She knew Geordie would face a grave danger once he left the protection of her court. But not when, or how it would come to him. Only that it would come. And by keeping it at bay, she was denying him the opportunity of growth through adversity. The mettle of men and fairies was tested not by lighthearted revels, but by stepping out into the dark forest of destiny.

She pulled a small leather bag from where it hung under her sweatshirt and opened its mouth. From it she took a token—a small, rough representation of a fiddle made of clay, blood, and spit, one brown hair taken from the head of a fiddler while he was sleeping in her bed, the words that encompassed his true name, and a calling-on glamour.

She regarded it for a long moment, then lifted her gaze to where the dead cousins struck their unnatural, taxidermal poses.

“I don’t do this for you,” she said, speaking to the shadow as though she were still present. “I do it because time can’t be held back forever. I do it for him.”

Then she dropped the clay fiddle to the floor and ground the broken pieces into dust.

“But I would have kept him for a hundred years, if I could.”

Then she, too, stepped away into her own between, and the dead cousins had the central court to themselves for the few hours before the stores opened and the shoppers descended upon the mall.

Jilly Coppercorn

“You’re breaking up with me,” Daniel said.

I looked at him across the kitchen table, the remains of the Indian takeout he’d brought for our supper scattered between us. I understood that he couldn’t quite believe it. I couldn’t quite believe it myself. We’d been together for a couple of years and if there was ever a perfect guy, it was Daniel. But that was the problem. He was too perfect. He was so perfect I was choking on our relationship, but how could I tell him that?

“I think it’s for the best,” I said, which was so lame and not even close to an explanation.

“But we’re such a good fit.”

I shook my head. “We’re not really.”

“We like all the same things.”