I had no memory of purchasing it.
On Monday, I had a meeting scheduled with a client, a Goth girl named Spider. Spider’s daddy was footing the bill for a mega wedding the size of Argentina. In the spirit of solidarity, and in the hopes of snagging a bigger share of daddy’s expenses, I decided to darken up a little before I met her. I had black nail polish, but that would be too obvious. I didn’t want to look like a wannabe or a kiss ass. But a nice rich chocolate would be somber enough. I wondered if my spider-web tights would be too much. Probably. Might as well powder my face and draw an ankh on my cheek in eyeliner. Better to undersell it.
I opened the linen closet, shrieked like a little girl and slammed it shut.
In that brief peek into my towels and toiletries, I saw several tiny people scuttling for cover. Had I not recently been attacked by fairies I’d mistaken for dragonflies, I might have thought my closet denizens were mice or rats. My self-preservation skills, however, were waning. Reality, no matter how bizarre, was no longer allowing me to take the easy way out.
I took a deep breath. I took a second deep breath for good measure. Gripping the doorknob, I turned it as quietly as I could, then pulled the door open, peering into the crack. Three—no, four—miniature people huddled in the corner, lit by the shaft of light I let in. A woman stood with one arm wrapped around a little boy, and her hand rested on the head of a smaller girl. A taller boy, I’d say about twelve if he were human, stood in front of them, chest puffed out and one hand on his hip in defiance. His other arm was folded against his chest.
They all looked terrified.
I let the door swing open the rest of the way and regarded the small family in my linen closet. They all had tiny pointed ears and skin the color of milky hot cocoa. The little girl clung to her mother’s skirts, tiny black pigtails bobbing as she hid her face. The younger boy looked frightened, but ready to break out of mom’s headlock if big brother needed an assist. The mom broke my heart.
Her face was beautiful, a miniature, darker version of Audrey Hepburn. There was so much dignity in the way she held herself. However, Audrey Hepburn hadn’t sported a shiner like that. The woman’s eye was swollen nearly shut, and dried blood crusted one side of her perfect face. My eyes moved to the older son and noted again the way he nursed his arm against his body. This family had been through hell.
“Brownies,” Maurice said, making me jump.
“Gah! Would you please stop sneaking up on me?”
“Sorry. Zoey, this is Molly Wheatstalk. Molly, this is Zoey.”
She nodded her head once and gave me a smile that was far too weak for my liking.
“It’s nice to meet you, Molly,” I said. I had a passing thought that a brownie family in my linen closet was a preposterous notion and that I was probably lying on a sidewalk somewhere, bleeding after a piano had dropped on my head.
But denial was a luxury I couldn’t indulge. These little people were too real to deny, and I’d never turned anyone away when they needed help. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I also knew I hadn’t bothered to bolster my newly created walls of defense for the day, but I didn’t care. Molly and her children were hurting, sad, frightened, desperate—I felt it all. But I also felt something else. Love . It was so thick I could almost see it twisting around them and binding them together, spreading outward into the hallway. There was so much love in my linen closet I wanted to curl up in a pile of fluffy towels and bask in the glow.
This empath thing isn’t all bad.
The smile I gave them was the one I reserved for nervous brides about to bolt—filled with kindness and understanding. “You have a beautiful family, Molly.”
Her smile brightened a bit, and the older son relaxed his defensive stance. The little girl lifted her face and gave me a shy grin, dimples puckering. She popped her
On Monday, I had a meeting scheduled with a client, a Goth girl named Spider. Spider’s daddy was footing the bill for a mega wedding the size of Argentina. In the spirit of solidarity, and in the hopes of snagging a bigger share of daddy’s expenses, I decided to darken up a little before I met her. I had black nail polish, but that would be too obvious. I didn’t want to look like a wannabe or a kiss ass. But a nice rich chocolate would be somber enough. I wondered if my spider-web tights would be too much. Probably. Might as well powder my face and draw an ankh on my cheek in eyeliner. Better to undersell it.
I opened the linen closet, shrieked like a little girl and slammed it shut.
In that brief peek into my towels and toiletries, I saw several tiny people scuttling for cover. Had I not recently been attacked by fairies I’d mistaken for dragonflies, I might have thought my closet denizens were mice or rats. My self-preservation skills, however, were waning. Reality, no matter how bizarre, was no longer allowing me to take the easy way out.
I took a deep breath. I took a second deep breath for good measure. Gripping the doorknob, I turned it as quietly as I could, then pulled the door open, peering into the crack. Three—no, four—miniature people huddled in the corner, lit by the shaft of light I let in. A woman stood with one arm wrapped around a little boy, and her hand rested on the head of a smaller girl. A taller boy, I’d say about twelve if he were human, stood in front of them, chest puffed out and one hand on his hip in defiance. His other arm was folded against his chest.
They all looked terrified.
I let the door swing open the rest of the way and regarded the small family in my linen closet. They all had tiny pointed ears and skin the color of milky hot cocoa. The little girl clung to her mother’s skirts, tiny black pigtails bobbing as she hid her face. The younger boy looked frightened, but ready to break out of mom’s headlock if big brother needed an assist. The mom broke my heart.
Her face was beautiful, a miniature, darker version of Audrey Hepburn. There was so much dignity in the way she held herself. However, Audrey Hepburn hadn’t sported a shiner like that. The woman’s eye was swollen nearly shut, and dried blood crusted one side of her perfect face. My eyes moved to the older son and noted again the way he nursed his arm against his body. This family had been through hell.
“Brownies,” Maurice said, making me jump.
“Gah! Would you please stop sneaking up on me?”
“Sorry. Zoey, this is Molly Wheatstalk. Molly, this is Zoey.”
She nodded her head once and gave me a smile that was far too weak for my liking.
“It’s nice to meet you, Molly,” I said. I had a passing thought that a brownie family in my linen closet was a preposterous notion and that I was probably lying on a sidewalk somewhere, bleeding after a piano had dropped on my head.
But denial was a luxury I couldn’t indulge. These little people were too real to deny, and I’d never turned anyone away when they needed help. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I also knew I hadn’t bothered to bolster my newly created walls of defense for the day, but I didn’t care. Molly and her children were hurting, sad, frightened, desperate—I felt it all. But I also felt something else. Love . It was so thick I could almost see it twisting around them and binding them together, spreading outward into the hallway. There was so much love in my linen closet I wanted to curl up in a pile of fluffy towels and bask in the glow.
This empath thing isn’t all bad.
The smile I gave them was the one I reserved for nervous brides about to bolt—filled with kindness and understanding. “You have a beautiful family, Molly.”
Her smile brightened a bit, and the older son relaxed his defensive stance. The little girl lifted her face and gave me a shy grin, dimples puckering. She popped her
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