In the summer of 1876, six months after he was born and two weeks after he'd started to teethe, William Ahlborn Jr. was replaced by a demon.
His parents didn't notice; the squalling creature taking William's place in the cradle acted much like William had, but his sister Clara did notice. She saw the point of the new baby's ears, the sharpness of its too-many teeth, the grayish tint to its skin, and the way its hands and feet flickered between being hands and feet and being more like the furred paws of a squirrel. When her mother lifted the baby in order to feed it, it wriggled furiously, lashing its whip-like tail.
"Poor fella's feverish," Ma said.
"It's a demon," Clara said. She didn't say it scared; the sight of her mother coddling a little monster was too strange to be frightening. Yet.
Her mother wasn't listening. She rocked the baby and cooed at it, though it did nothing to quiet the child.
"Eliza!" The voice of Clara's father came from the upstairs bedroom. "Eliza, have you seen my hat?"
Her mother sighed and nodded her head to the kitchen table, where the flat-topped conductor's hat sat atop the newspaper, where her father had left it last night. "Clairy, be a dear?"
Clara wordlessly took the hat and, as soon as she was out of sight of the kitchen, ran up the stairs, taking them two steps at a time.
In her parents' bedroom, her father was adjusting his gold-trimmed jacket and looking into the tall mirror.
"Pa," she said. "Pa, something's wrong with William," Clara said.
"Yes honey, I know." He took the hat, and for a moment, Clara had hope. But then her father said, "He's ill now, but don't worry. He'll be feeling better soon, I'm sure."
"But he's got a tail!"
But her father was already halfway out the door, tucking his hat on. Clara followed after, hoping that perhaps if he saw the demon, he'd come to his senses. But when the two entered the kitchen, all her father did was kiss her mother, still rocking the wailing baby, on the cheek. Then he looked right at the squalling demon baby and gave it a kiss too, right on its forehead between the horns.
Clara watched with disgust as her parents gave their goodbyes, and then her father was gone, off to the trains.
The baby continued to wail, and her mother continued to rock it, and Clara went to get her good boots.
Well, thought Clara, putting them on. It was clear Ma and Pa wouldn't do anything. She would have to consult outside help.
* * * * *
It was a bright, dusty day in Kayene when Clara went to see Mrs. Morgan.
Once upon a time, her father told her, back when she was too little to walk, Kayene had been a cattle town. The town had sprung up around the railroad, receiving goods and sending out livestock, and cattle drivers would come from all over to sell at the market, then take whatever was left onto the train to sell them off at one of the bigger towns. But that was a long time ago. Now, the land all around the town had been bought by farmers or settlers, cutting off the cattle trails. That combined with the rise in prices for the railroad meant the cattlemen found other towns to sell in, and other trains to take them where they needed to go.
Still, the town fared well enough, switching from a reliance on the cattle trade to a reliance on the farmers instead, and on the railroad bringing in business. And on the nice side of town where the Ahlborns lived, Mrs. Morgan's house was the biggest one on their street.
Clara's family was comfortable enough, but Mrs. Morgan's first husband had been the eighth son of an oil baron, and when he died he'd left her enough to buy a fine house. This was lucky, Clara knew, because Mrs. Morgan was a witch, and even though she had the prettiest black curls and the greenest eyes, she likely wouldn't've been able to marry another man unless she put a love spell on him.
Because Mrs. Morgan was insane. Everyone knew it. She wore pants like a man and boots like a rancher. But along with being rich, her husband had been a war hero and had died a hero's death, so nobody in town much minded her oddness when she sat on her rocker out front and watched the carriages go by, muttering to herself and smoking a pipe.
She was out on the rocker that day when Clara let herself into the yard and said, "My brother turned into a demon."
Mrs. Morgan didn't seem surprised. She sucked on her pipe and held it in, then slowly blew out the smoke. "You sure about that?"
"He's got a tail now. And he's all gray, and he has horns and claws. And my Ma and Pa don't notice nothin' wrong with him. They act like he's still normal."
"Does he stink?" Mrs. Morgan said. "Not like normal baby stink. Does he smell like rotten eggs and smoke?"
"No? I don't think so."
Mrs. Morgan was silent for a moment, then got up from her chair. She went inside the house, but didn't invite Clara to follow, and in a moment, she returned with a small vial of anointing oil that smelled like roses.
"Go home and tonight, say a prayer over him when he's in the cradle. Make a cross on his forehead with the oil-- just dab your finger in it and draw it on him. If there's a demon, that'll kick it out."
