“Get a grip,” I mutter, letting my forehead rest against the glass. “He’s not your sailor husband lost at sea. He’s a cthulhu you’ve known barely two weeks.”
Two weeks that have somehow rewired everything I thought I knew about myself.
I pull on a thick fisherman’s sweater that nearly reaches my knees and shuffle to the kitchen. My coffee maker—the one Roark deemed “barely functional”—protests with a series of alarming clicks before reluctantly dripping something that vaguely resembles coffee into my mug.
As I wait, I flip through my notebook where I’ve been jotting down ideas. Roark needs a way to move through town without causing mass panic, but the magical disguise he once relied on is gone.
If only there were someone who knew about that kind of magic…
I nearly drop my mug as realization hits me. Iris. The fairy who had given Roark his original human glamour.
He’d mentioned losing touch with her after the Great Unveiling—hard to maintain friendships when you can’t exactly stroll down Main Street with tentacles trailing behind you.
“She could still be here,” I say to my coffee. The coffee, mercifully, doesn’t respond.
An hour later, I’m combing through old Cape Tempest business directories and tourism guides. If a fairy runs a business in town, there should be some record. Pre-Unveiling, she would have appeared as a human shopkeeper, but post-Unveiling?
I find nothing in the official town business registry, but a colorful flyer tucked into last summer’s tourist brochure catches my eye: “Fae & Folly — Curiosities & Trinkets from Beyond the Veil.” The shop address places it on a narrow alley off Harbor Street that I almost never visit.
“How have I missed this?” I mutter, reaching for my keys. For someone who prides herself on knowing every inch of Cape Tempest, this feels like an embarrassing oversight.
The morning fog has lifted by the time I’ve walked to the edge of town. Cape Tempest is quiet on weekdays in the shoulder season—just a few tourists huddled against the wind, peering hopefully at menus outside seafood restaurants that won’t open for hours.
Harbor Street curves along the waterfront, lined with the usual suspects: the nautical gift shop, the overpriced restaurant with “authentic” fishing nets on the ceiling, and Marina’s bait shop. But between a closed ice cream parlor and a dusty antique store, there’s a narrow passage I’ve somehow overlooked my entire life.
The alley isn’t dark or intimidating—just easily missed. Halfway down, a shop window glows with a warm, amber light that seems too rich for the gray day outside. The sign above reads “Fae & Folly” in a flowing script that shimmers slightly as I approach, like sunlight on water.
My stomach tightens with nerves. I’ve never met a fairy before, at least not that I know of.
A small bell announces my entrance, its chime lingering oddly in the air. The shop is larger inside than it appeared from the street—a physical impossibility I decide not to question.
Every surface holds collections of curious objects: bottles of liquid that move against gravity, jewelry that seems to whisper, plants that definitely just turned to watch me.
“Hello?” I call out, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Is anyone here?”
“Just a moment!” a melodic voice calls from somewhere beyond a beaded curtain. “Feel free to look around, but maybe don’t touch the singing shells. They’re in a mood today.”
I eye a collection of pearlescent shells that are vibrating slightly on a velvet cushion and decide to keep my hands firmly in my pockets.
The beaded curtain parts with a musical sound, and a woman—no, definitely a fairy, made the size of a woman through magic—emerges from the back room.
She’s petite with delicate features that somehow suggest both youth and ancient wisdom. Her skin has a subtle luminescence, and her hair shifts colors like oil on water, moving from deep purple to teal to silver as she approaches. Most striking are her eyes—large, almond-shaped, and a startling amber color that reminds me of honey held to sunlight.
“Welcome to Fae & Folly!” she says, her smile revealing teeth just a touch too pearly and perfect to be human. “I’m Iris. Are you looking for anything in particular? Love charm? Weather protection? Invisibility dust?”
My carefully prepared explanation evaporates. “I, um—”
“You’re the lighthouse keeper,” she says, tilting her head curiously. “Ashe Morgan. I’ve seen you around town but never in my shop. Most locals avoid it—they prefer to pretend magic doesn’t exist unless it’s entertaining tourists.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “What brings you here today? Something’s troubling you… Something secret.”
I blink, startled by her perception. “How did you—”
“Fairy intuition,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s not mind reading, just… emotional weather forecasting. And you’re practically a thunderstorm of anxiety right now.”
I take a deep breath. “I know your friend, Roark.”
The effect is immediate. Iris freezes, her otherworldly composure cracking. The ambient light in the shop flickers, and several of the shells begin a low, mournful keen.
“Roark?” she whispers, her voice suddenly small. “He’s… He’s alive?”
