So, here’s the problem with fay monarchs: they’re the most fickle of us—and we’re fickleness made flesh. Why, just yesterday, my bud-sister chucked her favorite earrings in the river, all because a dryad she hates complimented them. Half an hour later I had to dive among the reeds to dig them out of the mud, lest she cry all her tears.
My King, may the salt and the pines exalt her name, is no exception to the rule. (Not that we fay folk make exceptions to rules. That’s you humans’ bailiwick.)
She has commanded me, her humble seamstress, to weave her an evening gown for the season. And you know what’s in season this summer? Sequins.
Now, you may ask, “But little fay, surely your fingers are nimble enough to sew some plastic disks onto fabric?” To which I would answer, hah! Of course I can handle human-made sequins. But can you imagine what my King would do to me if I offered her a gown strewn with plastic? Of course you can’t. Suffice to say, my flesh would be rent.
So I need to find something better. Something magical, yet not done before. Lest I lose any limbs.
The pub is a squat concrete cube near the coast. I chose it because the brine on my tongue helps tolerate the stink of human sweat.
Gazes slide toward me as I walk in; fay folk don’t mingle much with the mundane, especially not in loud, crowded places. The moth wings on my head draw looks, as does the exposed navel below my knitted crop top. For the most part, though, I’m unremarkable. Round ears, black eyes and hair. Not quite the flashiness humans have come to expect from my people.
By the time I’ve reached the counter and made it clear I won’t explode in a puff of glitter, the majority of the onlookers have gone back to their mating rituals. One pair of eyes remain affixed onto me.
“See something you like?” I ask the bartender, perching on a stool. It’s not sticky, praise the pinecones.
The bartender scowls down at me. She’s tall and heavy-set, with buzzed hair that peppers her skull blue and a dampness to her fingers as she unscrews a bottle of flavored vodka. Nereid ancestry, judging by the patches of salt that have dried on the counter.
“Can’t say I do,” she says, her voice rough like sand. Her eyes linger on the symbol inked onto my forearm: the flat canopy of an umbrella pine, there to signal my affiliation to the local seelie court. Then she goes back to mixing drinks.
At least she had the sense not to ask if the tattoo’s fake. Dumber humans have doubted me before, and I had a great time tearing the seams of all their favorite clothes.
I forgo ordering a drink right now, since your liqueurs disgust me. Instead, I cast about for a suitable target. A pretty young thing is sitting two stools down the line, cackling with their friends and scanning the crowd for a different sort of target. Their glass of gin tonic sits unguarded.
My head wings flutter as I raise my finger, an enchantment ready on the tip of my nail. I can taste the sweetness of their dreams already. Children who have just turned adults have the most tender dreamscapes—not to mention the brightest.
“The fuck are you doing?” the bartender asks in the Fair Tongue.
My focus slips and the enchantment peters off. Indignation nettles me. Still, I grin wide enough to hurt when I turn to face her. I know you humans find teeth unsettling.
“I shall do no harm.” I match the Fair Tongue, letting my moth accent through just so she’ll have a harder time understanding me. I’m told my kin slur our vowels infuriatingly. “I just need to establish a link, so that I may tip-toe around their dreams tonight.”
The bartender squints, no doubt trying to parse what I said without asking me to repeat it. In the end, she grunts and says, “You will not roofie my clients’ drinks.”
I blow a raspberry in her face. “Enchantments are not drugs. I wouldn’t alter any of their faculties.”
“Don’t care. Go do that somewhere else.”
We’ve garnered some attention from the nearby patrons, but neither of us seem to care. We just stare at each other—her glowering, me pouting much more prettily—and wait for the other to crack.
In the end, it’s her human curiosity that wins out.
“What do you need from a stranger’s dreams? Someone asked you to spy on that kid?”
Oh, that nettles differently.
I straighten my slouch, eyes round and unblinking. Dark as the night terrors I could give her. “Do I seem to you the sort of fay who’d take on such work?”
Requests like that come from humans, magic-less creatures unable to get the job done themselves. Only the most desperate of fay folk take on them, swallowing their pride for survival.