"What do I owe you?" Clara said, tucking the bottle in the pocket of her dress. Mrs. Morgan never gave something for nothing.
"I haven't gotten the eggs today," she said. "Chickens probably need feeding too. Take care of it?"
Clara nodded and went around the yard, through the side gate. She was no stranger to Mrs. Morgan's chickens, which were splotchy and gray and brown and laid strange blue-green eggs that Clara had thought were magic, but were actually just foreign. She gathered the eggs, followed by a cluster of curious hens, and when she'd finished, she left the basket on the little table on the back porch, by the door. Then, she went home.
That night, just as Mrs. Morgan had said, Clara stood over the cradle and said a prayer over the demon baby and made the mark of the cross on it. The baby slept fitfully through it all, interrupted by coughing and small, sickly noises. But though it was clearly unhappy, it didn't burst into flames, or transform suddenly back into William.
* * * * *
"Nothing happened," Clara said the next morning.
Mrs. Morgan nodded.
"Figured as much," she said, rising to her feet. "You said the baby's sick?"
"Yes."
"Sounds like something they'd do. Come on, you can come inside."
Mrs. Morgan let them both into the cool entry room of the house and led Clara to a study.
"Who?" said Clara, trying to keep up with Mrs. Morgan's long strides. "Who did what?"
"Good neighbors," said Mrs. Morgan, with just a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "The Folk. Your brother didn't become possessed, or turn into a monster. Fairies stole him and replaced him. You said you saw him looking odd, right? Like an actual baby, just different?"
"Yes," said Clara.
"So likely it was with one of their own sick babies."
"Why?" Clara said.
Mrs. Morgan shrugged and started looking through a cabinet nestled between two huge bookshelves. "They're crazy," she said, opening drawers and looking through them. "Some of them like human babies more than their own. Maybe they didn't want to waste time taking care of a sick one when they could trade it for a healthy one. Maybe they figured it was going to die no matter what. Maybe they think it's funny to make your parents fret over a baby that won't get better. Doesn't matter."
She finished rummaging through a drawer and pulled out a long, dark needle. "Here," she said, pinning it to the brim of Clara's hat. "Heat that up in the fire, then when it's red hot, burn the changeling. That'll make its mother appear and give back your brother."
Claire felt the place where he needle was stuck through the cloth of the hat. "What'll happen to the baby after?" she said.
"Its mother will take it back. After that, I don't know. Maybe they'll foist it off on another family. Maybe leave it in the woods to die. They usually aren't sentimental about the sick ones."
An image of the changeling child flashed in her mind. So thin and unhappy, wriggling in discomfort in the cradle.
"Will it die?" Clara said.
Mrs. Morgan gave her a look that Clara couldn't quite read. "Probably," she said. "It was sick enough for them not to want around."
"How do I make it better?"
"Now why would you want to do that?" Mrs. Morgan said. But she didn't say it angry, just like she was thinking.
"Because-- because it's little, and because it don't feel good. And-- and--" Inspiration hit as she was speaking, and the obvious reason presented itself. "And maybe if it got better its ma and pa would keep it around and not trade it to anybody else. And William's alright now, ain't he?"
"Probably," Mrs. Morgan admitted. "No way to be sure, but the ones replacing their own usually don't harm the ones they take. At least not immediately. Normally they mother 'em for a while until they get bored."
"So how do I make the sick one better?"
"Hold on, hold on. . ." Mrs. Morgan went into the kitchen and started rooting around the drawers again. "I know I have one-- here it is!"
She returned a moment later with a dark metal key.
"Take this," she said. "Boil it in water like you're makin' tea. Pour him a cup of it and and hold it under his nose-- get him to breathe in the steam."
"How come?" said Clara, taking the key.
"Key to unlock, steam for his breath. You said he was having trouble breathing, right? This'll clear it up."
Clara took the key with reverence and said, "What do I owe you?"
"These shelves in the library haven't been dusted in a while. And then you can sweep up in there, too." She held up two fingers. "Dusting's for the needle, and sweeping's for the key."
Clara nodded and went to do as she was told.
* * * * *
At dinner that night, Clara watched the baby with keen eyes. It was crying again, and her mother was pacing the room, rocking it while her father ate his dinner listlessly.
"When will Dr. Aleman be able to visit?" her father said.
"Not until next week," said her mother. "Lydia says he's out of town until Tuesday. . . "
Clara stopped paying attention to the conversation; she doubted there was anything useful a doctor could do.
