I kicked off my jeans, taking my well-thumbed copy of the works of Shakespeare from the bedside table before crawling, otherwise dressed, into bed. My book-mark was set in the middle of Hamlet. The text was familiar enough to be soothing, and I fell asleep without noticing, sliding straight down into dreaming.

The dreams always start in the same place, and they always start so kindly, with a sunny kitchen in a little house in Oakland, California, and a smiling woman with white-blond hair baking cookies like a Donna Reed fantasy come true. My mother. Amandine.

I always knew she wasn’t human; that’s not the sort of thing you can hide from a kid. It took me longer to understand that I wasn’t human either. They’ve called my mother’s side of the family the Kindly Ones, guardians of the garden path, stealers of children . . . or in her case, before she met my father, assistant clerk at the local five-and-dime. Playing human teenager amused her, and I guess when you plan on living forever, you do whatever it takes to make the days pass. The arcane mechanisms of modern retail served well enough to keep her entertained for a while.

That was in 1950. They say the mortal world was simpler then, but it was complicated enough for her.

Daddy wasn’t like her, and that drew Mother to him like a moth to a flame. She played faerie bride better than I did; she could weave an illusion in an instant, hiding pointed ears and colorless eyes behind a human smile before the people around her had time to blink. She never got caught out by the dawn or wound up shouting excuses from the bathroom while she tried to shove her “face” back into place. The fae are liars, every one of us, and she was the best. They met in 1951, married three months later, and had me in ’52, in the month I was named after.

In the dream, she puts the cookies on the table and takes me in her lap, and we eat cookie dough while we watch the house clean itself, feather duster and broom and mop moving as smoothly as anything animated by Disney. Amandine was really my mother then; she grinned a chocolate smile as she held me, happy as anything with her weird little version of reality. She’d never played faerie bride before. The game enchanted her, and she followed its rules with the scrupulousness that was her hallmark. They were happy. We were happy. That’s something I try to hang on to. We were happy once. She held me in her lap and brushed my hair; she taught me to love Shakespeare. We were a family. Nothing can change that.

My blood meant it was inevitably going to end.