Tags: accidental baby acquisition, fae and fairy folk, fostering, hand fasting, lesbian character, magic user, mutual pining, parenthood, past tense, pov third person limited, reunion, second chances, star-crossed lovers, wedding, witch, wlw
*
The mists hung over the forest like a shroud, wending and weaving through the conifers and half-barren oaks like chiffon. This close to Samhain, it was easy to believe the veil between this world and the spirit world was an actual, physical thing brushing against Isla’s skin. She shivered and tied her cardigan tighter. Perhaps it hadn’t been a great idea to travel so deep into the forest alone.
This forest was one of the kindest she’d ever wandered in, and generous, too. The wicker basket that bounced against her leg as her rain boots crunched over twigs and fallen leaves was almost full. King Bolete mushrooms, chanterelles, and a handful of Oregon truffles would make a rich soup; rose hips and hawthorn berries would make a tasty dessert. But, in the early morning, the forest belonged to the Fair Folk and the night creatures. She had an understanding with the fae—a silent pact they’d agreed to long ago. She could intrude upon their hours to share the forest’s bounty with the other Magic Kin as long as she abided by their rules.
In a world of smartphones and freeways, they each did their part to keep the ancient ways. She had no enemies here, but that didn’t mean there was no danger.
This morning, the air carried more aromas than the usual sea salt, damp moss, and humus. Anise and clove itched Isla’s nose. Beneath the orchestra of crickets staging their final performance and the calls of the morning birds was a persistent hum, as if the forest itself sang. Not the creatures, or the wind, or the trickling of a steam—it was the ferns and the flowers, the stones and the branches. They were alive with ancient magic, and not of the human variety.
Time to get away from the things mortals shouldn’t meddle in. Isla turned to leave.
A breeze rustled her hair and caressed her cheek the way a parent might. As if compelled, she stopped at the edge of a babbling creek.
“Shhh.” The wind picked up and whispered in a woman’s voice. The mists grew more dense. The hum of magic flooded Isla’s heart until it tightened in her chest, near to bursting. “Stay.”
Everything stilled and fell silent. Even the ever-present roar of distant waves disappeared until it was just Isla, the quickening of her breath, and the thunderous beating of her heart. She grew roots and became one with the towering pines.
The Magic Kin knew when the Fair Folk gave an order, one listened.
Her ears strained. She needed something, anything: a voice; a whisper; an answer. This silence was unnatural, like a grave.
Who would run the Bubble and Brew if the Fair Folk took her prisoner for breaking their laws? Who would infuse Mrs. Patel’s morning coffee with the spells to ease her arthritic pain? Who would take over her hearth and provide the Magic Kin with their gathering place, tucked away from the mundane world?
Just as she imagined her life without her in it, a powerful cry, full of righteousness and fury, ripped through the silence.
An infant’s cry.
The wind wrapped her in a cocoon of nutmeg and anise with swirling leaves the color of flames. “Stay.”
On the other side of the creek, half-hidden by foliage, the silhouette of a woman rushed through the trees, familiar like a forgotten dream. The figure ducked down and, moments later, the infant’s cries settled.
“There you are. They sent me across an ocean and an entire continent to find you, my love,” a gentle voice spoke, transformed into something ethereal by the magic, but carrying notes of the Scottish Highlands. That, too, was familiar, and Isla’s spirit drifted toward warm memories of a country far away and a life she’d left behind. “You’re home now.”
Isla sank to the ground and tried to ignore the moisture soaking into her jeans. She focused on breathing and allowed the memories to fill her so her mind wouldn’t flood with thoughts of faerie children and the complicated relationship between the Magic Kin and the Fair Folk.
Those days in Scotland were spent in carefree roaming, in mentorship, and in learning magical forest stewardship.
The other things that happened, she didn’t dwell on.
Gradually, the singing of the morning birds and the buzz of insects returned. The stream and the ocean added their rhythm and harmony to the chorus. The sun was above the horizon now, the skies brightening from navy to gray. The first of her customers would be looking for their morning coffee, but she couldn’t leave the forest yet.
