The Fairy's Tale

Chapter One

Bea watched anxiously from the hill as the handsome hero fought his way into the thorns, trying to reach the castle where the heroine lay sleeping.

Everything would be fine, she told herself. He'd looked a strong lad. And that armour was definitely serious stuff. And it was only a plant, for goodness' sake. What harm could a plant do?

It was quite a bit bigger than she'd expected, though.

And, in hindsight, she probably shouldn't have left it alone for so long.

Bea started to chew her thumbnail.

Ten minutes passed.

There was no sign of the hero. By now the briar should have retreated, and the hero should have reached the heroine and woken her with True Love's Kiss.

Bea squinted at the tower, which remained annoyingly unbreached. The story was supposed to finish at sundown, and already the sky was darkening as the sun sank lower on the horizon. If the godmother came back before the hero had reached the tower...

Bea swore.

Puffing and holding her skirts up, she ran down the hill, skidding to a stop in front of the barricade that imprisoned the castle. It was certainly impressive up close. Snaking green branches wove in and out of each other, each one edged with sharp thorns. She glanced to her left, at the horizon. The sun bobbed low, a half circle of brilliant orange.

From somewhere inside the briar, she heard a scream.

Bea rolled up her sleeves and plunged her arms into the mess of branches, ignoring the pain as the thorns ripped at her skin. She closed her eyes, and began to have a very serious discussion with the plant.

Plants don't really have language – they don't have mouths or tongues and teeth, so producing words is, understandably, something of an impossibility. But that isn't to say they can't communicate. And Bea was a cabbage fairy, which, while offering her absolutely no status at all in the general make up of fae society, did mean she had the trick of communicating with plants.

And so Bea proceeded to tell the briar, in no uncertain terms, exactly what she thought of its somewhat enthusiastic interpretation of her request to keep the castle and the heroine safe, and that, if it wouldn't mind, could it please stop killing the hero and basically, right now, retreat back to the rose garden where it belonged.

Days, weeks and years passed while Bea waited for the briar to respond. The sun was little more than a sliver now, hugging the horizon.

And then the briar pulled back, adding a cross section of tiny cuts to the ones already on Bea's arms. She watched as the branches twisted and turned in on themselves as they retreated back across the castle, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

The hero was revealed, waving his sword around and thankfully without any serious harm having befallen him or his horse. He hacked at the already greatly diminished briar, a determined and, Bea privately felt, somewhat constipated look on his face. The courtyard cleared, he jumped off his horse and dashed into the tower. The briar returned to the rose garden, and, perhaps by way of apology, started to flower.

Bea dropped heavily to the ground, a cold sweat making her skin clammy, and fixed her eyes on the tower. With every turn the hero made inside the tower she was able to the see him run past the narrow windows. He reached the turret just as the sun went down.

Bea fell backwards, exhaustion and relief flooding her body.

A shadow fell across her.

"What are you doing down here? You should be watching from the hill."