Instead, she kept her eyes on the baby.
She knew she ought to have hated the fairy child. It was as small and wrinkly as her brother had been, but while her brother had a baby's plumpness and wide eyes, this creature was rail thin and wiry, like a baby weasel, and its eyes were shining black. The tail was also off putting-- not even fluffy, with only a weak tuft of fur at the end.
But though the fairy baby was ugly and loud, it was also clearly unhappy. It cried incessantly, but they weren't healthy cries, they were snotty, gasping cries, stifled by sickness, and they frequently devolved into fits of coughing. And while its eyes were pitch black, the skin around them was red and puffy from crying, and Clara's mother was constantly wiping them and the fairy child's nose free of sickly yellow crust.
Its ma left it, she thought, watching her own mother fuss over the changeling. Did it know? Did it know that its own parents had thought it too much trouble to deal with and had replaced it?
"Can I hold him?" she said suddenly. She felt the weight of the key in her pocket, and the heavy knowledge of the iron needle upstairs in her room, still in her hat.
Her mother nodded and went to place the baby gently in Clara's arms. This did nothing to stop the crying, and when she held him, the fairy child coughed phlegm onto the blanket he was swaddled in. Wordlessly, Clara wiped the baby's face with a handkerchief. His tiny, clawed hands briefly pushed away at her, then suddenly grabbed onto her fingers. When she tried to pull away, he held firm, surprising her with his strength.
"Aww, look," her mother said. Her eyes were tired, but her smile was full of warmth. "He loves you. Don't you?" she said, cooing to the baby. "You love your big sister."
Privately, Clara thought that was a lot to read into the gesture, but all the same, she stayed and let the baby cling to her hand until it was finally time for her mother to feed him.
* * * * *
That night, while the water was heating and her parents slept, Clara crept into the nursery to check on the baby. It was one of the rare few times he wasn't crying, and at first she thought him asleep. But then a cloud passed, and moonlight spilled in through the windows, and she could see his shining black eyes watching her.
"I know you're not William," she said, gently lifting him out of the crib. "So I'm not going to call you that. But I have to call you something." She carried the baby downstairs, to the kitchen, and for once, he remained silent.
She placed the baby in the tall wooden feeding chair, then went to check the water. The key still sat where she left it at the bottom of the pot. Clara had hoped that there would be some signs of the magic working-- the water bubbling, or changing color perhaps, but the key and water both appeared completely mundane. From the chair, the fairy child watched her attentively-- a little too attentively, she thought. As though he understood more than a baby his age ought to have. But all the same, she poked the key at the bottom of the pot with a wooden spoon, stirring it uselessly, and pretended not to be bothered.
"So like I said," she said, more for herself. "You can't be William. Though I s'pose we could call one of you Bill and the other Will. But it still doesn't sit right with me. So let me think. . . ."
The water finally began to steam.
"I guess you could be a Harry," she said, picking the baby up. "Or maybe a Jeremy. Jeremiah? D'you think you're a Jeremiah?"
The baby wriggled in her arms, its tail lashing like that of an angry cat.
"Not Jeremiah then," she said. With her one free hand, she poured the hot key-water into a cup, and then held the cub by the fairy child's face.
"How about. . . John? Jonathan? Edward?"
She continued to list off names while the boy breathed in the steam. It was mostly to herself; as unusual as the child was, she didn't truly expect him to understand what she was saying. But just as she was running out of typical names and was about to start listing the more unusual sorts, the baby peered up at her with an unnatural intensity.
"Henry?" she said, making sure. "You like that?"
For the first time since she'd seen him, the baby smiled. His tail, which had been hanging down limply as he breathed the steam, suddenly whipped up and wrapped around her wrist.
"I hope that's a good sign," she said. "Is that your kinda hug?"
Henry made no noise, but he wiggled in her arms, tail still clinging to her. Smiling, Clara readjusted so he was breathing more of the steam.
Only when the water had cooled enough for the last of the steam to vanish did she take Henry back to the nursery and tuck him into bed.
* * * * *
The next morning, Clara was woken by the sound of weak coughing, and she knew the key spell hadn't worked.
"Henry's still sick," she said a little later, running up the porch steps of Mrs. Morgan's house.
Mrs. Morgan was out smoking on the porch despite the chilly morning air.
"Who?" she said.
"The baby," said Clara. She stood a little straighter, prepared to defend her choice of name.
But Mrs. Morgan only nodded and said, "And he's still sick? Is he better at all? Or is he the same-- or is he worse?"
