ix. Fairy Foxgloves

Melody has witnessed Poppy in her human form once before.

She was four—not old enough to understand—when her mother’s car tumbled from the bridge connecting their city to another, back tires having shred against asphalt. Hazel was at school, but their grandmother was expecting Melody and her mother, so they began the two-hour trip at the break of dawn on a quiet Tuesday.

Melody was sleeping when they tipped over the edge. Her mother’s magic was enough to save only one of them, she’d been told years later, and that’s why Poppy assumed a more powerful form to stop the car from smashing to the underpass below. Melody was awoken by shouts of other commuters as they pulled her and her mother from the floating vehicle, a full hundred feet from where they were supposed to be.

Poppy had been there, amber eyes round and sharp, her hair flowing behind her like a misty river of moonlight. She saved Melody’s mother’s life that day and, once they were safe, a flash of light restored her to her original form. A small body, whiskers, sharp teeth, pink nose. Poppy hasn’t needed to use that much power since. And, on Melody’s ninth birthday when she began learning magic, Poppy became her familiar.

Melody opens her eyes expecting to either be dead or embraced in human-Poppy’s arms. It’s neither—she’s lying on a wide, smooth, moss-covered stone stretching from her toes to far above her head. A warm burst of air hits her neck and Melody turns her head to find Poppy curled up by her shoulder, tail tucked under her paws.

“Poppy…?”

“Hello, Mel,” Poppy breathes. “I’d love to chat but I’m afraid I have no energy—the coven sensed I used my magic and I’m very, very tired.”

“Oh, no,” Melody murmurs, wincing as she hoists herself onto her side. She strokes Poppy’s delicate fur and Poppy purrs, nestling her nose into her belly. “Poppy, I’m so sorry. We’ll get your magic back, I promise. I promise, okay?”

“So long as you’re safe. I don’t care about myself. Idiot.”

The ground around her is slick from the short cloudburst, but the rain is gone. Her mind is still piecing together what happened—Ursula reversed the Broken Hearts Brew with forget-me-nots, memories of Hazel rushed into her head, her broom rejected the storm in her heart, the fall…

The broom!

Melody turns her head, searching for any sign of her sister’s heirloom, but she needn’t search far. It’s by her other side, lying atop mossy rock, snapped in two. Tears swim in her eyes. “It’s broken, Poppy,” Melody chokes. “Hazel’s broom—I was supposed to take care of it.”

“There, there,” Poppy grumbles, her breathing slowing as she drifts into sleep. “Your sister doesn’t care about the broom, Melody. She cares about you.”

It’s still nighttime. Crickets sing and chirp through the dark, wind whistling through trunks and leaves. Melody needs to get Poppy to Madame Celeste—the longer Poppy goes without magic, the sooner the coven will ban her from being their family familiar forever. Madame Celeste will understand that Poppy saved Melody’s life. She’ll understand breaking the rules was necessary. But the whistle of wind turns into a howl, and the chirping of crickets distorts the longer she searches through the dark.

This part of the woods is a stranger to her.

All at once, the forest falls silent.

No crickets, no wind, not even a whisper of sound.

From the black, a light as soft and blue as periwinkles glows.

Melody is drawn to it. The worry tightening her chest calms and waves of summer warmth wash over her, setting her at ease. The brightness dims as a click sets against the stone slab, then another. Melody squints against the light as it settles, and is breathless.

A reindeer with antlers that branch like the roots of an ancient tree. Her face is honey and her body is snow, front feet adorned by hooves that shine like wet beetles. Her back legs morph into scaly flesh, bird’s feet, eagle talons scraping against stone. Pale blues and greens trail along the moss behind her, a peacock tail scaled to fit her long body. It’s then Melody notices—a pair of great, wide wings, feathers spread across a delicate arch of bone, like sunbeams from a star. They protrude from between the reindeer’s muscular shoulder blades, and when Melody regards her, the forest comes back to life around them.

“Poppy,” Melody whispers. “Poppy, it’s the forest goddess. She’s a peryton.”

You’ll know when you see her, Madame Celeste had said. She wasn’t wrong. The forest goddess embodies nature—with each new step, vines and flowers blossom from the velvet of her antlers, her black eyes housing a peace that reminds Melody of winter, the birth of spring, early autumn afternoons, late summer nights. She’s magnificent.

The peryton halts at Melody’s side, one knee bending to the ground, her back open and inviting. Melody gets to her feet, scooping a sleeping Poppy into her arms.

“You want me to get on?” she asks, uncertain.

The peryton blinks, and the answer is carried through the trees, caught on a whisper of wind.

Yes.

She’s soft. Melody sits with her legs slung over one side. She lays Poppy in her lap and tenderly wraps an arm around the peryton’s neck. Her fingertips dance across the velvet of her antlers, unable to resist. Goosebumps rise on her forearms. The peryton stands, lifting Melody from the stone, and for a moment she blinks down, remembering Hazel’s broom discarded on the moss—but perhaps it’s best to let go. Melody focuses on the path ahead.

The forest is alive around them, filled with songbirds and insects, the babble of nearby brooks, the sound of the oldest trees creaking and moaning as they sing to each other. Night gives way to stirrings of gold on the horizon like a fountain filled with precious jewels as the peryton continues to step through the woods. Finally, the path familiarizes, and when the cottage comes into view and Madame Celeste and Ursula rush outside to meet them, their mouths open as they take in the goddess, a weight lifts from Melody’s shoulders.

“Hi,” she whispers as Ursula helps her off the peryton’s back.

Ursula can’t take her eyes off the ever-blooming antlers, now flush with fairy foxgloves. “Melody, is this…?”

Melody holds Poppy close to her chest, running her fingers across the peryton’s head. “She helped me come home.”

Madame Celeste nods to the goddess, her expression one of gratitude and reverence. The peryton must understand something from it, because she turns and walks away, back into the heart of the trees from whence she came. The blue light goes with her, and dawn overtakes Melody’s senses.

“Thank you, Nefeli,” Madame Celeste murmurs, but the goddess is already gone.