Water splashed around her boots as she crossed the stream. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary on the tree trunks around her or in the branches above. She continued deeper until she found an ovular clearing. In the center stood a perfect faerie circle of flat, white mushrooms. The circle beckoned, and despite hundreds of warnings never to enter the ritual spaces of faeries, she stepped inside.
The magic was new and strong; Isla had felt something like it only once. Back then, it hadn’t tasted so fresh, nor had it filled her with warmth as she drank it in like mulled apple cider. It rolled over her skin and sank into her pores.
It felt like love.
It felt like belonging.
It was hard to tear herself away.
*
“Good morning, Isla! Blessed be!” Gordon Bailey’s voice boomed as he stepped in the doorway three days after Isla’s morning adventures. “What a beautiful day for our Samhain celebration.”
Isla jumped and turned on a heel, her hands covered in flour and her counters covered in sea-salt-and-rosemary sourdough. “You scared me!”
She took a deep breath to calm her runaway heart. If she didn’t, it’d probably flee back into the forest, to the faerie circle with its mushrooms laid out like children’s toys arranged for some forgotten game.
“Lost in thought?”
“You could say that.” She moved to the sink and washed her hands. Truth was, since then, she’d been a ghost in her own home, too full of questions to be truly present. Why had the Fair Folk let her see such a sacred ritual as the gifting of a non-magical faerie child to their human foster mother? Why had they let her step into their circle without punishment and allowed their magic to infect her?
“Well, today is a day for reflection.” His smile took up half his face and brought out the wrinkles in his brown skin. “It’s for new beginnings, too, if you’re open to them.”
“Would you like your usual, or is it too late for caffeine?” This conversation was heading down a familiar path.
“Yes, please. If I don’t, Miss Elsie’s cider will put me to sleep in the middle of the harvest feast.”
“That’s true.” She set about filling a teapot with hot water, scooped her strongest black tea, and selected a seal-shaped tea infuser—Gordon’s favorite—from her varied collection, which included everything from magical runes to a replica of a space shuttle. Every tea drinker in the community had a favorite, and she remembered each person’s.
“Running this place and hosting these community celebrations is too much for one person,” Gordon said. There it was. “How long are you going to live in this big house and handle all the cooking, brewing, spelling, and event planning yourself?”
She placed a milk jug and sugar bowl on his tray along with a Salal berry Danish to hold him over until the feast. “As long as I must, I suppose. I’m not like my father—my magic doesn’t call me anywhere. I prefer a single hearth and deep roots.”
“All the more reason you shouldn’t be alone.” Gordon’s eyes held kindness overlaying concern. She coaxed her magic awake and whispered a blessing for good health over his food, then passed the tray to him.
Once, she’d thought she’d found someone to share her hearth—a beautiful woman to love forever. It hadn’t been meant to be. She’d never tell him how much she envied the women who flitted through their community, minds free from dreams of wives, swaddling blankets, and cradles. She longed for that freedom.
Nor would she tell him she was in love with a woman whose address she didn’t know—couldn’t know—who spoke to her through ink on thick paper in letters that fell from open flames.
“I’ve met all the women here. None of them suit, and I won’t move. I’ll be blessed when the time is right,” she said firmly, more for her benefit than his. He handed her cash, and she made his change. “Besides, I’m not too lonely, and my coven helps with the festivities.” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “You know how efficient they are.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Sometimes I think people need to get out and help their blessings along, if you know what I mean.” He wrinkled his nose, deepening the crevices around his eyes, then took a huge sniff of the air around her. “Unless someone else has decided to intervene. I wondered when they were going to get involved, given who your mother was.” He shook his head. “Never mind, forget I said anything. Just an old man rambling. You get back to your rolls, and I’ll see you later.”
Isla stared after him as he took a seat in a corner of the empty coffee shop. What did he know of the faeries getting involved in her life, and what did it have to do with her long-dead mother?
*
“Me next, me next!” little Talia Hernandez shouted, or perhaps it was Gracie Lin? Isla had trouble telling the girls’ squeaky voices apart. She scanned the bouncing, frenetic crowd of children surrounding the caramel-apple bar, saw it was Talia, nodded to acknowledge her, and dipped her chin toward Talia’s toddler brother, Gabriel, with his wide brown eyes. She smiled at him, and smiled wider when he returned it.