"Still the same, I think," Clara said.
Mrs. Morgan said some unladylike words and went into the house. Clara trailed behind her.
"What's wrong?" Clara said.
"That key should've fixed any kind of natural sickness," said Mrs. Morgan. "Which means this ain't a natural sickness."
She went across the den and unlocked a narrow door Clara hadn't noticed before in any of her previous visits, despite it being in plain sight. The room beyond was bright and airy, with shelves full of books and strange items on every free wall, and large windows showing a vibrant flower garden outside. This was strange, as Clara knew the outside of the house fairly well, and knew there were no big windows facing that direction, nor was there a garden on that side of the house. In the center of the room were tables piled with books and diagrams and charts and bundles of strange flowers.
Mrs. Morgan went to one of the shelves and began sorting through the things there; vials of colored liquid, bright crystals that seemed to glow, odd metal scraps and wooden charms, tiny pots filled with who-knew-what.
"Here we go," she said. In her hands were six small cardboard tubes, each with a brass cap at the end. Clara recognized them immediately as shotgun shells.
"What do we do with those?" Clara said, afraid for a moment that Mrs. Morgan would want someone shot.
"Put these under his crib tonight," she said. She passed the shells to Clara, who stuffed them into her dress pockets.
"Why?"
"Protection. This isn't any normal sickness, even by Folk standards." She sniffed. "I don't know who Henry's parents are, but they made someone mad."
Clara blinked. She'd been so worried about the things the Folk had done to her and her family, it hadn't occurred to her that they'd just as easily curse one another.
"I just leave them under his crib?" Clara said.
"Yep," said Mrs. Morgan. "I'll do the magic part from here. One shell's enough to blacken the eye of whoever's sending the sickness to him. Hopefully six of them will get 'em to stop entirely."
Clara nodded, not certain of how it would work, but trusting that Mrs. Morgan knew what she was doing. "What do I owe--?"
Mrs. Morgan looked around the room.
"This is my workshop," she said. "Though I don't have much work to do these days. There's jars on that shelf over there that need sorting. Don't open them-- some of them bite. Here, I'll show you. . ."
* * * * *
Clara woke after her mother did the next day, and when she rushed to the nursery, she found that Henry had already been taken downstairs. Heart pounding in her chest, Clara checked beneath the crib.
The shells were mangled. The cardboard tubes had all spit open at the ends, as though they'd burst. There were dark stains on the cardboard part, and at first, Clara couldn't figure out what it was. But then her hand brushed a stain on a brass cap, and her hand came away smeared with blood.
Her heart caught in her throat. Slowly, she rose and backed away from the crib. Then, she tore downstairs.
"Mama!" she called. "Mama! Is Hen-- is William alright?"
"In the kitchen," her mother called. She didn't sound like she was crying. . .
Clara found her mother and the baby at the breakfast table, with Henry sitting in the high baby chair. His face was smeared with porridge. Clara's mother sat across from him, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other. When she saw Clara, she beamed.
"Look," she said to Henry. "Look who it is!"
The fairy child smiled at her, giving Clara a view of his un-babylike teeth, and he squealed happily. His eyes were every bit as black as they had been, but now there seemed to be a new brightness to them. He gurgled and reached out for her with both arms.
"You want your sister?" said Clara's mother. She scooped the child out of the chair and carried him over to Clara. "Let's go visit your sister."
The baby gurgled, all smiles, and when Clara's mother passed him over to her, he immediately started trying to grab her hair and touch her face. His tail wrapped around her arm again, though her mother didn't seem to notice.
"Look at him," said Clara's mother. "It's like a miracle."
* * * * *
Later that morning, as soon as she could pry herself away from her mother's attention, Clara went to see Mrs. Morgan.
"Henry's all better!" Clara said, running up the walk.
Mrs. Morgan, seated on her rocker like usual, gave a puff on her pipe and smiled. "That so?"
"He's eating porridge, and giggling, and no coughing at all!"
"That's great to hear." Mrs. Morgan leaned forward, her voice cheerful, but with a cautionary edge. "You know we still have to send him back to his folks, right?"
"I-- yes. I know. I want to get William back. I'm just happy, is all."
"Just makin' sure. The next bit is to summon his ma," Mrs. Morgan said. "You still got that needle?"
"In my room."
"Good, good. I need you to bring it and the baby over here. We'll have to give him a little poke, and then his ma will pop right up with William. We can do it in the backyard."
"I don't think my ma will let us take him out here without her," Clara said.
