The Minister named the child and poured water on it. It lay in his arms, neither stirring nor uttering. He looked grave, and poured on more water. Still the child neither stirred nor uttered. ‘God forgive me,’ said the Minister, ‘but I think I have baptized a changeling!’

Taking the parents aside, he explained to them that as the child had made no remonstrance at the water, there could have been no sin to be driven out of it; therefore, it must be an elfin, a soulless being between Heaven and Hell and of no interest to either. So the best thing to hope for was that the changeling, already sickly and peevish, should die.

But it did not. Between Ailie and the cat, it strengthened, took broth and spoon meat, cut its teeth, learned to speak plain. It was the Minister who died. The thought that he had baptized a changeling so preyed on his mind that he took to walking in his sleep, stumbled into a beehive, and was stung to death. Lacking his sad looks to remind them, the Tods thought less of their misfortune in having a changeling child. Adam was doing well enough. The Minister might have been mistaken. No other person knew of it. Within a handful of years they had no doubt but that the boy was their own child and likely to be a credit to them.

In Elfhame everyone agreed that Tiffany was the prince among all the other stolen children. His cheeks were polished every morning like prize apples. His motions were examined by the court physician. He had a new suit once a month, gold boots, a Shetland pony to ride, and a drum to beat on. He was everybody’s pet and pleasure and his every wish was indulged—save one. From the day when he saw the under­nursemaid spread her wings and fly off to fetch a pillowcase, he was wild to be given a pair of wings. His tutor explained to him that wings cannot be fastened to a human back, and told him the story of Icarus40. His governess assured him that flying is a horrible sensation and would certainly make him sick. Both these persons had wings but kept them neatly folded away. Servants, grooms, stable lads, people who went on errands flew because it was their lot in life; they were brought up to it and it did not make them sick. But in court circles no one dreamed of using his wings unless in an extreme emergency. In all her seven hundred and twenty years Tiphaine had never been known to leave the ground.

In spite of these examples and admonishments, Tiffany thought there could be nothing so glorious, so marvellous, as the act of flying. The ease of the performance convinced him that, wings or no wings, if he gave his mind to it he could go flying himself, as he already did in his dreams; and to study how it was done, he took to frequenting flying company, slinking off to the stables or the kitchen quarters whenever he got the chance. This was reported to Tiphaine. Unannounced and terrible, she came into the servants’ hall. ‘Tiffany,’ she said. ‘Come away. I wish to speak to you.’