“I’ll give you both yours and Gabe’s. You can help him put toppings on his before getting your own.”
Isla handed Talia two caramel apples; Talia gave a solemn nod, as if she were being entrusted with a valuable artifact. Gabe jumped up and down beside her, little hands reaching.
“I want. Gimme!”
“Shall I take over?” asked Elbe, a member of her coven who was as thin and tall as a willow. “You should walk around.”
“You know, maybe I should.” Isla smiled and wiped her hands on a rag. “Thank you.”
Isla’s coffee shop of crystal, sea stones, driftwood, and shells had been transformed into a magical realm of twinkling lights and jack-o-lanterns carved with fairy-tale scenes. The community’s harvest overflowed the back counter: a cake here; a farm-fresh ham there; a round of cheese aged for almost a year; a pound of butter made just yesterday; and so much more. Magic Kin had poured out of their isolated homes, left their small, distant communities, and piled their city covens into rented vans to come out and celebrate as they did every year.
Their laughter and joy filled Isla with a buzzing, excitable energy.
“Beautiful, as usual.” Mrs. Patel said as Isla passed by the elders grouped in a corner. Gordon’s laughter roared above the crowd, and when Isla turned to look, Miss Elsie seemed pleased with herself. “Won’t you sit with us for a bit, Isla?”
“Maybe later.”
“At least take some cider.” Miss Elsie pressed a stein into her hand, and Isla wouldn’t dream of refusing it. She took a large draft of the crisp-and-spicy brew.
“Even better than last year,” she said before she wandered off, leaving Miss Elsie beaming behind her.
“Isla, come, rest a moment.” Maria called, gesturing for Isla to join her at a table in the center of the room. She was as lovely and round as a mother goddess, and favored by one as well: Talia and Gabriel belonged to her, and, in another month, there’d be a third Hernandez. Along with the newborn that Starla, with her rosy cheeks and pearly smile, nursed beside Maria, it’d bring their coven’s brood up to eight. All those who’d wanted to become mothers had done so.
All but her.
“There’s a seat next to me,” Starla said.
Isla gave her a smile and spared another for the tiny bundle in her arms. “I’m making my rounds.”
She should join in the fun. Samhain usually filled her energy well for months, but her heart was in the forest. She’d be less lonely if she told them what had happened, but the fostering of a faerie child was something the Magic Kin only knew of because they were taught. How could she explain what she’d witnessed through the mist?
Gordon’s laughter peaked again. Isla spared a look in his direction as she stepped behind her counter. He knew something about all this.
“Excuse me,” an accented voice asked in a Highlands lilt. “I was wondering if you have any warm water I could use for formula. My daughter’s about to start wailing like a banshee.”
Caught while lost in her thoughts—for the second time that day!—Isla started and jerked around.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten—” The woman cut off as her mouth fell open. The newborn, wrapped in a sling around her chest, grunted and rooted while shaking her perfect little fist.
Isla’s breath caught. Time froze, like a spell had been cast on the café, like a scene from a movie. The woman before Isla was also in her thirties, and long, brown hair hung in waves down to her collar bone, framing a face with tired, obsidian eyes.
Hers was the voice that had haunted Isla for three days. In silent, sleepy moments, the memory of her had hummed like the wind through the trees. In the dark of the night, she’d danced through the exposed eaves of Isla’s bedroom like a sprite causing mischief. She’d reverberated between the folds of Isla’s brain, twisting and shifting, so familiar, but her identity had remained out of reach.
Oh, how had Isla not realized?
This voice was beloved—the voice of warm summers and chilly falls and first love whispered under the pale moonlight while laying on pillows of meadow grasses, the voice of blood oaths whispered at midnight while passion and power coursed through hot veins. The magic had been too strong for twenty-two-year-old girls drunk on romance novels.
This was the voice of broken hearts and partings, of longings and regrets.
This was the voice Isla had imagined as she’d read a hundred letters over the last decade.
And here it was—here she was. The veil between the worlds must have been thin indeed.
What were the Fair Folk getting at, bringing her here after—
Now wasn’t the time to dwell on that.
