“This is your first time, right?”
The knife slid from my already-sweaty palm onto the ground with a thud. Someone had seen!
She was perched on a branch above me, swinging her legs. Behind her, gossamer wings sparkled in the half-light.
My heart stopped. This was it. I’d gone mad with the stress of it all. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
She pulled a handful of fruit out of her pocket – berries of some sort – and stuffed them into her mouth.
“It’s obvious,” she said, still chomping, purple juice dripping down her chin now, “because a) there are no other murder fairies here, and b) you’ve made a right mess of it.”
“Murder fairy?” I managed.
“Every murderer has one. I’d give that a soft six out of ten. Use a sharper knife next time.”
I needed to snap out of this. There wasn’t time for hallucinations.
“There won’t be a next time,” I muttered to myself.
And it was true. I wasn’t in the habit of luring people into the woods and killing them. Trust me, this ‘murder,’ if we must call it that, was necessary.
I walked over to the place I’d hidden the spade earlier.
“Seriously? You’re using that?”
I jumped. Now she was fluttering in my face. “Are you still here? You may as well help me dig.”
She settled herself cross-legged beside the body. “Nah. I’ll just watch and comment. On everything you do from now on!”
I started digging. “For how long?”
“I wouldn’t choose that spot. Over there’s better.” She did have a point. “I’m here for as long as they decide. I’m Sylvie, by the way.”
“Ben. Who are ‘they’?”
“The Elders. They’ll summon me when you’ve been punished enough. Hurry up. It’ll be dark soon.”
And that’s how it’s been for the last five years. She’s always there. At work, on the pitch, on my dates. Always with a mocking laugh and a list of ‘could do betters.’ Not only that, she’s a fan of practical jokes. It’s intolerable.
So I’ve come here for answers.
Sylvie prods me with her wand. “Fortune tellers are frauds!”
“Shut up!” I say, just as Mystic Misty sticks her head out of the beaded curtain, dark curls tumbling over her shoulders. She raises an eyebrow and beckons me in.
Bangles jangle over the crystal ball. “Hmmm. I see your problem,” says Misty.
Sylvie scoffs. I swear Misty shoots her a side-eye.
“Your curse ends tomorrow. Rather luckily, given your crime.”
I haven’t told her my crime. Did a conspiratorial glance just pass between Misty and Sylvie?
I skip outside, high on relief. And immediately trip over a wire.
Sylvie’s in fits of giggles. “Check your pocket!”
I scramble to my feet and reach into my pocket. A compact mirror glistens in my palm, a jagged crack down the centre.
“Oops, you just broke a mirror. Know what that means?”
Misty suddenly appears beside Sylvie.
“Seven more years,” they chime.