Mrs. Morgan nodded thoughtfully. "I think I know a trick that'll help. Come on."
Clara followed her back into the workshop. This time, while outside was midday and bright, the windows outside the workshop showed the deepening shadows of a late afternoon. While Clara stopped to stare out the windows, Mrs. Morgan went to the basket of branches set on one of the worktables and began pulling some out. Each one she examined, making sounds of approval or rejection before either placing the branch on the table, or setting it back in the basket. When she had collected several branches, she found a strip of leather and began winding them together.
"You liking the windows?" Mrs. Morgan called.
Clara flushed, then hurried to her side. "Where are they looking out at?" she said. "That's not your yard."
Mrs. Morgan chuckled. "Nah. Place I used to live. There. Check this out."
She raised the bundle of sticks, which had been shaped and tied to loosely resemble the shape of a person; wide spread arms and legs, and a band of leather delineating where the head was at the top.
"A doll?" Clara said.
"Of a sort. When your ma puts him down for a nap or something, put his in his crib. Then your folks won't notice him bein' gone."
She passed Clara the doll, then headed for the door.
"What do I owe you?" said Clara, keeping up.
"Nothing yet," said Mrs. Morgan. "Job's not done. Come back later today with Henry, and we'll get things sorted for good."
* * * * *
Clara's mother saw her come in with the wooden doll, and Clara expected her to ask about it. She'd already concocted two different explanations, but to her mild disappointment her mother robbed her of the opportunity to use them by not seeming to notice the doll at all.
"Oh good," her mother said. In her arms was a large basket of linens, and at her back was Henry, cradled in a sling around her neck. "You're back. You can help me with the washing."
Clara looked at her mother, then at the doll in her arms.
"What is it?" said her mother.
"Uh. Nothing," said Clara, setting the doll down. While her mother may not have noticed it, the doll had Henry's rapt attention.
"Come on now," said her mother, ushering her outside. "Help me hang these sheets."
* * * * *
Hanging the sheets didn't take too long, but after the sheets were up, Clara's mother insisted they wash dishes together, and then sweep up the kitchen, and then wipe down the counters and tabletop. The chores were only interrupted by Henry, who periodically demanded their attention, which Clara and her mother were all too happy to give. It wasn't until a little before noon that Clara's mother could finally bear to part with Henry, setting him down for a nap while she started making a quick lunch and preparing for that night's dinner.
"Look at the poor little man," she said, holding Henry. "He's all tuckered out."
To Clara's eyes, Henry looked as alert and energetic as he had been all morning, but she didn't disagree. Instead, she collected the doll and followed her mother upstairs to the nursery. The moment she'd left the room, Clara switched out the baby with Mrs. Morgan's wooden doll.
She didn't know what she expected to happen-- for the doll to come to life, perhaps, and turn into another little Henry. But instead, the doll just sat there, inanimate. In her arms, the real Henry kicked and giggled and tried to reach her hair.
"Clara?" her mother called. Clara could hear her footsteps coming back up the stairs. "Let William sleep."
Her mother appeared in the doorway.
"I was just--"
"Shh," her mother said softly. She smiled at the wooden doll in the crib. "He's sleeping."
Clara glanced at the wooden doll-- yes, still a doll-- and at the baby in her arms. Henry giggled and lashed his tail, one tiny arm reaching for Clara's mother.
"I'm going to go play outside," Clara said. She adjusted her grip on Henry, who was kicking again.
"That's fine, dear. Lunch will be ready in a half hour or so."
"Yes, ma."
And she hurried downstairs before whatever magic was at work wore off.
As soon as she made it through the doorway, Henry began wiggling furiously in her arms, struggling with all his might. Clara quickly adjusted her grip on him again, lest she drop him.
"What?" she said. "What is it?"
Henry glanced at her, then tried to sit up, looking around this way and that, as though trying to see all of the world at once.
"Oh," Clara said. "You want to see? You want to see the flowers?" She held him up near the rosebush growing along the walk, and he squealed in abject joy.
"That's right," she said. "They switched you at night time, huh? You've never seen the outside over here before, have you?"
Henry didn't answer-- Clara was fairly certain at that point that he actually didn't understand English, which was something of a relief-- but he continued to look around as best he could the entire walk across the road to Mrs. Morgan's house.
* * * * *
Mrs. Morgan was on her rocker again, smoking and watching the street. Her face split into a grin when she saw them coming.