“Aven.” Isla’s whisper was almost inaudible over the din of the party.
Aven’s round face had aged, narrow lines sculpted into her fair skin. Her freckled cheeks were more bone than fat, now. The painter of years had enhanced her beauty: turned a girl into a maiden into a mother. Aven’s allure raised goosebumps on Isla’s arms.
Aven didn’t respond. She only blinked, as surprised to find Isla here as Isla was surprised to find her.
The little one let out a whine and shook her head with its wisps of straight, black hair. Isla studied her. Under the padding of her cheeks was a bone structure far more similar to Isla’s than to Aven’s. Isla frowned. At her side, her fingers twitched. She wanted to touch the baby, to hold her, to feel the essence of her new life and understand why she’d been brought here.
“Right, water. You need warm water, and I have plenty.” Isla attempted to smile, but it came out stretched and lopsided, uncertain of what expression it wanted to be. The baby began to cry, and Aven’s attention shifted. She bounced and shushed and hummed as Isla hurried to fill a pitcher.
“Let me,” she offered with her arms open as Aven dug through her diaper bag. Aven didn’t hesitate, and moments later Isla held a squirming, red-faced fury.
“Hush, wee one. Your mama will have food in a second,” she murmured. Her power came to life of its own accord, awakened by the baby. The child calmed, dark eyes fixed on Isla’s face, as the magic in Isla sang to something inside her. Almost like blood magic. But that was impossible. Isla had no brothers and sisters. Her mother was dead, and her father was “chilling” in Sussex, per his last phone call, a widower studying the impact of mushroom moods on spell work.
None of them were fae.
Aven reached to take the baby back, and Isla gave her up reluctantly. “What’s her name?”
“Shaela.” A beautiful name. “She’s—”
“Let’s talk tomorrow, when there are fewer people around.” Isla nodded toward the crowd and hoped Aven would catch on to her body language, because Isla could feel Gordon’s eyes on her back. The emotions they were projecting had probably caught the attention of every empath in the room, and Shaela’s cries had caught the attention of the elders. A new member of the community, and with a baby no less. No better siren’s call. “I’ll open the door when I wake. Come by anytime.”
*
Isla’s dreams were of moonlight and blood-smeared hands bound with a golden cord. There were whispered vows and breezes of swirling flower petals. There was the scent of butterscotch magic and laughter that carried in the midnight sky over crag and creek. Aven was warm beside Isla, and her kisses were sweet. Soft hands traveled over bodies freely shared. Their magic sang, woven together like the knotted cord at their feet.
One knot. These are the hands of the one who loves you most. Your best friend who promises to love you forever as maiden, mother, and crone.
Two knots. These are the hands that will help build your future, stone by stone, in any weather and through every storm.
Three knots. These are the hands that will show you passion…
Isla’s dreams turned. Anise and clove singed her nose. The breeze’s gentle caresses turned to sharp lashes, and a whisper in the wind said,
“She has given you what she cannot give. It’s no fault of her own. She didn’t know.”
There was danger in the air, intangible, like an electric current—safe as long as she didn’t touch it. The voices carried no malice, only a too-human blend of sorrow, regret, and resignation.
“This bond, we must break.”
Isla found herself alone in the center of a faerie circle in a field of blooming heather and mountain thyme. There was no laughter, no wind, no whispers. No sound at all.
The breaking of a heart, it turned out, was a silent affair.
She woke with heavy eyes and a dry mouth. Her heart pounded against her ribcage with the force of a timpani drum. Despite the autumn chill, she was warm, so she opened the window and gazed at the cliffside behind the café and at the sea beyond it, white-capped waves catching the pre-dawn light. The ocean’s perfume washed away the spice of faerie magic.
Pulling her gaze away, Isla’s eyes traveled to the necklace of hag stones hanging from the curtain rod. Aven had collected them for her over the years of their relationship. Isla reached up and ran her fingers along them. They were for luck, Aven had said.
Down, she moved, until she hit the row of wishing stones on the window sill. Aven had gifted her those, too, so her dreams would always come true.
How little they’d known then.
Some of the stones were the size of ping-pong balls, others as large as baseballs. Some were dark, others light. Each had a single, unbroken ring of quartz around their circumference. Her father had balked when she insisted all forty-two needed to make the journey back to the United States with her.
