets of speech and flight and magic. Bathed in the light of their bodies, enveloped in warmth and scent, she closed her eyes and sunk into their embrace.

“Sleep, little Lime,” the fairies cooed, in voices that were all one voice. “Sleep and forget those years of solitude. All is well, and all is as it was before.”

“Before what?” Lime muttered, sleepily.

“Before nothing,” the fairies said, rocking Lime in their arms, passing her from lap to lap. “There is no more before and no more after, only a perfect, golden now. Each day will flow into the next as sweetly as a stream of nectar, and the green things will grow, and the rains will fall gentle and nourishing.”

“The rain,” said Lime, her eyes fluttering open. “There was a storm.”

“Don’t think of the storm,” the fairies scolded, pinching her sides and tweaking her antennae. “Naughty child, coddled brat—don’t think of it!” Yet already the golden light of the sun had thinned to a sickly yellow. The rain fell fast and heavy.

“It can’t last,” said Lime. “It won’t last.”

“Don’t!” the fairies wailed. Lime broke from their arms and lurched upright.

“It won’t last,” she said, “because one day, a storm will come and tear me away from here, out to sea and out to the world’s farthest reaches. And I’ll wash ashore on that cold country where only the Origin Tree grows: where I’ll find a magnificent Library, but no more orchids, and no more family, and no more way back home—and I’ll be alone, alone forever!”

The clan of fairies dissolved in the pelting rain. The trees bowed low beneath typhoon winds, and the sea rose up to swallow everything. Lime floundered in the waves, gasping for breath and clawing at the water, but the ocean gripped her like the coils of a serpent.

Filling her fangs with venom, Lime buried her head beneath the hippocamp’s scales and bit down as hard as she could.

The honey-sweet music cut to a terrible screech. The hippocamp’s coils slackened. Lime tumbled onto the riverbank, and Erskine thudded beside her.

“Vile gnat!” spat the hippocamp. “Wicked little wasp!” The tip of her tail drooped uselessly in the mud, numbed by Lime’s venom. “I could have given you a peaceful death, but you’d rather struggle, would you, my damsel? I’ll crush you like the insect you are!”

Lime tried to fly, but the mud clung to her wings. The hippocamp lunged at her, a wall of grey bulk, inescapable as a tidal wave.

Before the hippocamp crashed to the ground, an enormous hand scooped Lime up and snatched her to safety. Erskine stumbled up the bank, clutching Lime protectively to their chest.

“What happened?” they said. “Why does everything smell like vinegar?”

“To cover up your thief-like stench,” snarled the hippocamp, rising from the mud. “You’ll pay for stealing my skin, adventurer!”

“Wait!” said Erskine, backing towards the trees. “I still have the skin. If you let me get it—”

“After it’s been defiled by your human hands?” said the hippocamp. “I think not!” She undulated closer, fangs bared and eyes gleaming menacingly.

Lime climbed out from Erskine’s fingers and perched on their wrist. “I thought I told you to slither back to the ocean!” she growled. “Or did you want another dose of venom?”

“Your fondness for this adventurer confounds me,” said the hippocamp. “What fairy would risk her life for a human? Do you have even the least grain of self-respect?”

“Fondness has nothing to do with it,” said Lime. “I just…”

“Just what?” said the hippocamp. “Illuminate me.”

“I just—It’s just,” said Lime, “if anyone has the right to kill this human, it’s me!”

“What?” said Erskine.

“Oh?” said the hippocamp.

“The human took an old dried-up skin you weren’t even using anymore,” said Lime, “and you think that gives you the right to season them up like a roast and eat them alive?”

“It’s a matter of principle,” said the hippocamp. “If I let one adventurer steal my cast-offs and live, more are sure to follow, each one bolder and greedier than the last.”

“That’s nothing,” said Lime. “Nothing at all. You know what the human did to me? They put me in a salt-shaker!”

“That sounds bad,” said Erskine, “but it was a really big salt-shaker. Like the kind you would put shaved Parmesan in? I thought it would be more comfortable.”

“You hear that?” said Lime. “They even admit to it!”

“And there are air holes already in it,” said Erskine, “so I figured, compared to a jam jar—”

“Contemptible!” said Lime. “Just terrible! I’m the one this human has wronged the most, and I’m the one who’s going to kill them, no matter what any sea-beast has to say about it!” She grabbed Erskine’s index finger and bit down: a dry bite, without venom.

“Why?” cried Erskine, eyes brimming with tears of pain.

“Pretend to die, idiot,” hissed Lime in Vernacular Fey.

Erskine, to their credit, caught on quickly. They fell to the ground like a sack of rocks and lay there with their eyes closed, breathing softly. “There,” said Lime. “It’s done.”

“Really?” said the hippocamp. “They don’t smell dead.”

“With all that vinegar, how would you know?” said Lime.

“I think,” said the hippocamp, “I may still try to eat them. If you’ve had your revenge, you’ll raise no further objections, surely?”

“Go ahead,” said Lime. “If you’re not afraid of all the paralytic venom sloshing in their veins.”

The hippocamp retracted her fangs and stared at Lime, her scales glittering in the moonlight, her harp-strings still and gleaming. Lime stared back, defiant.