"Well, lookee at him!" she said, catching his tiny claw-hands. Henry giggled and wriggled in Clara's arms, and his tail flew up to wrap around Mrs. Morgan's wrist. "Oh, he is a feisty one, isn't he?"
"Can you see him?" Clara said. "What he really looks like, I mean."
"Yeah, I can see him just fine." She moved his hands in a mock dance. "I see his tiny little clawsies, and his little pointy ears, and his clingy little tail, I do, I do." She glanced up at Clara. "You got the needle?"
Clara pulled it from her hat in answer.
"Good, good. Let's go in the backyard, away from prying eyes. That's right!" she said to Henry, voice shifting higher. "We gotta make sure the neighbors don't see, huh?"
Mrs. Morgan took them both through the side gate, down the little garden path at the side of the house, and to a clearing just beyond the back porch of the house. There were bundles of aromatic dried herbs resting on the porch that Mrs. Morgan made a beeline for. Across the yard, Clara could see chickens coming up to the coop fence to watch them.
Henry giggled and reached out for them.
"Not now, Henry. Maybe la--" Clara stopped herself. If things went right, there wouldn't be a later for Henry to meet the chickens.
"Alrighty," said Mrs. Morgan, interrupting her thoughts. "We don't know how they're going to act when they get here. And you always gotta be cautious when working with one of them. They're all dangerous, even the ones who seem nice. So tell you what, how about you and Henry hide while I talk to his Ma and sort things out?"
"Hide where?" said Clara. "Behind the roses or something?"
"Nah, nah. Here, I'll just. . . "
She took some of the dried up plants from her bundle made a little circle around where Clara stood.
"There. Don't move from that spot, and she won't see you or Henry unless you bring attention to yourself."
Clara nodded.
"Alright, nothing for it but to do it." Mrs. Morgan took the needle with one hand and, with her free hand, dug around in her pocket. A moment later, she pulled out and struck a match.
"What are you doing?" Clara said, hugging Henry a little tighter.
Mrs. Morgan held the needle over the little flame. "Just heating it up a little. He won't like it, but it'll be over soon."
Gently, Mrs. Morgan took one of Henry's arms. Clara squeezed her eyes shut until a moment later when Henry cried out in pain. Then her eyes flew open in surprise; his scream wasn't the cry of a baby, but a high and piercing noise, like the call of an eagle or hawk, and it seemed to echo through the air.
Seconds later, a strong gust of wind blew past them, and the fairy arrived.
The fairy appeared with the breeze, suddenly there as though he were one of the leaves it carried. He was tall, taller than Pa, and he was dressed like an actor fresh off the stage-- some sort of play about King Arthur and his court. The man didn't look much like the fairy child; the man's skin was freckled and rosy, and there were no horns that Clara could see. But his eyes were shining black, and his tail swished around behind him like an irritated cat. His expression, Clara noticed, was one of boredom. Like he was doing an errand he hadn't any interest in.
Clara blinked.
Huh, she thought. It hadn't occurred to her that Henry's father would show up instead.
But that thought was swept away the moment she saw what the fairy man had cradled in his arms; William, the real William, whole and healthy and fast asleep.
"Well met," said Mrs. Morgan, but the fairy man didn't answer.
He held William out to Mrs. Morgan, who stepped forward to take him. His expression never wavered from boredom and disinterest.
As soon as William was safely passed off, Mrs. Morgan stepped back, and the fairy man turned to go. Clara saw the wind pick up at his feet, and leaves start to dance around him.
"Wait!" Clara said, rushing out of the circle. "Don't you want Henry back?"
The fairy man glanced over at her, and froze. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped slightly open. In her arms, Henry went very still.
The wind around them died, and there was a long, drawn out silence between them.
Finally, the man said something, though Clara didn't catch if it was a strange name or a foreign word, because halfway through his voice broke. Before she could even blink, the man was suddenly in front of her, pulling Henry from her arms.
Henry yelled and wriggled, his tail lashing angrily, but his father didn't seem to notice. He hugged Henry close to his chest and buried his face in his hair, not appearing to mind the horns.
At length, he spoke.
"How?" he said.
"Magic to wound the one who sent the sickness," said Mrs. Morgan. "A human trick with a human weapon."
"Yeah!" said Clara. "We thought maybe if he wasn't sick, you'd wanna take him back."
The man looked up sharply. “What?”
Clara looked to Mrs. Morgan, who quirked an eyebrow at her and said nothing.