There were only a couple dozen left now. Many had carried her wishes into the sea over the last eleven years. Some of those wishes had come true. Others, well… maybe Aven’s arrival was a good sign.
She touched each one until she landed on the first Aven had given her the day they’d met as awkward fourteen-year-olds with limbs too long and dreams too big.
“I hope you’re not boring. It’s been naught but my brothers and me for ages,” Aven had said in an accent so thick Isla had squinted as she struggled to understand.
Isla picked up the stone and held it between her hands, then poured the only true wish she’d had for eleven years into it.
“Please, give her back to me.”
*
The bells on the door rang when Isla was halfway through her triple-shot Americano. She caught a whiff of butterscotch and set down the singed page she’d been reading—Aven’s first letter, sent in defiance of the Fair Folk. When it had fallen through the flames of Isla’s fireplace, she’d been so surprised that it’d caught fire before she could retrieve it.
Don’t tell me where you are. Don’t tempt me that way. But tell me how you are. I can’t stand not knowing. This spell will find me wherever I am.
They’d tried to schedule their letters after that.
When she turned, she found Aven in the doorway, face pale and eyes framed by shadows. She wore a simple sweater dress over leggings; a möbius wrap held the infant against her chest. Judging by the waxiness of her skin, she couldn’t have slept more than a couple of hours.
She was breathtaking.
Isla wove her way through mismatched tables and chairs until she stood before Aven. Uncertainty flashed in Aven’s eyes. Amazement and disbelief, too.
“It’s not a dream?” Her accent was thick in her exhaustion. Good thing Isla had learned to understand long ago.
“Not unless we’re dreaming together.” Isla’s hand floated to Aven’s cheek until they touched, and she felt warmth and energy beneath her fingertips. She snatched her hand back. Aven hadn’t given Isla permission to touch her so intimately, and it’d been eleven years since they were together. Isla’s body remembered the shape of her, but both their shapes had changed.
Aven frowned.
“Isla…” The name was spoken like a prayer, like hope for water on a scorching day.
“Come in. Sit down. You must be exhausted.” Isla’s Pacific Coast non-accent sounded flat to her ears. How could Aven see her as anything but inelegant and lumbering? Her hands were rough from a decade of washing dishes and foraging in the forest. Fine lines stretched out from her eyes and lips. It wouldn’t be too many years until those fine lines turned to canyons. They weren’t so young anymore.
Yet, Aven’s gaze remained on her. She showed no interest in Isla’s driftwood or jasper art, nor in the apothecary jars filled with tumbled agates, glowing orange with witch-light.
She was intent solely on Isla.
“Coffee or tea?” It was a safe question. Conversations like these were easier with a drink in hand.
Aven took a seat. “I’d love some tea.”
Heading behind the counter, Isla assembled Aven’s breakfast. Odd how she remembered Aven’s favorite blend. She picked out the owl tea infuser, because she’d never forgotten that Aven loved owls. She knew Aven preferred fruity breakfast pastries over spicy ones. Aven took the tray with a smile, checked on the baby sleeping against her chest, then poured water from the pot over the infuser. Each move was calculated, almost ritualistic.
Before Aven’s tea finished steeping, Shaela woke.
“I came prepared.” Weariness suffused Aven’s words. She pulled a full bottle from her diaper bag. “Not like last night.”
“May I?” Isla reached out, drawn to the baby, eager to hold her again.
Aven nodded, relieved, and handed the child gently across the table, then passed the bottle, already warm—she must have heated it before coming over.
“I was in the forest four days ago,” Isla said as she slipped the bottle into Shaela’s mouth. It took effort to tear her eyes away from the girl’s intense stare. Her magic stirred again, but she was alert to it now, and she convinced it to rest. “I didn’t know you were a fae-chosen foster mother.”
Aven didn’t look surprised that she’d guessed.
“I thought we’d be together, and I’d have time to tell you.” Aven said, fiddling with the diffuser. The owl swam in and out of murky tea waves. “Ma never told me the rules—that the Fair Folk had to approve my lover, that they’d only allow me to be with someone they trusted.”
