Elaine unfolds the roll of peony petal and stretches it under her fingers. Gristland’s handwriting is barely legible, and this is how she knows that her editor is…agitated.

That, and the punctuation.

She sighs, her wings twitching, and with her stem-pen, scribbles back underneath: What do you mean? It’s PR drivel. She flicks her hand, and the petal-roll zooms off her desk, hovering for a moment in the air above the newsroom as if to find its bearings, before zig-zagging towards Gristland’s office. A beat later, she hears him harrumph.

His reply barrels back into her receiving tray: Disagree. Something fishy going on. Note, they have not granted a TOURISM permit.

That, Elaine writes back, the shape of her letters a little less well formed than usual, is hardly surprising after what happened.

Indeed, the last time the Council of Clans had inaugurated a new gate to another otherwhere, the angels living on the other side seemed friendly enough— so friendly in fact, that the Council had rushed through the Travel, Trade, and Tourism triple permit. Everyone had been so pleased with the arrangement (for the angels produced beautiful silks that sold well, very well indeed on the delight markets) that it had taken longer than it should to notice that a dozen or so traders and tourists had gone missing. At great peril to his life, the appointed investigator uncovered that the angels’ pleasant demeanour belied an inexhaustible hunger for sentient flesh. 

The gate to the cannibal angels was promptly warded shut.

Now that the Council of Clans was giving it another go with a new connection —to a new otherwhere— it made sense that they would proceed with more caution. Elaine knows that Gristland wants her to travel through the new gate and poke around. But she’d be shepherded by press minders the whole way, shown only what they wanted her to see while they fed her official lines written by the Council’s communications committee. It isn’t the sort of work she is interested in doing. Especially now, when she’s making such good progress in her investigation of the feathered horse gangs of Riviere City. Frankly, she’s even a little insulted that Gristland would ask.

Not for me. Send the apprentice? she replies, to wind him up. Waiting for his response, Elaine lets her eyes drift to the newsroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows. On one side, they frame the long coastline with its golden-yellow sand. The beaches are dotted with holiday-goers; the season is in full swing. The opposite view is dominated by mountains that cut out the horizon without apology. Even at this time of year, they are tall enough to be tinged white at their crests, like frosted sugar on a grub bun.

Elaine likes running her gaze along the outline of the range. It’s where she pins her thorniest stories. When she has spread out her notes, taken her ideas for a walk, talked the thoughts out to herself in a mirror; when she has tried and tried again to draft; when, even, she has forced herself to write the story through, and the outcome is nothing she would want anyone to read; then, she turns to this view.

She pins clusters of emotions, of information, along the rising and falling elevation, and shuffles it around; and somehow, at last, in the shadows of those mountains, the story falls into place.

She hasn’t had to resort to that trick since her essay on the elves of the arctic circle. She spent six months with them, her eyes not just studiously down, but also around, breathing in all the details of her surroundings like a cleaning charm might take in dirt. She noticed— everything. The decorated doorways, in their diamond patterns of yellow and green. The way food was plated, the position of the snow hare meat indicative of social status. The smell of herbs, tossed on the evening fires, filling houses with the comforting fragrance of juniper and meadowsweet.

She returned blistered and gaunt (her body was built for humid, hot conditions— a greenhouse fairy, they called her here) and once she had laid out her ideas on the mountains, and struggled through writing it all up, the draft she sent to Gristland came back stained with tears.

This is going to win us something— AGAIN , he’d written, in lopsided cursive. And sure enough, four months later, Elaine had earned her third Raconteur Award for The Fae Inquirer.

Another roll of peony slides into her receiving tray. She plucks it out, avoiding digging her fingers in the small bed of soil (enchanted to keep correspondence fresh).

This time, it’s Par’s hand bearing back at her.

He replies with a drawn smile.

She smiles back at the petal. Elaine knows that Par is handsome— she caught a glance of him, once, many months ago. She had been so taken up with an idea, a story about a mermaid-gnome cohabitation project in the Yellowsky otherwhere, that she had forgotten to keep her gaze low; failed to see that the elevator was not empty.

At his surprised exclamation, she had flicked her eyes down and apologized profusely; he had apologized too, shuffling his bare feet nervously on the white-marble floor. Elaine remembers, because she was staring at them the whole way down.

His message of goodbye, as they split ways in front of the building, had been curt.