"Well, Mrs. Morgan said you folks don't like to take care of your kids when they're sick. She said you'd rather trade them away--"
"I love my son," the fairy man snarled. He clutched Henry tight enough to cause the boy to yelp.
"Then why'd you leave him?" said Mrs. Morgan. Clara glanced up at her, surprised-- it seemed like such a rude question-- and she found Mrs. Morgan watching the fairy with interest. "Why not try and tend him yourself?"
The fairy man was quiet for a long moment, and Clara was afraid that they'd well and truly offended him. Just as she was about to apologize, he spoke.
"My position ensures that there will always be those who are . . . displeased with the decisions I make. Often, they make their displeasure known, but time and time again their threats proved to be hollow. . ."
He trailed off for a moment, and Mrs. Morgan said, "Until recently?"
When he spoke again, his voice was oddly flat. "Yes. By their hand, I saw my wife die, and my son was soon to follow."
"So you're a coward, then," Mrs. Morgan said.
His jaw clenched, but he nodded. "I did not want to watch my son die."
Now Mrs. Morgan was the one looking bored. She sauntered off a ways to the back porch, and then leaned against the railing. "So you did the usual trick and foisted him off on some poor human family. I get it. But now you've got yours back, and we've got ours, so you'd best be going."
"You have done me and my family a great service," he said. "It is proper that such behavior be rewarded. What would you have in return?"
Mrs. Morgan held up her hands in mock-surrender. "Not me. I'd've sent you home with the boy's corpse. She's the one who wanted to save him."
The man stiffened and turned his attention to Clara.
"Then it is to you I give my gratitude."
"Aw shucks, I don't want anything," said Clara. "I'm just happy he's okay."
Father and son both looked down at her with impenetrable black eyes.
"My son is still very young," the man said slowly. "He still requires care. I fear that my position may keep me too occupied to see to him as he needs, and with the enemies I have made, I am hesitant to trust any of my people with his care. You have demonstrated both your capability and your fondness for him, and so I think an arrangement can be made."
"Huh?" said Clara.
Henry's father smiled. "I would like you to be his nanny."
"Oh," said Clara. "That sounds nice. I like Henry plenty." She glanced at Henry, whose mouth split into an open smile.
"Then it is settled," the man said. "You will come to our home in Elfhame and serve our family as my son's nanny."
He reached out to take her arm. Clara hastily ducked away.
"Wait, I didn't mean it like that. For how long?"
"Until he is grown," said Henry's father.
"I can't be gone that long! I got my own family-- they'll be worried sick."
He waved the issue away. "That is easily solved. I can fog their minds with glamour so that they forget they ever had a daughter."
"No, don't! I don't want to!"
"Then I will fog your mind as well," he said, almost kindly. "You'll do as we say and be happy all the while, with no worry or memory to blight you."
"But-- but if I can't think, then what's the point of having me around?" Clara said. "You could pick anyone if all you wanted was a doll to boss around! And-- and you mentioned your enemies--"
"What of them?"
"Well, what's stoppin' them from getting us both if we go back with you?"
The man paused. Clara took that as a good sign and pressed on.
"They cursed Henry the first time around. He's better now, but what if they do it again when they see he's back home with you? What if it's something we can't fix?"
"Enough," he said. "No more arguments. My son needs a nanny, and you have proven yourself capable. You will--
Finally Mrs. Morgan, who had been watching the exchange with some interest, stepped forward.
"Khalephelis Blackbriar, son of Riodina Blackbriar, you stop right there."
The fairy man froze.
"Khalephelis, if you so much as whisper one gilded word into that girl's ear, I will personally ensure your entrails become your extrails, do I make myself clear?"
Slowly, the man turned to face her. When he spoke, his voice was clipped in anger. "Bold words, witch," he said, spitting venom into the word. "Clever witch, too. How came you by those names?"
"Witch?" said Mrs. Morgan. She smiled, but there wasn't any joy in it. "That's a rude way to talk about a peer, cousin."
Then, she straightened a little, seeming to become taller as she did, and when she spoke again, her voice had the same formal cadence as Henry's father.
"Do you not recognize me, cousin? Surely you haven't forgotten me so soon, only a mere century after my departure. Or perhaps my own glamour runs too deep for even your noble eyes to see?"
And then Mrs. Morgan flickered.
One second, she was there, same as Clara had always known her in her unladylike outfit, and the next she was changed. She still had her dark curls, but the green had gone from her eyes, leaving them the purest black, and her ears were pointed. Her skin was neither gray like Henry's, nor rosy-tan like his father's, but a gradient starting off the palest green at the center of her face and darkening down her arms until her fingertips were as pitch black as her eyes. At her back were enormous dragonfly wings, the gossamer tips of which were only a few inches from the ground.
