Children tend to embrace the world around them as they experience it—with wonder and delight at each new discovery. An adult may view dandelions merely as pesky weeds, but to the young they are golden flowers that greet the sun and hide from the night, transforming as if by magic into wishflowers that can be blown into the wind. Everything is new, and anything can be celebrated. 

When told that she was in another world, however, Abbie did not react with joy and delight. She stamped her foot. 

“Take me back home right now!” she bellowed at the boy with the pointed ears.

“I cannot!” he exclaimed, reaching for her hand. She pulled away from him, splashing backward into the water for a third time. The boy grimaced, as if bracing himself for her wrath.

“If the pond is a gate, then I’m going back home,” Abbie fumed. She used her meanest voice to hide how scared she was feeling. “You’re going to help me!”

Foster shook his head emphatically. “Oh, no. No! I cannot help you. The Queen watches—I mean, she probably already knows you are here—but she watches the Gate.” As he spoke, he gave the word a subtle emphasis that indicated this Gate had a capital letter and was important. “You cannot go back though an unsanctioned gate.” 

Foster’s knees buckled, and he collapsed into the ferns, the color draining from his tanned face.

Abbie bit her lip, growing more worried because of the boy’s expression. She splashed back to dry land, flopping down next to Foster, her pond-soaked clothes squishing underneath her. He covered his face with his hands, and she sighed unhappily.

“What did you mean by an, uh, ‘un-sank-shunned’ gate?”

“A portal opened beyond the ken or purview of the Queen,” said Foster, his words muffled by his hands. He looked through his fingers at her, saw the look on her face, and lifted his head. “Gates are controlled by the Queens. You are not allowed to open one unless you are granted permission.”

“Can’t I just go back through?” Abbie wished Sammy was there to hug for comfort. She glanced hopefully around the meadow once more.

“No. Well, you could,” Foster conceded. “I would have to open it again, but I am not really sure how I did it in the first place. And on top of that,” he added, “going through a gate without the blessing of the Fae, to return home… you could end up a hundred years in the future in your world. It is a tricky magic and I am not good enough, even if I were allowed to do it. And I am not.”

Abbie glowered, her brows knit together as she looked away from the older boy, across the pond. 

“How do I get home, then?” Before he could answer, she rounded on him. “You brought me here; you have to help me get back. You’re responsible for me.”

“I am,” Foster agreed, though he looked a little green at the thought. “You could return to the world through the main Gate, in the Queen’s Palace, in the center of Summer. Otherworld is divided into Summer and Winter—”

“Like Fairyland?” interrupted Abbie. “I’ve read fairy stories before… is that—is this where I am? The Fairy Kingdom?” He’d mentioned the Fae earlier, but it hadn’t clicked until now. “Summer’s Queen is Tita—ow!” Foster clapped his hand over her mouth before she could finish, silencing her with terror in his eyes. 

“Do not speak her name! You will draw her eyes!” 

Abbie stared at him, her own eyes wide. 

“Okay,” she said, pulling his hand from her face. “Sheesh, sorry.” She looked around them with new appreciation. 

Foster smoothed down his leaf shirt, his eyes a little wild. 

“The Gate you need is in the center of Summer, and this is the height of her power. You will not get there unseen, and if you are found…”

Abbie waited for him to finish, but it appeared he already had. “...if I’m found… what? Won’t...won’t she let me go home?” Her lower lip trembled.

“Maybe she would,” said Foster, lowering his voice to a sad whisper. “But it will be over my dead body.” It wasn’t a threat, just a plain, sad fact. “More likely she will make you one of her servants, to serve her forever and ever. And ever and ever and ever,” he continued, as he lay down in the ferns and stared up at the blue sky. Abbie thought she saw doom in his eyes.

She reached over and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him. “We can’t just sit here, waiting for her to find us!” Abbie pressed to her feet. “You did it once already—maybe you can learn how to do it again, and, like, not send me a zillion years into the future.”

Foster sat up. “It takes years to master one’s magic!”

“Well, I’m not staying here,” said Abbie. She marched off toward the tree line again, bees flying up from the wildflowers as she waded through them.

“You do not know where you are going,” Foster called plaintively after her. 

The girl didn’t stop, continuing her stubborn, barefoot walk. Foster sighed, pushed himself up to his feet, and ran after her. Catching up, he said, “Wait! You are heading toward a far darrig’s territory.”

Abbie stopped walking, narrowing her eyes. “A what? Are they nice?”

“Far darrig. The red caps. And no, not even to other red caps,” Foster said.

“Are you a fairy?” she asked abruptly, turning to him.

“No, fairies are little,” he said, indignantly. “I am an elf. Guardian of the forest, remember?”

Abbie frowned, trying to think, but her thoughts hopped all over the place. 

“My dad is really smart. I bet he can find a way to get me home…?” Foster shook his head. “No?”

