Midnight blue and indigo night, a faery white as snow dusts the chalky moon as it crosses the sky. Lavender and wild thyme scent the air. Little hooves of baby goats clatter softly in the shed behind the makeshift bench. Unseen tree frogs in the willows trill and drone in long, periodic waves, falling silent intermittently, then starting up again. Wearing a red silk dress that throbs in the suffuse moonlight, Felicia straddles Palmocchio’s lap, her face in his chest, her arms round his neck with his right hand cupping her head and the left on the flat of her back. He is wearing a green plaid sweater and lemon yellow trousers in powerful visual contrast to Felicia’s red and the sky’s blues. He wonders if Felicia summoned the faery on the sly. He has heard of lovers summoning faeries to reinforce their love-bonds. But he has never thought their love needed bolstering. He is crazy about Felicia and he believes she feels the same about him. Perhaps he has been mistaken about this. While he does not need the assist of a love faery, perhaps Felicia does. Palmocchio is perfectly cognizant of his shortcomings and of how often he falls short expressing and demonstrating his love for Felicia, and has always said he is willing to change. But modifying his behaviour and his attitude even an iota does not come easily to him.
 

The faery recrosses the sky and sprinkles dust. The dust falls from the sky and upon the couple. Finer than snow, it lightly covers Palmocchio, Felicia, and the bench. It clings to his clothes and skin. He wonders if he should be concerned. He has never heard of deleterious effects from contact with such dust. Not that he knows anything about such dust. Not that he knows anything more than the next man about faeries. Nevertheless, his face contorts and his eyes widen in the soft moonlight as he wonders about the dust, the faeries, and love.

Felicia does not stir. Indeed she softly snores, deep in some pillowy dreamland, her breast warm and full against his. He can hear the baby goats scuffling and chirping as they settle to bed. The tree frogs fall silent for a long spell that leave Palmocchio in a state of ringing anticipation, such as when a dripping tap in the middle of the night stops all of a sudden. Tension builds as the ear waits for the dripping to restart. But this is neither here nor there. Of concern at this moment is Palmocchio’s status with Felicia. Is there something she has not been telling him? He looks up at the sky again, at its striating deep blues, lyrical spray of stars, and powdery moon with its ghostly expression: no answers there. And no sign of the faery. Perhaps it considered its job done and fluttered off to repair the next crumbling couple. How people compensated these faeries for their work remained unclear. But that they were still in high demand was indisputable—though acceptance of this fact required an open mind. Shake a little dust on the troubled lovers and all shall be well. Unless this was not the case at all.

Palmocchio bends his neck and sniffs Felicia’s hair. It smells of lilacs and something a little off, like the sulfurous tang of approaching rot. He averts his face. This is new, and surprising. He wonders if the faery dust explains it. But when he sniffs the back of his hand, whitened by the dust, he smells nothing. He sniffs Felicia’s hair again and jerks back his head. He has never smelled this horrible stench on her before. How is it possible she smells like that now? They had gone for their usual evening walk, the weather temperate, but they barely broke a sweat, never moving faster than a slow stroll, their arms locked, heads tipped together. Any observer would have deduced either that they were deeply in love, the kind of couple who complete each others sentences and occasionally wear matching sweaters—or more cynically, an observer may have concluded that their overt affections and public groping masked their actual and profound dissatisfaction with each other, if not their mutual aversion.

Felicia continues sleeping, imperturbable, oblivious to all. Palmocchio wishes to free himself of the embrace. He loosens her hands from his neck and her arms drop limply to her sides. He gently squeezes her neck, but she does not respond. She feels heavier now, her chest pressing against his, her head resting like a foetid anvil on his chest. What is he to do?

 

The baby goats begin clattering again. Has he awoken them? Now the tree frogs, perhaps triggered by the baby goats, begin trilling again, more loudly this time, almost bellowing. Palmocchio twists his head left and right like a trapped dog.

 

“Felicia,” he says quietly. But she is unresponsive. He gently claps her cheek. He notices that it is cold. Perhaps a draft of night air has chilled her skin.
“Felicia,” he repeats. “Time to go, dear.” Nothing.

He sits for an interminable length of time. Felicia’s breast no longer warms his. Her soft snore has ceased. She appears to have stopped breathing altogether. What has happened? Has the faery poisoned her somehow? Or has he involuntarily and unconsciously strangled her to death? Is such a thing even possible? He looks at his hands. They look normal and unmolested, not like the hands of a strangler. In any event, he has no memory of such a violent action. It must be a natural
situation. What do you do in the event of a natural situation like this without drawing suspicion? The authorities would surely dismiss the faery business. They would point to Palmocchio and the incontrovertible fact that he was with her when she breathed her last.

 

The baby goats agitate in the shed. The tree frogs trill without pause. Palmocchio’s hands cover his ears and he shuts his eyes. What he hopes is that this is all some kind of dream or hallucination. It happens. People often report dreams that seem as detailed and tangible as waking reality, if not more so. And any number of villagers had been known to experience visions and scenarios far removed from what seemed possible. There was the case of Corrado Conte, a lonely lens polisher, known for a number of failed engagements, who one day began to walk around the village with his elbow cocked as though escorting a companion, introducing everyone to his new bride, who did not exist except in his own imagination.

He rolls Felicia off his body and stretches her out on the bench, resting her head on one end of the bench. In the process her shoes fall off and her bare feet dangle over the other end of the bench. Her toes look enormous in the dusty moonlight, particular the bulging big toes with their green-tinged nails. A wave of acrid nausea prompts Palmocchio to his feet. He covers his mouth, bends to the nearest bush, and vomits. He vomits again.

​

He pulls out a checked handkerchief and wipes his mouth. He pockets the handkerchief and decides to count to ten then open his eyes and pray Felicia is not there or that she is not dead. This likely will not work, but he has no other ideas at this moment and feels compelled to do something, albeit unreasonable. Desperation is the gun-to-the-head of creativity. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. When Palmocchio opens his eyes, he immediately looks up at the sky. Quite lovely tonight with the stars and the moon and the swept jet blacks and dark blues. Where is the bloody white faery now?

​

He looks up for a long time.

He has no desire to look down.