Summary: Young H.P. is tasked with raising imprinted ducklings in preparation for being Head Pixie.

Characters: H.P., Ambrosine, assorted fairies, Sanderson

Rating: T

Prerequisites: "Grooming", "Minion"

A/N: There's no explicit/mature content in this Prompt. This is just an H.P.-centric piece about growing up a gyne in Fairy society. Maturity has never been one of H.P.'s strengths and no one is surprised.

Posted: April 3, 2018

67. Mature

Spring of the Floating Feathers - Spring of the Charged Waters

"What happens if we kick all the sand off the beach?" Marina asked, pushing a small heap of glittery white sand - at least, the three Fairy children were pretty sure it was called sand - over the edge of the cloudcliff. Fergus leaned forward on his hands and knees to watch the flakes spin through the air, drifting down towards Planet Earth. His fingers clenched the edge of the clouds. Even at the cliff, the puffy stuff was sturdy enough that he could do that, right?

Yeesh. They were really high up. Even peeking over for just a few seconds made him feel he'd lost his sense of balance. Fergus snapped his wings out, then in again. Shrinking back, he tucked his chin between his hands. "I dunno," he said. "The beach has been on this side of Novakiin since forever. Maybe the sand comes back when it's gone."

To tell the truth, "beach" might have been a bit of an overstatement for their location. The stretch of cloudy grit was only about ten wingspans long, and only six wingspans wide. Realistically, "sandpit" described the place just as well, if not better than, the more luxurious term. There just wasn't a lot of sand (cloudsand?) to be had in this part of the cloudlands. Technically, since the strip of sand was so thin, they probably shouldn't be playing here without adult supervision during the dark season when the stars didn't glow so bright, but Fergus had finally decided it was okay. After all, that was his own house on the corner of the street over there, and his dad was just inside warming up water for a bath. If he fell off the beach, then Marina or Sunglow could run and get his dad to rescue him. Although, they wouldn't need help if they went over the edge. They could fly for real. They didn't only float above solid stuff like he did.

"Maybe sand grows like grass," Sunglow said thoughtfully, tapping his chin.

Fergus sat back on his heels. "Your grandma's ear hair grows like grass."

Sunglow stuck out his tongue. "The mold in your dad's house grows like grass."

"At least he doesn't smell like grass. You smell like grass."

"And you smell like sour fruit."

"You smell like sour vegetables."

Marina broke them apart by digging a shiny purple stone out of the sand and holding it up for them both to see. "Look at this pretty rock I found."

"Ooh. Now that's spiffy-spat." Sunglow made a spiral in the air with his finger. "It has swirlies on it."

"I know! And it's shaped like a horse head."

Fergus squinted. "It's a rock."

Marina sighed in exasperation and shook out her hair. "You have to pretend and look close."

He pointed to the wand in the sheath at her hip. "You could use magic to poof up a real horse head whenever you want."

"That's not fun, though." Marina let the rock drop back in the sand. "What about you, Sunglow? What are you digging?"

Sunglow held out his hand to reveal another stone in his upturned palm. "This one looks like a cú sith."

"Oh, it does!"

"I don't know." Fergus leaned in to inspect it. "It looks even more like a plain rock than Marina's did."

She puffed her cheeks, then let the air whisper out again. "Well, you find one, then."

Fergus walked in a grid pattern along the little beach, then finally bent down to pick up a gray rock. It looked like it had chipped off from one of the short stone walls that cradled their tiny beach. It was smooth and square, with really straight edges. "I like this one."

He showed it to Marina, who frowned. "What's that supposed to be?"

"That's the joke." Fergus slipped the rock in the chest pocket of his vest and gave it a pat. "It doesn't look like anything. It's just a rock. Haha."

Sunglow tipped his head. "You can't keep that one. It's not interesting."

"And it's not even pretty."

"Maybe not. But that's fine. It makes me laugh."

"That's not a good reason to keep it," Marina insisted. "Rocks should remind you of stuff. They have to look like stuff. They should look like animals, or a face."

He knelt down and started to draw a flower in the sand. "It looks like my face. It even had my freckles."

"Your face doesn't count. Most faces aren't square like yours."

Right around then, at the bend in the street just across from the beach, a door of a grit-colored house slammed shut. A fairy stepped out onto his porch and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Fergusius!"

Fergus looked over his shoulder, then back at Sunglow and Marina. "That's my dad. I have to go."

"Pretend you didn't hear him so you can play a little longer," Sunglow suggested, digging a hole.