“Apologies, Lady.” The bartender bows.
Huh. She might be boorish, but she seems to understand I’m privileged enough to act, were she to step on my pride.
“Accepted,” I say, since I’m so graceful. “You have not rescinded your first question though.”
“Do you wish me to?”
I must confess I don’t. In my defense, I’m vain and chatty.
“The dreams of young humans are filled with hope,” I say. “For the future, for love, for growing up. If we gain access to those dreams, we can take a little bit of that hope back in the material world. Then we can meld it into radiant shapes. Makes for lovely lamps.”
“Lamps,” the bartender echoes, deadpan.
I nod. “Lamps. Or, in my case, sequins.”
Now she looks even more deadpan. A thin layer of salt water has pooled on the counter where her hands rest on the steel.
Of course, I take pity on her. “They’re in fashion this summer, and I must weave my King a gown filled with them. So you see, I’m in a bit of a pickle.”
My wings flutter in time with my eyelashes as I send a meaningful gaze toward my target; their drink is down to its last dregs. If I can’t get them to swallow my enchantment before they drain the last drops of melted ice, I’m toast. Might as well start petitioning other courts for asylum.
The bartender doesn’t seem to share my urgency. “Can’t you just…” She twirls her hands in a spiraling gesture. “Spin some starlight into beads, or scratch some flakes off the moon? Should be easy for a nocturnal fay.”
That toes the line between truthful and rude, but I let it slide. It is true that I could walk outside and perform both feats she mentioned with my eyes closed and my hands tied. But clothes woven with starlight or moonlight are so… common. In human terms, it would be like dressing one of your men in a black suit. Boring.
“My King expects better than that,” I say. For example, dream-borne hope made material.
The bartender nods in understanding, even though I can see the furrow in her brows. She must be weighing her duties to her patrons against my plight. I wish she weren’t so doggedly proper, but I have to admit it makes for endearing companionship. Even if she’s making me waste time I don’t have.
In the end, she grunts.
“I can’t let you saunter into my clients’ dreams without their consent,” she says, “but I have an idea. Wait for me outside. Pub closes at two.”
I squint at her, my head wings quivering. “It better be a good idea.”
“You know,” I say when the bartender is done locking up the place. “You’ve had ample chances to tell me your name, yet you took none of them. I could claim offense.”
She blinks in the watery light of the lampposts. “I assumed you wouldn’t care for it.”
My lips twist into a pout of their own, but I wiggle my arm under hers and let her lead me toward whatever harebrained idea she must have concocted; you humans are just too interesting not to indulge.
“I would care for it muchly, considering my fate rests in your briny hands.”
“Briny…” the still-unnamed bartender mutters to herself. Her combat boots crunch on the gravel road that leads to the beach as if they, too, have opinions about my choice of words. Still, she knows refusing to give me her name after I asked for it would imply a lack of trust. And those of us who make the effort to stay seelie take that lack of trust very personally.
“It’s Anna.”
“Anna!” My wings flare out in delight. “I’m Back-Tack, humble seamstress in distress.”
Of course, Back-Tack is not my real name. That is not knowledge fit for human brains, as it would ensnare your fragile consciousness to even hear a syllable of it. Seeing as I do not plan on making Anna my thrall and leading her into a land she may never return from, I shall go by a simpler moniker.
“A honor to make your acquaintance,” Anna says, as if she didn’t hit me with a crude the fuck are you doing a few hours ago. She’s lucky us fay folk understand the concept of loyalty to one’s patrons.
We’ve arrived at the beach, so I take off my silk pumps and leave them on the gravel. My court is on friendlier terms with the sea than most, but there still is etiquette to sift through.
I sink my bare feet into the sand, feeling the cool grains caress my skin. Then I kneel with my forehead touching the ground, three times. When I get up, a ripple of breeze ruffles my hair in welcome.
Anna, with her nereid ancestry, heeds no such rituals. She just walks up to the shore and lets the water lap at the leather of her boots, which causes my hands to itch. I’ll have to lecture her about proper care for her garments later.
“Grandmother,” she says, switching to the tongue of the sea. “I’ve come to visit.”