"I suppose I cannot judge you too harshly," said Mrs. Morgan. "Illusions were never your strong suit-- seeing them or casting them, it would seem. After all, what can I expect from one whose illusions can be pierced by a mere child?" She gestured to Clara.
Henry's father flushed, and Clara couldn't tell if he was more embarrassed or angry.
"Oleandera," he said. His voice was firm, but he held Henry a little tighter. "I see banishment agrees with you, cousin."
The fairy woman smiled and shrugged. "I find some aspects of it to my liking, yes." Then she dropped the posh voice. "No need to get all worked up on account'a me. I just don't want you takin' my good neighbor."
He still looked uncertain, and Mrs. Morgan sighed. "You have enough enemies after you, Khalephelis. I've no desire to add my name to the list."
He nodded. "Then I take my leave," he said, turning to go. The wind kicked up at his feet again.
"Khalephelis," Mrs. Morgan called. "Are you really worried about him?"
He paused. He didn't turn around when he said, "The joy I feel at seeing him alive is matched only by the fear I have of losing him again. Yes, I am worried."
Mrs. Morgan looked at him in thoughtful silence.
"What if I had an idea on how to keep him safe?"
Now he turned towards her.
"What would you suggest, cousin?"
Mrs. Morgan shrugged. "You could always leave him here."
"In your tender care?" The fairy man's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Nah. He's a cute kid 'n all, but I ain't really mother material. More like a reliable auntie, I think. But I can vouch for hers." She nodded her head towards Clara. "A wholesome little family they got. With room for one more."
"You would have me abandon my son. Again."
"Who said anything about abandoning? Nothing stopping you from visiting. Or taking him home once he's old enough to protect himself."
Khalephelis thought about it in silence. In his arms, Henry grew antsy and started wiggling again, and his father absently adjusted him.
Finally, he said, "Would he be safe here?"
"Safer than home," Mrs. Morgan said. It was the first bit of kindness in her voice that Clara had heard her give to the fairy man. "I'd keep watch on him."
He looked at her with something like hope and something like fear.
"Fine," he said. "If you swear to watch over him, and swear to do him no harm, then I will trust him in your care, and in theirs."
"So I swear," said Mrs. Morgan. "Clara?"
Mrs. Morgan nodded her head towards him, gesturing for Clara to take Henry. Tentatively, Clara stepped forward, and Khalephelis gently placed Henry in her arms. The moment she had him, Henry gurgled happily and curled his tail around her.
His father watched them for a moment, then briskly turned away. The wind rose at his feet, kicking up leaves as he walked.
"I will return in one week's time," he said, not looking back.
And then, as fast as he’d appeared before, he was gone.
Clara and the fairy woman stood there for a moment, looking at the place he had been. Then Henry, appearing to dislike the quiet, started to kick, and Clara had to maneuver him a bit.
“Well, I s’pose that’s that,” said the fairy woman. She took a step back, and her fairy guise melted away, the dress turning back into Mrs. Morgan’s familiar and unusual pants and boots, the wings gone, her skin back to a human shade.
"So you're a fairy, too?" Clara said.
Mrs. Morgan smiled at her. "'Fraid so."
"I thought you were a witch," Clara said shyly.
"No reason I can't be both, is there? Oho. Looks like the little man is waking up."
And, as though to prove her right, William began to stir.
"What say you and I take these two to your place and get them all situated?"
"What'll we tell my ma and pa?" Clara said. It suddenly occurred to her that she likely should've asked permission before adopting a fairy changeling.
"Don't worry about it," said Mrs. Morgan. "I'll talk to them. I wouldn't be surprised if after they start acting like you always had twin brothers."
Clara remembered Khalephelis’ words about enchanting minds and changing memories, and she almost asked about it, but then Henry giggled and looked up at her with his endless back eyes, and she stopped herself. She liked Henry, and she knew her parents did too, even when he’d been sick and crying all week. There was no need to worry Ma and Pa about where exactly he came from.
So instead of asking, she gave him a kiss on top of the head, then stood tippy-toe to kiss William, who was still grumbling and gurgling sleepily in Mrs. Morgan's arms, so he wouldn’t be left out. Then the four of them started down the side yard, back towards the Ahlborn house.
Thanks to Clockmaker, who suggested a happy ending, though he probably doesn't remember.