Faerie

 It was good to read. She had made a full childhood of it.  She had read when she lived with her parents.  And after they had died, and she had been sent to her great aunt's home to live, in her solitude, she read all evening every day. She knew every book in the ancient stone house, hidden in the folds of the Hilltop Woods.  She even knew the worn, leather bound book with etchings on the cover, silver and deep violet,  a moonlit picture of a star covered field. The one secreted away in the niche in the wall, behind the great wooden book case, carved from a single grandfather yew tree. She had leaned against it, just so one day, and it had opened, like a door, unhiding the book.  And the book,  had taught her about them.  In a curving, flowing, script that glowed: red by firelight,  silver by moonlight, and blue of the bluest Sea by the light of the noontime Sun, it had taught her about the Fey. It had taught her how to see them when no one c...