Elaine can’t help but still feel shame, even if Par acts as if it never happened. And yet his messages always brighten her day.

Another petal drops into her receiving box, and this time it’s Gristland.

He follows up: 

And again:

Elaine has been led into many a trouble by agreeing to do Gristland a favor. And she isn’t sure that her story on the feathered horse gangs will indeed still be there by the time she returns. A reporter from The Sprite Times , she suspects, has been following the same lead. But she can tell when Gristland has settled himself in a corner from which he won’t budge, and well, for all her teasing she likes to keep her curmudgeon of an editor happy. Some of the time, at least.

Looks like I’m going on assignment , she writes to Par— to which he replies with a drawn cheesy smile, tongue sticking out.

After a stop at her favorite bug baker ( off again , they message, after she writes them her order, and she writes back, so goes the job , and they draw her a laugh) she takes a charmed cart to the gate zone. She deliberately chooses a connection that does not go through tropical fairy lands. She refuses to approach her childhood home by so much as a league.

The cart drops her off by the gate border offices, and Elaine flashes a polite thank you in the air to the driver as she places coins carefully in the woman’s hands, moving slowly enough to make sure her gloved fingers do not touch the driver’s palm.

At the reception desk, she is written welcome by one of the officers on duty —on official parchment which they both hover over— and when Elaine explains where she is to travel, his handwriting takes on an unsteady quality.

And when Elaine writes, yes, and shows her authorisation papers, he replies:

Elaine wonders whether Gristland might have been right after all. A new gate, about which the council was simply being cautious would not elicit this sort of reaction from a gatepost officer.

I am absolutely certain , she writes, and points at the authorization papers that she has placed beside the official parchment.

She moves her gaze away, giving him privacy to inspect the documentation.

Very well , he finally writes. Follow me.

She stares at the back of his ankles as he leads her— not outdoor to the gates, as she expects, but to another desk.

My colleague will take you through some pre-journey forms, the first officer jots down, thrusting the parchment under her nose a final time, before walking away.

The second officer is kindly in his tone, but the forms consist of: reams of disclaimers; checks about which wards against danger and plague she has ennobled herself with; and verifications that she is aware of the unprecedented nature of the Greenwood otherwhere.

Elaine’s conviction that Gristland has indeed uncovered a story now shifts to concern about what he might unknowingly have gotten her into.

No, I am not aware of the unprecedented nature of the Greenwood otherwhere , she writes, in response to the last question.

Ah, is the official reply.

The promotional missive from the Council does not elaborate , she insists. If she is about to wade into a difficult situation, it would be good to at least be forewarned about what that situation might be.

Their customs are unusual, the officer replies lamely.

Unusual dangerous? She scribbles back, quick.

She sees, out of the corner of her eye, the officer shuffling in his seat, his wings batting lightly. 

Follow me, she reads, for the second time that day.

It’s clear that she won’t be getting any more information out of him, so Elaine lets herself be guided out to the circle of gates. She’s been here several times before, but she admires the rose granite twist that forms each arch; and the multicoloured shimmer that vibrates across each doorway, a curtain stopping worlds spilling into each other like soup.

This one, the officer flashes in the air. Good luck.

Elaine takes a deep breath, and on a whimsy, moves her wings to hover; gently, lightly, she flies through. As she crosses the curtain, she feels the familiar frisson of static.

When her vision resolves, she finds herself face to face with a woman.

Not expecting her, Elaine hasn’t the time to avert her eyes before catching a look. The stranger is young; Elaine would situate her toward the end of her third decade. Her hair is long, black, and streaked with grey. Her skin is the colour of hazel bark, and her eyes vividly green. She is not bearing wings.

Nervously, Elaine flicks her fingers, clumsy and heavy, to flash a Hello, nice to meet you, I’m Elaine, of The Fae Inquirer.

“Elaine! You must be the journalist. Welcome. It’s so lovely to see you. My name is Sadie.” Her voice is light and clear, and Elaine shudders at every word.

The next thing she feels are arms around her, bringing her into what she is able to recognize as a hug —and then, there is very little else— for her vision fades again.

Elaine knows what a hug is because her mother used to hug her, and that is her first thought as she blinks her eyes open and sees Sadie’s face looming over hers.

The second is that Greenwood has been better informed about her arrival than the border office and she wonders how Gristland managed it.

