Taking a long draw from her coffee, Margot nodded. She didn’t mind being put to work, just as Claudette had never minded telling her what to do. She’d had Margot shelving books halfway through their first conversation, when she wandered in looking for more vintage sci-fi paperbacks.
Real paper books weren’t terribly common, so when she found a shop that sold them in abundance, she never passed up the chance to find treasures. It was a lucky thing that she found a friend inside, too.
Hefting the stack into the crook of her elbow, Margot prowled the section to find the proper places. She could alphabetize. She could artfully arrange. She could get her over-excited thoughts in order.
Words tumbled out of her as she worked, painting a rough picture of what she’s spent the entire night planning. It’d been awelcome break from the panic and fear that clawed at her in the dark, made all the worse by the looming holiday — which might very well be her last.
Claudette listened dutifully to her rambling, interrupting her only once to offer help with a tall shelf.
When she’d finished, the giantess made a thoughtful sound and summarized, “You want to open a secret clinic. That doesn’t seem so bad. The city might have a problem with it, mind, if they discover you’re pilfering supplies, but who cares what they think? They’ve been trying to shut me down for code violations for nearly a hundred years.”
Margot stared at the nearly empty cart, her filed nails worrying the peeling black paint on the handle. She shook her head. “I know it’s not that daring. I just… I’ve never done anything rebellious in my life. I don’t think I’ve ever even broken a rule.”
“You came here all on your own,” Claudette pointed out.
Because I’m running out of time,she silently replied.The clock was ticking not just for her to find her bondmate, that faceless person who’d save her life, but to beuseful.To be anything of worth at all.
“I want to help people,” she sighed. “And I just don’t feel like I’m doing that in the St. Francis Woods healing house. Not enough.”
Claudette snorted. “Then do it.” Her glasses slid down the length of her nose, but were saved from an untimely descent by the bulbous, rosy tip. Claudette reached out to tweak the round ear that peeked out from behind Margot’s red hair, a toothy smile crinkling the skin around her eyes. “You’ve got good instincts. Use them, huh?”
“It doesfeelright,” she admitted, a familiar certainty settling in her gut. It was the same feeling that had drawn her relentlessly toward San Francisco. That had to mean something.
Right?
A hot puff of air stirred her hair. Margot looked up, startled to find Claudette was rolling her eyes at her. “What?” she asked, baffled.
The giantess waved a huge hand dismissively. “You’re awitch,Margot. And you’re a young, beautiful, single one at that. It’s unnatural to be so unsure of yourself. Straighten your shoulders and get out in the world already. It’s waiting for you.”
Slinging a heavy arm over her shoulders, Claudette gave her a reassuring, bone-crushing squeeze. “Drink your coffee,” she sternly ordered. “Then grab another stack of books. Burden’s Moon is coming. Do you have any idea how much stocking I have to do to get ready for all the gift-giving?”
Pixie Feeding Fortunes
“Pixies: Pests, Predictions, and Perseverance" by Elise Sasini forThe San Francisco Light,published 21 December 2048
Where there are people,there are pixies. And where there are pixies, there are traditions as old as the creatures themselves.
Caeruleosalatus brevimanus,more commonly known as the domesticated pixie, originated from a now extinct wild species native to Europe, Asia, and North Africa. Bred some 10,000 years ago to select for friendliness and navigation, pixies are the small, blue, winged companions to the rise of civilization. If you’ve ever visited a city or hung out beneath an overpass as a wayward teen, then you’ve certainly seen your fair share of pixies.
In case you didn’t spend your adolescent years ditching class to hang out beneath bridges like I did, then you might not have gotten up close and personal with the blue creatures who hidein the cracks and crevices of the modern world. Even so, you’ve heard of them.
Pixies don’t just populate attics or make nests out of stolen socks. For generations, they were the sole means of communication between far-flung communities, with messages of love and loss and warning carried in their little blue hands. It was a mighty responsibility for creatures so small, and perhaps that’s why so many superstitions sprang up around them.
When the days are dark and food runs scarce, a lowly pixie carrying a message might be the only creature standing between your community and death. Today, many of us have forgotten days of famine and fear, but cultural memory runs deeper than any one person. Stories linger. Traditions, particularly those tied to the survival of winter, are ingrained in our collective DNA.
Pixies star in many Burden’s Moon stories. Their images decorate children’s books explaining the importance of hearth and home. Songs about mischievous pixies stealing gifts only to leave better ones in their place dominate the airwaves.
Our forgotten lifelines are everywhere during the thirty days of Burden’s Moon. To pixie enthusiasts like Dr. Moira Luten, a biologist and pixie expert from San Francisco Protectorate University, they’re important year-round. I sat down with her for a coffee to discuss her favorite subject and watch the frenzy of activity that is Union Square being decorated for the holiday.
Dr. Luten doesn’t look like what you might imagine a typical biologist would. Short, curvy, and dressed to the nines, she has a dreamy smile and a calm demeanor that’s a breath of fresh air to your reporter, who’s been stuck in the bullpen for a little too long.
While we make ourselves comfortable on the bench, she asks, “So, what do you think of pixies?”
Normally in an interview, I’m the one asking the questions, so it takes me a moment — and a too-hot sip of my latte — to summon an answer.
“To be honest, I don’t have much of an opinion. I like them well enough, I guess, as long as they aren’t chewing holes in my walls,” I answer.
“Pixies don’t chew holes,” she corrects me. Lifting one hand, she makes a scratching motion in the air. “They dig them. Their claws are made of a similar material as elvish claws, which makes them incredibly efficient little homemakers.”
