Margaret Thornbury's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Margaret Thornbury had buried two husbands, and she wanted a third who would twirl her under a summer sky. At forty-one, she spent her evenings the same way. She read in her armchair while her dog snored at her feet. Her small bungalow sat quiet at the end of the lane, its red door shut, its porch lamp burning for no one. She wanted a storybook romance. She could not find one inside her own house. "Nobody comes courting a woman who never leaves," she told the dog. He thumped his tail and rolled over. Margaret closed her book. She had read every love story on her shelf twice. She was tired of watching other people fall in love on paper. So she made a plan. The old tree in her yard had bloomed all spring. It sprawled wide, heavy with white flowers, red berries, and vines that curled through its branches. Neighbors slowed their cars to look at it. Margaret decided to bring her chair outside, sit beneath it, and read where people could see her. If a suitor would not knock, she would put herself in his path. She dragged a chair across the grass and settled under the branches. The dog followed and flopped in the shade. Margaret opened her book and waited. An hour passed. A boy rode by on a bicycle. A woman walked a poodle. No suitor appeared. Then the dog lifted his head and growled. Something moved in the low foliage near the roots. Margaret leaned forward. A woman stepped out from behind the trunk, no taller than the dog. Wings spread from her back, thin as soap film and shining with color. Gold marks curled up her arms and legs. She held her chin high, the way a woman holds it when she is used to being obeyed. "You keep wishing under my tree," the small woman said. "Out loud. Every night. Do you know how tiresome that becomes?" Margaret gripped her book. "You live in my tree?" "I live in the roots. You want a man to sweep you up and spin you around." The winged woman flicked her hand. "I heard it forty times. I can arrange such things. It is what my kind does. But arrangements have prices, and mortals never read them carefully." Margaret's heart pounded. Here, at last, was a path to the thing she wanted. She should have felt afraid. She felt hungry instead. "You can bring me a suitor?" "I can bring you exactly what you asked for." The fae smiled, and the smile did not reach her eyes. "Word for word. That is the trouble with wishes. Shall we begin?" Margaret looked at her quiet door, her sleeping dog, her empty evenings. Then she looked at the small creature waiting under her tree. She set down her book and stood. "Yes," she said. "Begin."