Jemma spent the morning writhing in anxiety. She needed to light the fireplace again. She needed to see the city again, smell the air with the likes of a candy shop, squint into the light of her lightbow, fly with Xathier. She wanted to—

“Jemma?”

Jemma spun around. Shoot. She was still in the library. He was calling for her from the kitchen. She threw open to the door to find him cooking at the stove, one hand on the panhandle, the other stirring the contents. He froze over the pan and slowly turned. He frowned. “What were you doing in there?”

“I—I was looking for a book to read. I was bored.”

“Oh. Well, did you find anything to your liking?”

“Uh, yes,” No, I didn’t read a single page. “One.”

“Good. Now sit down for some breakfast, why don’tcha?”

“I’m not hungry,” It wasn’t a lie. Xathier had picked a flower from the ground and gave it to her for her to eat. She never thought she’d eat a flower in her entire life, but this one was filled to the brim with a sparkly juice and tasted like strawberries and bananas. After she finished drinking it, Xathier showed her how to peel off the petals and eat them like crisps, except they were softer. “Ice cream in Fairyland,” is what he had told her. Though, she wouldn’t realize until later that he had said “Ice cream” and that that was an earth thing. She'd have to ask him about that at some point. Until then, the jubilee from her petal juice would be replaced with a pit in her stomach. Right now, what she needed was a bit of sleep.

“But you have to eat something," said Mr. Moore.

“Didn’t always on the docks. I’ll be fine. I’m just going back to my room.”

“Back to your room? Does this mean you’ll stay?”

Stay. A word Jemma never had to use besides “docks.” Was she staying? For how long? How long until she would ask to stay in Feytham forever without hurting the old man’s feelings?

“Until the storm goes,” she resolved, itching her arm, “How long do you think that’ll be?”

He shrugs. “Three days more I expect.”

She nodded. Three more days in Feytham. “Three more days it is, then. See you for dinner.”

Mr. Moore perked, but since his posture was in the shape of a crescent moon, it looked more like a hop. Jemma pitied him. He looked like an old dog in tattered clothes and a messy beard. But even worse, his eyes wore something that made her incredibly uncomfortable between his crows feet and pupils: hope and loneliness. How those two could be side by side was a mystery to her, but there he stood. “Alrighty, then. See you for dinner.”

“Alright then.” Jemma rushed to the stairs, up to her room and plopped onto the mattress, dropping into a deep sleep and dreamt fairies.

Three more days in Feytham. 

Very well. I’ll stay with the old man for three more days. But the last night—she’ll light the fireplace for the last time.