"From the emptiness, the hymns of beauty and madness ring clear and true."
– A Dutiful Pastor
We danced slowly as the final hymn settled—calm, serene, sorrowful. The air grew cold and fragrant; the last traces of miasma had vanished, replaced by the sweet perfume of a canopy of flowers and fresh nectar. Diamond dust swirled around us, guided by gentle winds into living shapes—butterflies with wings of glittering ice, fish darting through invisible currents, and horses galloping in silent arcs. Petals drifted among them, refusing to be outdone, while semi-transparent silhouettes joined the dance—spirits in their incorporeal forms, varying in size and grace. Laughter and joy wove through the melody, soft and eternal.
Humans might fear or dismiss spirits as myth or fancy, but in the fae realm, they are feared more than gods—embodiments of concepts empowered directly by the arcane, not wielders of those concepts. A trained chef versus a sous-chef – the difference is absolute. What even fae do not fully grasp is that all spirits are simultaneously the same and utterly distinct. The lady in my arms could be called the spirit of water—yet there are hundreds, thousands of her, each with a unique thought and personality, all equal in power, all speaking as one, all bearing the name "Water". So it is with fire, earth, wind, wood, love, life, death—to name them all is to name every possible concept in existence.
"Qulien, you are lost in thought again."
"Forgive me, my lady," I murmured. "Something troubles me."
"And that is?" she asked, amusement curling her voice as hushed laughter bloomed around us.
"I read the minds of three waiters in this venue. I gained knowledge—mostly unwanted, I am afraid."
Laughter rippled—soft and delighted—mingling with the song, then whispers too fast to follow.
"If that is your concern," she said, "I shall help—but only after one dance longer. Do you agree to these terms?"
I laughed quietly. Spirits always demanded a dance. I was happy to give.
"Yes, my lady. I agree. But please—leave the cooking recipes. I would love to prepare something for you and your sisters."
Laughter swelled—amused murmurs rising:
'Oh Qulien, you never disappoint'
'I would love cake'
'What would you cook for us?'
'Qulien cooking?
Excitement shimmered through the air.
"Understood, Qulien," she said warmly. "We look forward to your cooking."
'Indeed, we do'
'Yes, we do'
'Please let it be good'
She formed new arms from water—cool and gentle—and placed them on my head as we danced. A cold sensation spread across my scalp—something lifted, something else sharpened. After a few seconds, her hands withdrew and dissolved. The unwanted knowledge was gone. Yet the cooking recipes that remained were now refined, precise: ideal temperatures, perfect plating techniques, and subtle pairings. She had kept them. Enhanced them.
I sighed lightly. She laughed softly; the murmurs did not fade.
We continued dancing as thoughts of meals and teas drifted through my mind. Her smile—visible behind the veil—was radiant.
After a time, I decided it was enough. Richard needed checking. The mastermind behind this place remained unknown. The forest vision from earlier divination lingered, unresolved.
"Oh, Qulien, leaving already?"
"Sadly, my lady, it must be so. My friend Richard was affected by the miasma. I must ensure he escaped safely."
"No worries, child—he did. We made certain of it. His miasma issue is resolved as well. So, dance with us more—in payment."
"My lady, you did that of your own will. But I will pay in cooking, of course."
A sigh—disappointed yet fond. She had expected the answer.
"Well, Qulien," she said, "this will be the end of our dance for now. But before we depart, we have something to say."
"And what is that, my lady?"
"Never use that foresight ability again."
As she spoke, a veil of water and ice covered my eyes. Shock flared—I tried to react, but my body refused.
"We do not wish our bringer to lose sight of the present," she continued gently. "Forgive our rough handling."
The air turned cold; frantic breezes whipped around us.
"Do call for us again, Balladeer of a Dead Tongue."
Weightlessness followed—then solid ground. Vision returned slowly: first blur, then vibrant dusk, colours sharper than before.
I stood in the middle of a road behind a police car. Officers evacuated survivors from the ruined restaurant—with blankets, stretchers, and flashing lights. A drop landed on my head—my fedora. I had not noticed its absence. My cane rested firmly in my grip.
I stretched and twirled the cane once. Quite a night. I desired rest—a day or two, at least.
With that thought, I approached the nearest officer, who jumped in surprise.
"Excuse me," I said politely. "Might you direct me to Richard?"