Fergus rolled his eyes. "You forget my family's motto: Páistí refracta foirfe daoine."

Marina wrinkled her nose. "Is that Milesian? It sounds like the Eros family motto."

"'Sons are perfect,'" he translated in deadpan monotone. He stood up again, dusting chunks of cloudy sand from his pants. "I gotta go. It's too dark to be outside this early in spring anyway."

Sunglow bobbed his head. "We'll play more next weekend when I come down from Faeheim."

"No we can't. You remember how I have freckles? Well. I turned 5,000 this winter. Now I'm on the Easter Bunny's list, and he's bringing me a basket of duck eggs tonight. I have to stay close by so they'll think I'm their mom when they hatch."

"Fergusius Whimsifinado!" Ambrosine called again. Fergus inched away from his friends and cleared his throat.

"I really have to go now. I'll see you sometime after my ducks hatch. Until then, you guys can push the sand over the edge without me."

"'Bye, duck dad," Marina said, waving her hand.

"Shut your face in real life," Fergus muttered back. Heaving himself out of the sandpit and back onto the fluffy cloud road, he hurried across the street and pushed open the front gate all by himself. Ambrosine was standing on the steps in a mulberry-colored vest, holding the front curtain to the side with one hand. He greeted his son with a nod.

"Hop in the tub, speck. I warmed the water up for you. The Easter Bunny is already on his way over as we flick our wings, and we don't want it to look like I just fished you out of a hole in the ground."

Fergus sighed and undid the first button on his vest, which was deep purple instead of red like his father's. "Dad, I told you not to call me by my long name in front of my friends. I just want you to call me my regular name."

"That's right. You did. I'll stop." Ambrosine gave him a pat on the shoulder. When Fergus stepped inside the house, he let the curtain fall shut behind them. "How much do you know about what's happening tonight?"

Fergus shrugged. "The Easter Bunny is bringing me eggs. Since it's my first time, he's meeting me specially tonight and dropping them off now instead of tomorrow."

Ambrosine nodded. "It's about time I gave you the talk about the nests and the honeycomb. Into the bath with you."

Fergus was 5,000 now, and he didn't need anyone to watch him while he had his bath. Ambrosine insisted on it anyway most of the time, because he liked to be there when his son got out. He probably didn't trust him to dab the fake pheromones on his face by himself. Fergus couldn't wait for the day when he grew up and his pheromones were strong enough that Ambrosine gave up trying to suppress them. One day.

"Can't I at least wash my own hair?" he muttered, slouching against the side of the tub as Ambrosine soaped up his hands.

"No. Washing hair is Daddy's job. Now. We're going to talk about why the lifestyles of ducklings and bees are important to us. Fairies are either born as kabouters, gynes, or drones. I'm a kabouter. Most of your ancestors are kabouters. Damsels are always kabouters. But you're a gyne."

"Because I have freckles."

"Because you have freckles." Ambrosine pushed his fingers through his son's dark hair, scrubbing it all over until everything was foamy white and stinging soap dripped just in front of Fergus' eyes. "And what do gynes do?"

"Own big houses. Have lots of kids. Any Fairy can be born as a gyne no matter what subspecies they are, and some gynes even marry more than one damsel and have even more kids. But we who are common fairies don't do that because we believe polygamy and serial monogamy are wrong. That's why we're the highest subspecies on the social ladder. Faedivus fae only choose one mate in our whole lives."

"That's right. And what are you going to do when you become an adult gyne?"

"You're giving me and my wife this house, and I'll take care of you and have nymphs. I'm going to be in charge of Wish Fixers, and I'll give it to my firstborn too."

"Perfect." Briefly, Ambrosine paused from his washing to kiss his son's forehead. "I remember I was so afraid to tell my father when I was pregnant with you. I pushed through all the symptoms by myself, and hid my stomach under baggy shirts when I had to see him over a few weekends. I did it by myself, and it was the scariest thing I ever had to do. Even more than fighting in the war. When it's your turn to have nymphs, I want you living with me so I can be there to help you."

"Yeah."

After rinsing his hands of soap in the low water of the tub, Ambrosine touched the back of Fergus' neck with two fingertips. "Next. All Fairies produce pheromones. Even damsels. But adult gynes produce the most powerful ones of all, from this area right here. Drones are certain Fairies who respond strongly to gyne pheromones. Gyne pheromones help them find their way when they're lost. Pheromones calm them down when they're scared. Sort of in the same way sucking on your thumb or chewing on wood appears to be soothing for you."

Fergus didn't take his chin or his folded arms from the edge of the tub. He slipped his thumb into his mouth. "What's the point of drones?"

