“Sidhe.” The name for her world tumbled from her lips before she could stop it.
“I’ve never heard of that town,” he said.
“Well, it’s…very small.”
He smiled. “I love those little Irish hamlets. I’m sure Sidhe is just magical.”
Fern gazed out at the urban horizon, surprised by his accurate description. She whispered, “Sidhe truly is a magical place.”
“Very different from New York, I’m sure.”
She only nodded, unable to find the words to describe just how different their worlds really were. Until today her only goal had been to laugh and enjoy life with her friends in Sidhe. But now she was discovering she had a…
She contemplated how to describe this revelation.
A purpose. That’s what it was. A reason for being and doing. Helping Paul with Katy so he could get back to writing. And she liked this brand-new sense of satisfaction filling her. Knowing she had already helped Paul—knowing that she was on her way to continue to do so—saturated her with a contentment of awesome proportion.
Soon the city faded into open spaces, meadows and fields, more reminiscent of what Fern was used to in her homeland. Paul turned onto a tree-lined gravel drive that wound its way to an end in front of a large, white clapboard farmhouse.
Getting out of the car, Fern gazed out at the barns and paddocks, at the wide-open spaces. “This looks like a wonderful place for a boy to grow up.”
The rope hanging from the ancient elm in the side yard made her smile. She liked the mental picture that popped into her head of Paul swinging high, the wind blowing through his sandy locks.
“It was.” He opened the back door, and after unlatching his daughter from her car seat, he pulled a sleeping Katy into his arms. “If you’ll grab her toy sack and the diaper bag, we’ll head on inside and put her to bed. She’s had an awfully long day. I’ll come back later for my bag.”
He went up the porch steps and only fumbled a little with his keys before pushing open the door. Fern followed him up the stairway, and when she entered Katy’s room, her smile widened.
The walls and ceiling were painted pale blue. Puffy clouds were gathered here and there. A weeping willow tree was sketched in one corner, its leafy branches bending to brush the flowers and mushrooms and tufts of brilliant green grass painted around the bottom of the wall. And magical fairies were everywhere she looked.
One pixie was perched on a cloud. A few more were winging through the sky. Several frolicked among the morning glory vines that twisted and reached upward. Every single one of them expressed an unmistakable joy.
There were elves, too, and gnomes wearing funny hats and expressive faces. One looked centuries old with too many wrinkles to count, yet even he was grinning with happiness.
Bliss exuberated from the fanciful mural.
Although it wasn’t the pixie way to worry, Fern had often wondered if Maire had grown up and forgotten the days when they had played and giggled together. When children were babes, it was easy enough for them to see—to believe—that fairies did exist. But the passing of years never failed to dim the memory.
So-called maturity had people accepting nothing but cold, hard fact as reality. When the real truth of the matter was that life contained much that could not be seen with the eye or heard with the ear. However, discernment of the magic in the world required a delighted heart. And clearly, Maire had never completely let go of the blessing that was her childlike enchantment. Fern could feel both the love and the pure and festive energy that had been left behind by Katy’s mother.
Paul didn’t seem to notice Fern’s fascination with the room’s decor. He was busy tucking his daughter into her crib.
A flash of gleaming copper caught her eye and had her crossing the carpet toward the crib for a closer look. There among the willow branches was a pixie that was the very image of herself right down to the fiery curls and the blue dress and boots.
“By me heart,” she breathed. “I can’t believe it.”
“What’s wrong?”
She whirled to see Paul studying her.
“You look upset,” he said.
“No,” she assured him. “Not upset. Not at all.” She gazed around her. “The room is just lovely, Paul.”
He smiled, and Fern’s insides warmed deliciously.
“Maire had a fondness for all sorts of imps and gnomes and pixies.” Affection softened his smile. “There was an innocence about her, Fern. And it showed in her art.”
“She was a professional artist?”
He nodded. “She tried her hand at everything. Sculpting. Drawing. But painting was in her blood.” His mouth quirked. “Just like sprites and elves were.”
Fern’s gaze swept the room. “She was gifted.”
“She often worked as an illustrator for children’s books. And she had a picture book of her work published. It was called Pixie Pleasures.”
A chuckle bubbled up from Fern’s throat. “Wonderful! I’d love to see it.”
He went to the shelves, pulled out a book and handed it to her.
Fern lifted the cover. The bright, shiny pages were meant to make the reader smile, and she did just that. “It’s beautiful.” She turned one page, then another. “Just beautiful.”
“Maire was a talented woman.”
Closing the book, Fern smoothed her hand over the jacket. It was as if she were touching a piece of Maire, and that gave her a cozy feeling.
She looked up at Paul and found him studying her.
“There was something…magic about my wife. Something…enchanted.”
He seemed to hover on the brink of hesitation, as if he wasn’t sure he should verbalize the thoughts crowding his mind.
Finally he said, “I get that same feeling from you. That same…vibrancy.”
Heat suffused Fern’s cheeks, and she wanted to lower her eyes from his, but she was determined not to. Something was happening. Something she didn’t dare miss.
The room grew still…and warm…and uncomfortably close. The air seemed to thicken all around her until she thought she may not be able to draw a breath. Her heart fluttered. Her pulse raced. A vague feeling…a wanting…an unexplainable yearning…swirled inside her like smoky tendrils. The only feeling she could compare it to was when she was terribly, terribly famished. Yet this had nothing to do with hunger for food.
This was the strangest and most powerful experience she’d had yet since transforming into a human. The significance of the emotion was almost frightening, but for the life of her, she didn’t have any idea what it was all about.
Whatever it was, however, Paul was sensing it, too.
His gaze had gone all smudgy with shadows. His jaw tensed. And it seemed as if he barely breathed. Fern guessed he sensed the thickness of the air just as she had.
He inched toward her, and she hoped with all her might that he’d touch her again as he had on the airplane. To feel his skin against her, the heat of him on her, just might quench this peculiar wanting that pulsed from her very soul.
However, rather than reaching out for her, his hand lowered to grasp the picture book. He slid it from her hands.
“I’m sorry, Fern. I’m terribly sorry.”
Remorse encrusted his words, and before she could ask why he was looking so guilt-ridden, he turned from her. He shoved the book back into