Sadie is talking. “Oh pumpkins, I’m so sorry, they did say that you weren’t used to speaking, but I really didn’t think when I saw you, I suppose I worried that you wouldn’t feel welcome…say, you’re still looking a bit peaky Elaine, would you like a parchment to write on? Would that make things easier?”

Elaine sits up —she’s on a floor of pine needles, so at least her fall was cushioned— and is about to flash that yes, please, a parchment, please, could they, please, in the name of all otherwheres, communicate in decent form. But then something stops her. She feels the stirrings of— darn it, curiosity. Isn’t this the reason she came? Gristland thought there was a story, and heck was there one. This otherwhere was indeed different, and a different that would horrify, yes, but also fascinate. It would raise all sorts of penetrating questions. This is the sort of story that Elaine thrives on.

She opens and closes her mouth. Clears her throat.

“No,” she says. Her voice is soft, even softer than she imagined. Other than words murmured to herself, late at night, she has not spoken to anyone since she said goodbye to her parents, eleven years ago. “No, I will speak.”

She then forces herself to lift her eyes to Sadie and she is hit by the full force of her smile.

“You sure?” Sadie says. And when Elaine nods, she smiles and waves at the village beyond them. “Then let me give you the tour.”

Sadie has her nails painted apple-green, and like the other men and women in her village, wears long black robes. She greets —vocally— everyone she sees, and introduces Elaine.

Elaine, who clutches her notebook and stem-pen in her hand like a sword and shield of old, has never been more ill at ease. And she has witnessed wing-clipping ceremonies among the elite of the fairy capital. She soothes her wings, and forces herself to breathe in and out; to focus on being guided by Sadie. 

“Okay,” Sadie says, stopping in what appears to be the central street. “So here we are. We have lots of villages like this, and a couple of big cities. This, of course, is the village closest to where the gate was constructed, so I expect we will become a sort of border town.”

“How do you feel about that?” Elaine whispers.

“I’d say pretty excited! We’ve not had a new gate in so long. Until you, our casters hadn’t been able to latch on to anyone else for… a decade? We can’t wait to find out everything.”

A decade without a new connection wasn’t necessarily unusual for some otherwheres, but it was interesting that Sadie thought so. And which gates did they have access to? Elaine made a note to ask. This was just the sort of information that the Council of Clans would have, but find irrelevant to share. Naturally, the otherwheres Greenwood had had connections with would affect their worldview significantly. 

“You’re the first we’ve met to, uh, communicate like you do, which is already fascinating,” Sadie adds, as if she’s read her mind.

“It is the same for us,” Elaine says softly.

Sadie does not shy from how proud she is of her village. She practically beams as she walks Elaine up the tower of what she calls the gathering hall, and shows her a view of the surrounding countryside. It’s small waves of hills covered in fields of pumpkins; orange, white, gold, teal; their differing colours form swirling patterns.

Then, there’s the sky ballet practice, villagers sitting astride broomsticks, stretching their arms out elegantly. At the sight of Elaine, the director marches over and begins to quiz her over the dance customs of her otherwhere, and does Elaine think, perhaps, that anyone on her side would be open to a collaboration, the possession of wings offering such opportunities for artistic innovation? Would she put the message out? Elaine, flushing at the onslaught of words and attention, can only nod as Sadie tells the director to stop haranguing guests if she wants anyone from this otherwhere to ever visit again.

“Do you? Have a dancing tradition?” Sadie asks as they walk away. She looks thoughtful. It startles Elaine, to be interpreting facial expressions again after so long, and to find that she can do it well.

“Of course,” Elaine replies. “Multiple ones.”

Sadie hesitates. “How does it work? With the…” and she waves around her eyes.

“Ah,” Elaine says, understanding the logic of the question. “In that context, gazing is permitted.”

“Right. Of course.”

“I had never thought of it before, but I suppose the exception, in that case, makes the usual tradition all the more significant.”

“I can understand that,” Sadie says. “I’m sure we have all sorts of similar paradoxes here too.”

Elaine smiles, and then feels a jolt when she realizes that this time, someone can see it.

They walk on to cat training, where, in a force of will inexplicable to Elaine, a handful of denizens are coaching small, sturdy felines to respond to their requests.

“It can’t ever be a command, you see,” one of the trainers explains. “They won’t stand for that. Issue an order to a cat, and they’ll never forgive you.”

“What happens to the cats once they are… ready?”

