y mother stood, with mixing bowl, in the kitchen.

“I need to tell you,” I began, racing downstairs as soon as I woke up to tell my mother what I had seen before she’d turned off the light: a shadow from a faerie that had to have been in our house.

Instead, she lectured over me.

“I hadn’t planned on having to do this all from scratch this morning. I’ll likely be late for my shift. I know you did try yesterday, Enid, so I won’t say that I’m disappointed —” Maybe she wasn’t disappointed (she didn’t sound disappointed), but she also didn’t say anything more. She froze, looking out the window at Mrs. Delavecchio’s garden.

“So, you’re not disappointed,” I prompted.

“I just wonder why,” my mother said, returning to whisking, “you didn’t turn out differently.”

Ouch. So much for the lack of disappointment. “How so?” Stay calm.

“You’re perfectly acceptable, Enid. I just thought I was making you extraordinary.”

More ouch. A harder, harsher, overwhelmingly painful ouch.

“I’ll try not to be so ordinary anymore,” I whispered.

“I never said you were ordinary.” My mother set the mixing bowl down and gave me a rare look, not at the top of my head like usual but right in the eyes.

“No, just that I’m not extraordinary enough for you.”

“And do you think that I am extraordinary enough for you, Enid?”

Of course she was. She was my mother. Not that I was going to tell her that. Ever. Especially after this.

“I thought so,” she said. More mixing bowl. More whisking. “Now let me finish this banishing powder in peace.”

Emotional scarring aside, this seemed important. Banishing? “What did you just say? What are you making?”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up for muffins or the like. I said banishing powder, Enid. What you didn’t help me with yesterday. What we’ve been dusting around regularly since we moved in.”

“It’s called banishing powder?”

“Yes, Enid, it is.”

“I always thought it was called vanishing powder, like with a V.”

“No,” my mother said. “Banishing with a B.”

Which meant, even if I had seen a faerie in the house last night, the powder would banish it. Eureka! I wouldn’t have to tell my mother about the faerie intrusion, and my mother couldn’t then, somehow, blame me for letting the faerie inside (I hadn’t, at least not on purpose). Plus, I’d have a secret from her. How was that for extraordinary: Enid Strange, survived faerie attack on her own home.

Yes, saw a shadow and survived. What pluck.

Oh, hush.

My mother began pouring her mixture into a line of salt shakers. “I made this spell stronger than usual to give us a well-earned reprieve. Of course, we’ll need some more trees.” Her expression softened. “The money we have spent on trees since our move. What must the nurseries around here think of us? Maybe we should borrow Mrs. Delavecchio’s car and drive to some other nursery in some other town.”

“Why?”

“They won’t know us there, Enid. No more smirks of recognition from the employees staffing the till. I hope you have noticed that these employees are always university boys, Enid, working at nurseries for the summer. Perhaps you can break that tradition when you go to university.”

“And work at a nursery?”

“Why not?” Setting aside for the moment her dreams of egalitarian botanical salespersonship, she continued glumly. “I hardly feel like spending my days off canvassing nurseries. I suppose I could call around to see if I can secure a delivery for a large enough order.”

“We should plant our next batch of trees inside,” I said, “so the faeries can’t knock any more of them over.”

“Indoor trees.” My mother’s mouth opened into a wide circle of surprise. “Oh, Enid, why haven’t I thought of that before? We could get some banana trees and hibiscus in large pots and place them in the corners and by the win-dows. What an extremely wonderful idea. Amazing even.”

“Some might say extraordinary,” I muttered.

But not my mother. “Although,” she said, “we will need to get the trees from somewhere for your plan. I’ll sort that out later. Here.” She handed me one of the salt shakers. “Let’s go.”

The principle is the same as spreading around the white silica powder to keep ants out. Spread your vanishing banishing powder along door frames and entryways, including windowsills. (This is why one should never live in a house with overly shallow windowsills; they should at least be hamster-depth.) A thin layer of powder is adequate.

NB: Sweeping the powder away while cleaning, spring or otherwise, renders this method ineffective. As such, it is recommended to affix the grains to the surface. Traditionally, honey or molasses is suggested. However, as these also attract ants (the worst!) I recommend a non-sugar-based sticking agent, like double-sided tape or running a glue stick along the surface you’re going to pour your powder onto.

For faerie variants with wings, mix the powder with water in a spray bottle and spray your window screens.

No one likes having gritty feet. That must be why faeries don’t like to walk across the powder. Flying ones: I guess they don’t want something sticky in their wings. Plus whatever magic is in the pow-der that upsets a faerie’s temperament.