I met with them many times in a glade at the heart of the wood near my home. I can well remember the way my feet spun, my hair a dark cloud swirling round my face. My laughter twined between the notes of their music as if the two belonged together, and I would dance until I was breathless and spent. A lithe fey girl would take my hand and laugh as I tried to mimic the steps to the dance. A woman strummed her fingers across the strings of her instrument, nodding in time to the music, a small smile upon her lips. A man tapped his feet, standing near the edge of the trees, while he played a rippling tune on his flute. And each girl and woman wore slippers as delicate as spun sugar, as clear and beautiful as glass. When their feet flew across the ground in an intricate jig, light spilled gently from those slippers like pent-up joy that could no longer be contained. With my father away at war and my mother ill at home, the fey were my joy. More than that, they were my kin. Their friendship was like a wave washing over me, or like the wind coursing through my hair.
