Taric woke with the sun streaming into his eyes, tucked under the blankets of his own bed, and with no memory of falling asleep. Nor of his usual war between exhaustion and nightmares. 

Wincing against the light, Taric lifted his head. The light lessened. 

A little square bundle wrapped in brown paper sat next to his head. Taric sat up and edged away from it. A corner of the paper was delicately peeled away, allowing the package’s contents to peek through, reflecting the early morning light.

Taric gingerly picked up the package. A cloth spilled out of the paper folds, flaring so brightly that he had to flinch away. 

Stunned, Taric sifted it through his fingers. It slid like water through his hands, shimmering in the new morning light. If mirrors could be spun into threads, this cloth had been woven of them. The silver fabric reflected every detail of his hands, to the smallest sworl. The feel was not slick and cold as he expected, but fine and soft as anything.

Taric lifted the cloth and shook it out.

It was a cloak. A glorious, full bodied cloak with a circle hem and deep hood. 

Taric stared at it as it pooled over his lap. There was no questioning that this was faery make, and very fine work. 

Worth far more than the odd half a sandwich.

But the brown paper wrapping, when Taric examined it, still smelled faintly of bread and meat.

Barring the question of how a simple puca could lay hands on such a princely thing, why leave it on Taric’s pillow? Especially after the failure of his attempted bribery last night. 

After the winter fae waltzed away, Taric procured an extra thick sandwich from the Bacon Arms to attempt to coax out an inkling of what the hell a winter fae had to do with the faery king’s daughters. The puca simply whisked off with the sandwich and an oh-so-helpful reply of “Ask him yourself.”

What could Taric possibly do with such a magnificent thing? It wasn’t as if he could wear it to stroll down the street.

Taric set aside the cloak of mirrors and strapped on his prosthetic leg, which he must have had enough presence of mind to take off the night before, but didn’t remember doing so. He collected a set of clothes off the floor which didn’t look quite as dirty and threw them on.

The cloak of mirrors caught his eye again. Taric reluctantly collected it from the bed, letting it sift through his fingers as he considered its potential purpose. The cloak was not forthcoming with its secrets.

He tossed it down again. What he should do was set it back out on the stoop, wrapped again in its paper. Perhaps with a glass of milk to mitigate the inevitable anger at the return of a gift.

The fae did not give gifts lightly, and when they did, they expected something in return.

Taric’s heart gave a sudden  hard stroke. Fae gifts…. He hurriedly shuffled his way to the connecting door to the smithy. Where he’d left the little straw and rag poppet on his drafting table. 

Despite its days in the smithy, it had collected no charcoal dust. Its little rag dress remained as bright a red as the moment the puca left it on Taric’s knee. 

You’re going to go back.

The hairs on the back of Taric’s neck stood on end.

He knew what he would ask of the winter fae as payment.

It wouldn’t work to simply demand that the winter fae return Sunshine to the human lands. There were reasons his people used child names like that; to confuse and deter the fae. Nor did he dare use her real Name, for similar reasons. After all, he had no way to know what had become of her after she disappeared into the faery wood. 

No. Bringing her back still rested on Taric’s shoulders alone. But as to finding her…. If any fae in all of Underhill could learn the whereabouts of one young human girl, it would be the Eldritch King himself.

The very same king whose daughters apparently required steel dancing shoes.

Taric rushed (as much as his stiff, aching knee would allow) back to his bed and snatched up his cloak of mirrors. 

Protection? Something that might help him slip past wards? Something else?

Taric took a short, sharp breath, and swung the cloak over his shoulders. 

He held his breath.

Nothing.

His breath rushed out in a sigh. Taric lifted his arms, marveling at how the fabric clung so finely that it conformed to the shape of his fingers. He could see the shapes of his rolled sleeves through the glimmering. But it didn’t answer what the cloak was for. Was he meant to blind the king and court? Ridiculous.

Taric tugged it more evenly across his shoulders. There were no ties, no clasps, no obvious way to hold it closed. Was he meant to simply trust that it would stay? He found the folds of the hood and drew it up over his head.

Suddenly the front seams snapped closed. The front of the hood swooped down over his face to seal itself to the yoke.

Panicking, Taric made to grab the hood from his face. He froze.

The fabric felt like a gossamer veil against his face, fluttering against his cheeks like cobwebs. And he couldn’t see his hands.

The fabric, and his body, had vanished. 

It was a cloak of invisibility.

He knew what it was for, though not how or why. 

Taric tried to reign in his racing thoughts. He was a fool to think it was possible. He wasn’t a boy anymore. Faery tales were frightening. Monsters ate heroes. And there was no such thing as a happy ending.

But this. No matter how pragmatic a path he tried to turn his mind to, this brought him right back to where he’d started. 

With hope. The inextinguishable hope of a boy who had once believed in magic. 

This would help him find her. Somehow.

So long as he could make twelve pairs of dancing shoes in the span of thirty days.