Truly Elemental: And Other Retro Faerie Tales

Dress Up

They tore my wings off. Now, I sit in the dark and tear the wings from butterflies to make myself whole again.

It's a shabby business. A great deal of effort. I don't particularly enjoy it, but, needs must...

I'm not the only one up at late hours. Every night she stands at the window and cries. No tears—but I know she's crying deep deep inside. I feel the tremor of her heart. It makes my fingers tingle.

Tonight is no different.

Joe switched the television off earlier than usual. Sitting on the set, I'm not as warm as I like to be—as I normally am. The tubes have cooled. I click my heels against the bulbous glass screen, in sync with the grandfather clock in the hallway. The tick, tick, tick sounds farther away tonight—probably because I'm too busy to really listen. I'm counting the beats of her sadness, instead.

Shadows cross the living room in long sweeps. Headlamps in the window. A car on the street. For a moment, Nora's carefully contained figure is a silhouette shaped with precision. Her curled hair has yet to be rolled up for the evening, and the cut of her dress gives the illusion of a wasp-like creature.

She is a paradox.

On the outside she is an ideal woman. A man's woman. But inside...

Inside are valleys. I sense them. Wells and mountains and a storm of such ferocity—I half expect to see her burst into flames right there in front of the picture window, taking the patterned curtains with her. She'll eat up the carpet and the modern furnishings, both still as perfect as the day they were bought.

She watches the car pass.

Her silhouette retreats into the dark again.

A whisper at my side reminds me of my work. Picking up a knitting needle, I use both hands to spear the thorax of the fluttering butterfly. I like the spots on this one; lured from the front porch. It will make a lovely accent to my hand stitched creation.

I keep away from moths—too dusty.

I start in with a pair of handmade scissors, slitting the first stem close to the spasming body. One of its legs pokes my thigh, so I clip it off to make room for myself as I ease the wing free like a yard from a bolt.

The butterfly died the moment it met my needle. Unfortunately, it's mind hasn't realized yet.

Nora approaches me—a hush of crinolines and cotton check. Her stocking feet tread the carpet, silent.

"Excuse me," she says, her voice straining soft to avoid arousing her sleeping husband upstairs.

I don't answer her. I'm rarely noticed; skulking inside walls and cabinets. I leave gifts of stray baby's breath or the occasional half-dollar though I take no credit. It's safer not to be noticed. Being noticed means losing your wings.

So I stay quiet and freeze, motionless, like a mouse in danger.

I cease cutting and hold my breath.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you, but, I've seen you here before," Nora says, maintaining her distance. I think she fears I'll run. "I was wondering if you would want some tea? I've baked biscuits for breakfast, but I do feel like a midnight snack. Join me?"

Surprise addles my brain. Invitations were human things. Not faerie. The rules of faerie are reversed: we can go anywhere we wish unless we were expelled. If a household doesn't want us, the people inside call for a clergy. And whap!—gone.

We don't die or anything quite that gruesome, we just move elsewhere. A great inconvenience if you like the home you haunt. And I like my home—the TV is warm and there are no children or pets. Not even a bird.