"Well." Ambrosine tilted his head towards the ceiling. "Do you remember when we visited Orin Winkleglint's estate and cooked all that food over the fire outside? What happens to you when you're exposed to a great deal of smoke?"

"I get tired and fall asleep."

"Exactly. You have special instincts and traits that affect you in certain ways. Drones and kabouters don't. If a fire started in your home one day and you fell asleep in your bed, you would want to have drones around to take care of you and make sure you're safe."

Fergus eased his thumb from his mouth again. "So they're like servants."

"Friends," Ambrosine corrected, reaching for a bar of soap. "You're a gyne. You produce thrice the pheromones any mere kabouter does. And one day you'll have drones who are attracted to those pheromones. Some drones will want to follow you around all the time, and take care of you by offering you food or making sure your clothes are on straight and not wrinkled. They're called a retinue."

"What do they want from me? I don't want them to bother me all the time."

"They might not want anything. They might just like the way you smell."

"Why do they follow me if they don't need anything?"

"That's just what they do."

"What about when I don't want them to follow me?"

"Why don't you want drones to follow you? They want to help you. They're just trying to be nice."

"It's weird to have people following me all day. I don't want them to watch me when I do math problems, or when I read books, or when I'm at school, or when I sleep." I don't want them to hover over me the way you do. "Can't they just fix my clothes and leave?"

"You want the drones to leave? Even if that makes them sad?"

"Why is it sad?"

"Because you don't want to be with them. You might make them feel like you don't want to be their friend."

"I assume that if I ask them to leave then it's because they were in my way," Fergus muttered.

Ambrosine shrugged. "Drones are usually very nervous creatures. Being around gynes makes them feel safe. You don't want them to feel lonely and scared, do you, speck?"

"I guess not. But I still don't know for sure if I want a retinue."

"You'll change your mind when you're older. Now lift your arm for me." Fergus did, and Ambrosine rubbed the bar of soap around. "Have you memorized those patterns I gave you to study when you were 4,500?"

Fergus blinked. "The what?"

"The preening signal chart. Did you ever memorize those symbols?"

"Oh. Those." Fergus looked down at his hands. "Yeah, I meant to get around to that. I just didn't have time for it during the last 500 years. It's been pretty hectic around here."

"Well, you should memorize them. It's easiest to learn them when you're young, and you'll need them later."

"For what?"

"When you need to have special time with your drones one day."

"Huh?"

"Don't say 'Huh.'" Ambrosine picked up a small pitcher and scooped it half-full of tub water. "Look up high. Fergus, we Fairies don't communicate with each other using only our words. We also use body language, hand signs, and writing to talk to each other. And we use one other thing too. What is it?"

"Pheromones."

"Do you know how pheromones work?"

"Yeah, but you should tell me your version of how they work so I can hear your perspective."

"Mmhm." Ambrosine refilled the pitcher. "Different pheromones are transferred between two people in different ways in different contexts. You can taste someone's pheromones in the air just by being near them. Or, you might be able to detect it on an item they handled and left their sweat and dust on. Then there's preening. Have you heard of preening?"

"No," Fergus lied.

"That surprises me. Knowing your friends, I expected it to be one of those topics you three exchanged guesses and rumors about. Hmm. Look up high again. Almost done. A gyne and his drones become very close when they live together. It's the duty of a gyne to care for his drones when they're sick, and to ensure they have food and a safe place to sleep before he even thinks about himself."

"That's dumb."

"No it isn't."

Fergus frowned. "It is, though. Why should the drones get all the good stuff? What do I get in return for taking care of them all day every single day?"

"You get to be their friend, silly. And, they'll protect you forever. Drones show their loyalty by promising to fight for their gyne, and help him around their home."

"No they don't."

"Excuse me?"

He sat up. "Sunglow's friend's dad is a gyne, and he told Sunglow's friend and Sunglow says drones aren't allowed to get involved when gynes fight each other. Gynes always fight each other. So drones can't help, and that's dumb if they're telling people they will when they won't. That's lying."

"But drones can fight for and help their gyne in other ways."

"How?"

"You'll understand when you're older." Ambrosine picked at the sand in Fergus' hair. "What you should know now is that a gyne and his drones trust each other very much. They function as a team, and if they weren't all working to help each other, then no one would be happy. Everyone can be happy when they act as a team. Preening is the exchange of pheromones between a gyne and a drone who are very close like that."

"Like how me and my friends are close?"

