Jemma was no longer by the docks. What, where, how—all things she questioend, had left her mouth dry with no answer. Goosebumps rose underneath her skin. It was extremely warm. Well, she was extremely cold just moments ago. She was no longer sitting by the fireplace, but in vibrant plains of grass. She stood up on a hill from which sprung wild white daisies, pollen—sparkly pollen—flew in the air agains the light of the golden sun, cascading, floating like little stars. The sky—oh, the sky—this was not her sky at all for she thought it was the most beautiful sky she’d ever seen. Back at the docks, the skies were dull, uninviting, an overbearing curtain preventing her from seeing the light or breathing something other than fish, or seeing what could be up there—beyond the break of clouds. Here, it was not the case. Here, she could see, she could breathe, and the sky was pale pink, purple and orange. The air tasted sweet on her tongue. The light was shining and not at all like the ceiling of her prison on the docks. No—there was a real sun, but one that stretched like a bow over the earth. Well, no, not the earth. This was somewhere else. Wherever she was, she never wanted to leave.

Maybe, she had died. Maybe, Mr. Moore was right to not light that fireplace, because once one does, it explodes in their face and kills them. That must have been what had happened. She was dead.

“You’re not dead,”

Jemma spun. “Who said that?” But there was no one there. She kept looking until she was wildly spinning back and forth.

There was a laugh. Male. “Up here,”

Jemma lifted her head to see a young man floating in the air.

“How are you doing that?” She asked, the air leaving her lungs. 

He chuckled and she could have sworn she heard bells ringing. “Oh, how I love visitors,” he said as if she wasn’t standing right in front of him. He angled his chin over his shoulder, “Do you mean these?”

And as he floated back down to the ground, Jemma could see more clearly a pair of silvery, purple, pink and blue wings attached to his back. She swallowed a parched mouth from gaping so long. “Are—are you a fairy?”

He smiled, and there was a sparkle on his teeth that made it hard to look at him when he said, “These are wings, are they not?” Hmm..very sparkly indeed. He looked about late twenties in earth time, tall, and lean with pale skin that reflected like he was made up of mini crystals or was at least covered in glitter. His eyes were bright blue and his hair a feathery blond. Everything about him seemed alien to her; fantastical, and yet, was contrasted by the clear pronunciation and fluency of her tongue.

“Yes, I am a fairy,” he said, “and you are the first visiter my world has had in years. Welcome.”

Jemma waited for him to continue until she realized he was waiting for her, “Oh, um..I’m Jemma.”

He tucked his arm to his stomach and bowed his head, “Pleasure. My name is Xathier. Welcome, Miss Jemma, to Feytham, home of the fairies.”