“Your parents will not even know you are gone,” he said. “Old magic, some of the oldest, is woven into the Gate spell. Those who stumble through from their world into ours,” he said, sounding as if he was reading from a textbook, “are copied in body but not soul, leaving a changeling in their stead. The changeling is just like the person they have replaced, but—” he stopped abruptly to glance at her before changing tack and continuing. “They are like a... reflection of you. Since you are not gone, your parents will not look for you.”

Foster’s face brightened. “But you can stay with me. You are right—I am responsible for you. And there are other humans here, too! You will like it here.” He jumped out in front of her, blocking her way. “You will not like it with the far darrig. They are not too close, but… probably best to go a different direction.” He hesitated, studying her face. “Why are you crying? Do not cry!”

“I’m not crying.” Abbie sniffed, a big, fat tear rolling off the tip of her nose. “I just wanna go home, and you’re confusing me.”

“Come on,” he said, pulling the human girl close in an awkward hug. “I will show you something that will make you happy. But stop crying first.” Foster looked around worriedly as Abbie sobbed into his leafy shirt. “Tears might attract the Wee Folk, and then we will have no end of nonsense. We have enough trouble already. Please?”

She nodded, his shirt surprisingly soft against her damp cheek, then pushed away from him. 

“O-o-okay,” Abbie quavered, wiping her eyes. 

Foster smiled encouragingly and began leading them westward. He looked all around them as they walked—was that a flicker of tiny wings behind them? Just my imagination. He willed it to be so, and took her hand, pulling her along into the shade of the trees. 

“What kind of magic do you do?” she asked, following him because she didn’t know what else to do.

“Forest magic,” he said, picking up the pace. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

“Yes?” Abbie said, struggling to keep up with the elven boy. “Especially when I meet an elf in the woods for the first time in my whole life, and I end up in Fairyland, and—!”

“Fair enough,” he interrupted, practically towing her along behind him. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, no?” She bumped into him when he stopped abruptly to look around. All she saw were trees and some dragonflies. Abbie had a pang of fear at the thought of leaving the pond—her only connection to back home and her parents. She realized she’d been holding her breath.

“Wee Folk,” Foster groaned, picking a daisy from the forest floor and turning to face the dragonflies. 

Abbie’s mouth fell open as she realized the dragonflies weren’t insects at all, but tiny people with translucent wings. They flitted between the trees, the dappled sunlight reflecting from their iridescent clothes. Foster pulled her behind him, brandishing the flower like a rapier.

“I wanna see,” she complained. “Are those fairies?”

“Unfortunately,” her companion said. “They are attracted to wild emotions and curiosity. We may never be rid of them if you keep asking questions.”

Abbie ducked to peek out from under his armpit as the largest of the little fairies drew near. He held a twig in his hand and wore an adorable acorn hat. 

“Is that cherry?” Foster muttered, but then pronounced, “Halt! I am a Guardian and you may not harass me or my charge!”

The fairy hovered like a hummingbird, his wings buzzing as he regarded the two creatures in front of him. 

“I am Table,” he proclaimed regally, his voice small but not high pitched. “We only wish to play. Put away your flower!”

“Put away your stick,” replied Foster. “Do not think I do not know what it is.” 

Five or six other fairies had clustered around the first, and Abbie watched them with wonder.

Table drew himself up to his full height of about eight inches. “I will not release my staff. Why, you might as well ask me to cut off my arm! But your flower, you will not need it.”

“I like this flower,” retorted the elf. He raised it a little higher in warning as one of the Wee Folk looked about to flank him. They reconvened into a single group, settling in the lower branches of the nearest tree.

Abbie giggled. “Is your name really Table?”

“Abbie!” said Foster, exasperated. “Do not encourage them.”

“My name is Table, indeed, fair maiden,” said the fairy, giving her a bow from his spot in the tree. “This is Fork, Door, Roof, Curtain, and Rug.” Each of the fairies bowed in turn.

“They are not allowed inside,” said Foster. “Over time, the Wee Folk have become overly fascinated with things found inside houses.”

“I think they’re cute,” said Abbie.

“They are pests,” Foster said. “They will be starting with riddles soon, and—no, that was not an invitation!” he shouted as Table perked up at the mention of word games.

“We only want to play,” said Fork, or maybe it was Rug. The fairy turned a cartwheel and Abbie clapped with delight while Foster sagged, realizing he would no doubt lose this fight. Perhaps they could escape the Wee Folk before day turned to night, though it appeared the fairy magic had already taken effect, turning even his thoughts into a rhyming dialect.

“Stop that!” he said, “You are an annoying little gnat.”

“Foster,” Abbie protested, but whatever she was going to say was lost as a wolf howl pierced through the forest. The fairies scattered like leaves in the wind.

A second howl echoed the first from a different direction. Foster handed Abbie the daisy. 

“You are going to need this.” 

He grabbed her hand, and they started running.

Next Chapter: Incursion