In the moonlight, Fae waited. The damp grass tickled her feet as she crouched underneath the old elm, her back to the barn and her fingers curled. She watched as tendrils of mist, in curious shades of blue and purple, curled and seethed in the distance, deepening the night with their foggy fingers.
A moonlit chill crept between her shoulder blades, draping a shivery itch down her spine. Fae willed herself not to move. She tightened her teeth and held her breath.
Slowly, as if the darkness had breathed her, a winged girl rose from a thatch of four-leaf clovers at Fae's feet. Her wings glistened in the moonlight, like perfect transparent drops of dew against the shimmering horizon.
In one fluid motion, Fae spring. There was a flurry of wings, and a small indigent squeak--and the faint scent of lilac--but the creature was captured. Fae raised her perfume bottle slowly upwards, breathing in the leftover lilac sent from the long-discarded reservoir, her toes tingling with excitement and anticipation.
Nothing but pixie dust coated the bottle.
Every few years Faelynn Robyn Emery opens the top of her antiquated perfume bottle to let her senses linger in the smell of lilac and...sage? chamomile? Or was it rhubarb...
The elusive scent of otherwhere she could never placed, all 110 years of her life.
These small fable stories were written by me, inspired by pieces I curated from a vintage online shop I used to run. You can read more of them here.