“They choose companions, of course! What else would you do with a cat?” And he shakes his head, thinking, Elaine suspects, that common sense is dead and buried. Elaine makes a note and follows Sadie as they move on to the soup workshop, a row of bubbling, burnished cauldrons hanging along a beam in one of the narrow houses.

“Do you eat a lot of soup?” Elaine hazards, until Sadie laughs and explains that no, the soups are enchanted. “It’s one of our main ways of conducting magic.”

Elaine loves learning about different systems of casting, and she barrages Sadie with questions until the subject is well exhausted, and her fingers feel numb on her stem-pen.

When they are done with the soups, the sun is setting and Elaine’s wings are bristling with nervous excitement. They are winding their way back through the village, and without thinking, she flies here and there, to better examine: the way that the stone houses are constructed; the green-yellow tamarisk moss growing on the roofs; the oak carvings on the façade of what Sadie has named the gathering hall.

She is eyeing the direction of the gate, wondering how much of the article she can get down tonight before she reasonably has to sleep.

“dinner…?” Sadie is saying, looking at her expectantly.

Elaine tilts her head, only now realising that she’s not been listening to her guide for a while. 

“Would you like to join us for dinner? We hoped to show you some of our home life as well— if you have the time, that is.”

Sadie’s home is another stone low-ceilinged house. As they walk through the doorway, there is a burst of warmth, and Elaine is reminded of the humid forests of her childhood.

She is surprised when she is led to a table set to welcome a dozen; and Sadie introduces her to sisters, cousins, uncles. Elaine has no way of dodging the embraces and cringes as she is taken into one set of arms after another.

They are served —what else?— pumpkin roast, along with what they describe as buttered collard greens, and fresh lingonberries on a bed of garlicky lentils. They don’t appear to eat bugs. The wine is stronger than Elaine is used to, and has a herbal tinge. After a couple of sips, she decides to stick to the goblet of water.

Gathering her courage, she pushes herself to raise her voice, and asks what everyone makes of the new gate. The replies are all in the same enthusiastic vein as Sadie, with the exception of Piper, a younger sister. She worries that all this will change the village too drastically.

“But of course, it will change the village drastically,” says Howe, an uncle, as a cat jumps on his lap. “Thank goodness. We’ve had too much of the same thing here for too long.”

The subject covered, they turn their questions to Elaine— with no delicacy, she realizes, for her personal life. What is her day-to-day like? Who are her family? Her close relationships?

She pirouettes through the answers with half-truths and jokes because she does not want to explain old-world fairy clans, their crushing conservatism, nor the necessity to escape them; or the difficulty in building and maintaining new close relationships within the busied schedule of an investigative journalist. Par’s face flashes in her mind, unbidden, followed by the memory of his mortified expression as he caught her gaze in the elevator. There is nothing she wants to linger on here.

On the other side of the gate, a different officer is on duty. Elaine has her eyes down, but as she follows, her gaze rises a little. The officer shuffles and Elaine snaps her eyes back, but it is too late.  She’s made him uncomfortable. Wings twitching, the officer hands her papers back abruptly.

In the newsroom the next day, the story struggles to come out; but then, when Elaine finds the right way in, the right beginning, which is of course Sadie’s bright eyes, sitting at the head of her family’s table, her lips curled in laughter; then the piece comes out all at once. When it is done, Elaine reads it over a single time, changes nothing, and sends it to Gristland.

Let’s see what he makes of this, she thinks, and she beams, thinking that the story is scandalous, challenging, and beautiful.

She is reviewing the notes on the feathered horse gangs, musing about the interviews she would like to do and how to go about getting them, when she hears a shuffle to her right. She knows, without even glancing down, that it’s Par. Within that certainty, she allows herself a moment of madness. She raises her head, and simply looks. Her hands, folded on her lap, are shaking.

Par, with his long dark hair slung gently to the side, his broad shoulders and arms, his skin a sky shade of blue, his ears pointed like an arch, is, of course, still beautiful. He is facing away— does not see her.

He must sense something because he begins to turn

                                                          and in the space of a breath, Elaine fixes her eyes

back on her lap. Her hands, usually a healthy leaf green, have paled.

Quieting her limbs, including her shifting, traitorous wings, she imagines lifting her head up again, smiling, infusing warmth in her tone, as she asks How are you.

She imagines —the thought makes her blush— his smile in response.

Shaking her head, she picks up her stem-pen. Unrolls a petal. Writes Par’s name at the top.

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