It made sense. Hundreds of years ago, or so the stories went, the Fair Folk had selected families to care for the children born to them who showed no faerie magic as infants. Such youths were better off in the mundane world. If they developed powers as teenagers, they transitioned back. If not, they continued to live among the Magic Kin.
“I’ve not found anyone since. No one is…” she trailed off, eyes growing cloudy.
The same? Adequate? As beautiful and wonderful? Isla’s heart knew how to finish the sentence.
How awful to know the Fair Folk had found Isla so wanting that they’d broken a blood oath and ripped two hearts to shreds.
But…
“They’ve brought you here, after they tore us apart? They never do anything without a reason.”
“I was told to be in your forest, at that moment, and not to be late. I thought it was absurd, but it was an order.”
Aven dug in her bag and produced something which she slid across the table. “I found her swaddled in a basket with this resting atop her.”
A golden cord lay between them, stained dark brown in places. The aroma of butterscotch and mulling spices were thick around it. Isla reached out and touched it, and Aven did too. A hum rose from the cord and a wave of power washed over them, then moved beyond them, stronger than anything Isla had felt since the night their bond had broken.
*
Gordon arrived first. At Isla’s raised brow, he shrugged. “We know to come when the Fair Folk call.”
Within twenty minutes the café was full. People had dressed in simple clothing and brought coins, stones, and flowers from their homes. They spoke quietly. Isla’s coven surrounded her, the children unusually subdued, even Talia and Gracie. Miss Elsie tossed Isla a questioning glance, but she had no answers, only the same humming, tugging energy that’d drawn everyone to come together.
They marched into the forest with Isla and Aven leading the way. Isla cradled Shaela in one arm and held Aven’s hand with her free hand.
They came to the clearing with the faerie circle. Without even a look between them, she and Aven stepped into the center.
Driven by the ancient magic that lived in their souls and bones, each member of the community placed their gift inside the circle one by one, then took position around it. They didn’t know the ritual, but their magic did.
The breeze picked up after the last gift was placed. “Have you ever wondered, child, why we let you in during our times?” It lifted Isla’s hair and twisted around her. She pulled Shaela closer. “Did your father ever tell you he stole a rebellious daughter from a nobleman’s house?”
The voice was familiar. The same speaker had broken their blood oath eleven years ago. She’d held such regret and sadness when she’d done so; her feelings were harder to read now.
“It angered our father, so he wanted nothing to do with you.” The wind felt like a hand on her cheek. The air shimmered, and a woman with skin as pale as a seashell and hair dark as midnight appeared in a gown of rainbow mists, hand placed where Isla had felt the touch to her face. “I was against it. We don’t abandon our children, even those born without faerie magic. I’ve watched over your entire life.”
She gazed down.
“Now I ask you to watch over my daughter. I trust no one more. Raise her with love. Raise her to know her blood.” She smiled and winked. “Raise her with a hint of rebellion.” She kissed her daughter’s forehead and stepped back. “Do so together. I know of your letters and your dedication to each other; your bond will be stronger than before. When you’re ready, we’ll require an offering.”
They’d been ready for eleven years.
The wishing stone warmed in Isla’s pocket. She took her hand from Aven’s, withdrew it, and held it between them. The stone held a decade of hopes and dreams for this moment. What better offering?
“I’ve grown boring these last few years. I hope you don’t mind.” Tears fell as Isla passed the stone to Aven.
“I know. I’ve read your letters. It’s the right kind of boring, I think.” Aven pulled a piece of burnt paper covered in Isla’s handwriting from her diaper bag. Isla folded it around the stone, pressed the package between her palms, closed her eyes, then gave it to the faerie woman—gave it to her aunt.
“This will do.” The woman faded away, leaving the clearing buzzing with power. Isla gently laid Shaela on the ground between them. Their foster daughter was alert, as fascinated by the magic as everyone else. Around them, the Magic Kin reached out to take each other’s hands.
Aven sliced her palm with a small athemé, also from her bag. Isla took it and sliced her own palm, wincing at the sting. They clasped hands with the community as their witnesses. Aven placed the cord over their hands and wrapped it around their wrists once.
“These are the hands that…”