Oh dear. This woman’s idea of helping me with my sequins is to make a mockery of my predicament in front of her ancestor. I’m just about to dig myself a hole in the sand when the waves ripple upward.
A figure emerges. They have hair fair as foam and eyes black as a storm. The tips of their clawed fingers are tinged blue, their limbs covered in scales. I don’t think they outrank me, and I’m here with permission, but this is their home turf; the instinct to back away burns through me.
“You come with a hapless moth,” they say to their grandchild, their fish teeth gleaming. “And a request. You do not come to see your grandmama.”
Anna scratches at her head. “Can’t it be both?”
Salt and pines, I should’ve left to find a different pub with a less observant bartender. Now I’d be cruising some stranger’s dreams, gathering hope on a spindle, instead of third-wheeling a family reunion.
“Revered spirit,” I say with no small amount of swallowed amour-propre, “your granddaughter has promised me her aid in exchange for abiding by the rules of her establishment.”
The nereid squints at me. “And what afflicts you so, little moth, for you to come before me?”
“Sequins,” Anna says.
“…Sequins,” the nereid repeats.
“They’re in fashion this summer.” I wring my hands, willing my head wings not to flutter indignantly. Foamy water slides past my ankles. “Misguided choice, I know, but my King expects me to follow along.”
Anna jabs her thumb in my direction. “She wanted to make them out of some kid’s dreams.”
The sea spirit chuckles, all froth and roiling sand, while I bristle in the privacy of my own mind. It was a great idea! Everyone at court would’ve lapped it up!
A stronger wave slams against my shins, spraying my skirt with a shower of droplets. Something silvery pinches my toe, then flits away, and I pointedly do not flinch.
“Does my grandchild have a better material in mind?”
“I was thinking scales,” Anna says. She tilts her head toward me. “Would that work?”
King’s roots, would it ever? As I said, we like the sea but don’t mess with it. I’d bet the nails of both my hands that, amidst a hundred glossy skirts, only my gown would gleam in salt-born light. My work would be the talk of the court for months.
“Perfectly,” I say, my voice unsteady with excitement, “if the revered spirit agrees to it.”
In lieu of an answer, the nereid whistles. It’s a harsh, high-pitched sound. It should repulse me, with the way it skewers my brain. Alas, us moths are not so good at staying away from harm. I take a step forward. A brine-slick hand grabs my arm before I can take another.
“Remember where you are,” Anna whispers. Her gravely tone makes blood rush to my cheeks, mingled with the shame of almost falling for the call of a sea spirit.
Something less lucky than me moves under the surface. It’s a minor leviathan, clad in scales so polished they reflect the night sky. I only have one moment to admire the curve of its neck, the flow of its mane.
Then the nereid thrusts their hand through its jugular; blood gushes out, and with it the gleam of life.
“Here, make your sequins.” They toss the still-oozing carcass at my feet. One of the scales on their hand has dislodged, so they pick it off and hand it to me. “And make this the centerpiece.”
My mouth swallows nothingness. The tiny, tear-shaped thing in my palm oozes the sound and the scents of the sea as if it’s crammed full of them. Together with leviathan skin, I’m almost scared of the result.
“I am in your debt,” I say with another bow, though I don’t touch the ground this time. Admitting I owe a sea spirit is already costly enough.
Anna opens her mouth, probably to say something very silly and very human about this being her idea, not mine. Because there are still merciful gods in the night sky, her grandmother interrupts her before she can air out her embarrassing non-fay logic.
“I choose to collect,” the nereid says.
Ah, that was quick. I brace myself for some impossible task, or a request to put in a good word with Her Royal Highness. The old creature just smiles a fish-toothed smile.
“You are to go rest, little moth. Then you are to put on those fetching shoes you left by the gravel and take my granddaughter out. She loves grilled octopus salad.”
Anna squawks. I grin as her cheeks color red and blue, for once grateful to serve a fickle King.
| Wren Douglas is a non-binary author based in Italy whose work has been featured in Strange Horizons and the 2023 Lambda finalist anthology XENOCULTIVARS: Stories of Queer Growth, among other venues. |  |