At last, the hippocamp gave a short, bitter laugh. “Grandmother was right,” she said. “As the sea is full of fishes, the land is full of fools. I’ve wasted my time here.” She lowered her great head and slipped gracefully into the river, a stream of salt-white and storm-grey.

As she swam oceanward, she called behind to Lime and Erskine. “Beware, my damsel! Beware, little thief! If I ever see a green fairy or a stinking red-headed adventurer on the shores of Crab’s Cairn again, no force on land or sea will stay my wrath!” With that, she plunged beneath the water; the white harp sunk into the depths.

“Is she gone?” asked Erskine.

“Gone enough,” said Lime. “Good job, by the way, almost getting gobbled up by a snake.”

“It was a shed skin,” said Erskine, rising to their feet. “I didn’t think anyone would miss it.” They brushed the dirt from their pajamas. Their eyes widened. “Oh, no! Is that Slugsy?”

A blue light flickered in the shallows. It was indeed Slugsy, laying stunned beneath the water. A few fish-like scales had blossomed on her forehead, and on her neck Lime could see the faint lines of developing gills.

Erskine lifted Slugsy from the riverbed and petted her gently on the back until she coughed up a gout of fluid. “No,” she gasped. “No, no, no! Have I turned into a water sprite?”

“It’s fine,” said Lime. “You’ve still got legs.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a water sprite,” said Erskine.

Slugsy peeled the scales from her forehead and leapt into the air. She glanced from Lime to Erskine and back. “Ah!” she said. “Listen, human. It might look like Loner escaped, but she didn’t. She was ensorcelled by the hippocamp, just like you.”

To Lime, she directed a not-so-subtle wink.

“Honestly,” said Erskine, “that was one of the last things on my mind. Are the two of you okay?”

Lime shrugged. “I guess,” said Slugsy, rubbing at her neck. “How are we not dead, anyway? Where’s the hippocamp?”

“I ran her off,” said Lime.

“She ran her off,” said Erskine.

“No,” said Slugsy. “I mean, really.”

“You got me,” said Lime. “The human tricked her, and she swam away.”

“I didn’t—” Erskine began.

“Enough talking!” said Lime. “Good night, Slugsy. Let’s get going, human.” She wiped the last flecks of mud from her wings and flew into the woods.

“Wait!” said Erskine, jogging after. “Where are you going?”

“Back to my salt-shaker,” said Lime. “I’m your prisoner, remember?”

“But you saved my life,” said Erskine.

Lime fluttered to a halt and hovered in place. “What of it?”

“According to the Law, I’m in your debt,” said Erskine, catching up. “You can ask me for anything. So aren’t you going to ask to go free?”

For reasons she didn’t fully understand, Lime hesitated. She hadn’t thought of it that way, but it was true: she had saved Erskine’s life. All she had to do was say “yes,” and she could leave the Woeful Woods forever. She could return to the Library and read and be alone, without anyone to bother her, or bully her, or talk to her ever again.

She felt an inexplicable ache in her heart. She had lived and read in the Library for twenty-five years in perfect contentment, so why, now, did the thought of going back there fill her with such a strange sense of unease?

Then she realized. It was the books, of course. She thought back to all of the books in Erskine’s room. They were human novels, mostly: books the Library—with its outdated selection of non-fairy literature—hadn’t carried, books she might never see again. To leave them behind unread would be tragic, unthinkable. She couldn’t possibly abandon them. Her mind raced.

“I might have saved your life,” said Lime, “but you saved mine, too. So that evens out to nothing.”

“Still,” said Erskine.

“Hush!” said Lime, flitting away. “It’s the middle of the night. Go home, and take a shower.”

“I was going to,” said Erskine. “And hey: wait up!” Lime didn’t pay them any mind. She zipped through the shadows and through the trees, into the garden of the lone little house, ducking beneath the boughs of crepe myrtles, skimming the dewy leaves of roses. She darted through the open door and alighted on the sofa, snuggling onto a coarse green cushion. She took out her book, and breathed a sigh of relief.

When Erskine returned, Lime glared at them, daring them to mention the empty salt-shaker.

“It’s fine if you want to use the sofa,” said Erskine. “Did you want a blanket, too? It feels a bit drafty.”

Lime gave an irritable twitch of her antennae.

“Except a blanket’s probably too big for you, isn’t it?” said Erskine. “Maybe something like a hand-towel would be better? Or a handkerchief?”

“Will you go to bed!” screamed Lime.

“Alright,” said Erskine, shuffling off to the bathroom. “Good night. See you later.” Lime rolled her eyes and returned to her novel.

Somewhere far away, in the brackish depths, a hippocamp swam towards the sea. Pins and needles tingled in her tail. A headache strained at her harp-strings. As she swam, she pieced together the story she would tell her grandmother, upon her return to Crab’s Cairn. She would leave out the green fairy, she decided, among other less-than-flattering details. There were some things not even family needed to know.

In the heart of the Woeful Woods, the blue fairy Slugsy curled in the hollow of a tree, tucked in her little nest of treasures: preserved flowers and spider-silk quilts, engraved egg-shells and foil wrappers pilfered from town. She lay back and rubbed at her neck with a pebble, smoothing away the partly-developed gills.

In the lone house at the edge of the woods, Erskine slept, and a green light shone in the window.