2

She was Delphinium first. Fidgets second. Ophelia third.

When fairies are born (North American fairies, at least), they are given their names in stages, not all at once. The middle is always the first—fairy ritual is seldom logical—and is simply the name of the flower, bush, or tree they are born from. For fairies, as everyone knows, are creatures of nature in the most intimate sense, sprung from magic and beauty and wisdom—and even more specifically sprouted from lilacs, pine trees, and mulberry bushes (though there were several fairies, Ophelia thought, who must have sprung from tree stumps or boulders for all the sense they had). A leaf unfurls, a flower’s petals part, and there, uncurling alongside and stretching his or her sun-blessed limbs, is a fairy in the flesh.

Perhaps you’ve seen it happen, though you wouldn’t know it. Fairies are nothing if not stealthy. Stealthy and quick-witted. And a touch mischievous.

The flower or tree a fairy springs from undoubtedly says something about her, contributes to her personality. Fairies emerge from redwood trees a little stouter than those stemming from phlox. Pansy-plucked fairies have a more delicate disposition than those born from bamboo.

Certain plants are more likely to harbor fairies in them as well. There are probably more fairies with the middle name of Rose than any other (Ophelia could count six in her department alone). Several with the middle name of Lily. Lots of Tulips and Violets and Daffodils. Quite a few Oaks and Maples and Birches.

Delphinium was a rare middle name for a fairy, which suited Ophelia just fine.

A fairy’s last name is given by his or her Founder, the fairy who came to the outside world and brought the newborn sprite back to the Haven before she could be eaten by a goshawk or snatched by a fox or—worst of all—spotted by a prying human. The Founders are responsible for overseeing the care of new fairies, at least until they were able to care for themselves (which isn’t that long, as fairies are naturally precocious and grow up quickly). As such, Founders are the first to see a new fairy’s personality surface, to pick up on her quirks and ticks, her penchants and predilections. Often that’s where a last name comes from.

Ophelia’s Founder immediately noticed her messing with his buttons and baubles, tugging on the loose threads of his uniform, wriggling and writhing in his arms. She couldn’t be still—even as a newborn—and so it didn’t take him long to figure what her last name should be. “Fidgety little worm, this one,” he said when he returned to the Haven, bringing her home.

And so she was: Delphinium Fidgets.

As for her first name—that was simply a matter of luck. A fairy’s first name was drawn out of a hat. Though not a literal hat. That’s just to say that it was chosen completely at random.

More and more things are like that in the Haven, much to some fairies’ dismay.

Ophelia felt fortunate to have her name. She liked the way the f sounds crashed together, like a hard rain. She liked the mouthfulness of it—a name so long you almost had to take a breath in between. Better than May Rose Crier, the fairy who ran the switchboards and was prone to sobbing jags. And much better than Argus Fothergilla Gaspasser. His Founder must have been sensitive to smells to have given Argus such an unfortunate moniker, though Ophelia could affirm from experience that his last name was well earned. Gus Gaspasser could clear a room faster than you could wish for a breath of fresh air.

Then there was Billy Lily Shrill, who you could hear from a mile away.

Sometimes a name could tell you most everything you needed to know about a fairy. Sometimes it just gave you a hint.

Like Charlie.

Charlie Rhododendron Whistler. It was also a bit of a mouthful, Ophelia admitted, though it didn’t have quite the same ring as her own.

He was a bit of a handful.

That’s sort of why she liked him.