"Exactly. Gynes and drones don't just stand around tasting scent cues in the air. They share them, as if they were part of each other. They make a behavioral contract that seals their commitment to one another. Do you know how?"

"Actually… no."

Ambrosine met his eyes. "The drone absorbs pheromones from a gyne's skin by licking his neck, and the gyne presents them to the drone by licking his face."

It took several seconds for that to sink in. Then, "Oh. That's gross. Why would I want to lick someone's skin? I don't even like licking my own skin. That's really gross. Really."

"You'll change your mind when you start taking an interest in drones. It happens to every gyne when they become adults."

"Then why are you telling me this now?" Fergus upturned his hands. "I'm not even going to be an adult for more than one hundred thousand years. Now you've ruined everything in my life! That was gross!"

"Look up high. Last one. I believe you should learn the things that adult gynes and drones do together this early, so you know what to expect when you grow up. I want you to know that if you hear people talking about preening, you shouldn't be embarrassed or scared. Preening is a special, intimate ritual that's natural and normal. All gynes and drones do it."

"But it sounds like it would be disgusting. It's sweaty and weird and I don't like it."

"You didn't seem to mind the wands and wings talk this much," Ambrosine said, setting his pitcher aside.

Fergus shrugged without looking up. "I liked it because it was the story about how you got pregnant with me. You used to not know I was going to exist, and you had a life before I was born, and your own friends and stuff. It's interesting. You talked about what Mom was like. I liked that."

Ambrosine closed his eyes. "Yes. I liked that too. Why don't you memorize the preening signals anyway? Just in case. Are you done washing?"

"I'm done." Fergus climbed from the tub and reached for his wand on the counter. Ambrosine moved it away.

"What's the rule?"

Fergus pouted. "I know I'm not supposed to dry off or put my clothes on with magic, but this is a rush. Can't I? Just once?"

"The Whimsifinado fortune wasn't built on frivolous waste."

"You warmed up the bath!"

"Did you want a cold bath?"

Grumbling, Fergus pulled his clothes on one item at a time. Even the vest. Even the belt. Ambrosine took a small cylindrical container from his pocket and crouched down in front of him.

"Slack jaw, Fergus. Eyes closed. Don't move."

"Daaad… Can't I wear my own pheromones when I meet the Easter Bunny? Do I really have to put on the fake ones?"

Ambrosine gave him a pointed look. So Fergus did as he asked. His father swirled his finger around in the oily substance inside the container, then painted a few strokes up his cheeks, along his forehead, and down his nose. "There. Perfect. Let's go wait up front to meet our guest."

The Easter Bunny, Fergus observed when he showed up at the front door, was a very easily-distracted person. Was he a person? He looked like a giant pink rabbit with huge buck teeth and a mouth big enough that he could have chomped a 5,000-year-old fairy right up. A thick tuft of fur hung in his eyes, and he wore a black bow tie around his neck. It looked way too small on him. "Pleasure to see you," Ambrosine said, placing a warning hand on Fergus' shoulder.

"You Fergusius Alexander Whimsifinado?" asked the Easter Bunny, skimming his eyes down the scroll trailing from one paw.

"My name's Fergus, and I hate the name Alex. I'm changing my middle name when I grow up. It's gonna be S-"

He broke off when he realized the Easter Bunny wasn't listening. The man(?) had paused to tuck a pink and yellow egg into the leaves of a potted plant on the porch. He looked up. "You a Whimsifinado or not?"

Fergus reached out and picked up the not-very-well-hidden egg. "If you're the Easter Bunny, where's the Wester Bunny?"

"Ha ha. You planning to be a comedian, kid? Think I could hook you up with my buddy April." The Easter Bunny rolled his eyes. "Nutcase really thinks he can make it big."

He didn't have a good response for that. "Yes" and "No" were both poor answers. Ignoring Ambrosine's tightening fingers, Fergus brought the egg to his chest and said, "Well, you're a rabbit. Shouldn't you be eating a carrot or something?"

"Hey hey. Shouldn't you be sticking your head down a well or something? Listen." He held out a wicker basket piled up with white duck eggs, grass, feathers, and wool. "You know Winni and Thurmondo?"

"The nature spirits who represent the Breath and Leaves years on the zodiac, and who Wednesday and Thursday are named after? Yeah. They're locked up in their Zodiac Temples. Why?"

"I'm their baby boy, see?" The Easter Bunny pointed his thumb (He had thumbs) at his chest. "And I don't care what you think you see. I don't really look like this. It's all you crazy marketers who keep getting everyone to interpret me as a stupid fluffy bunny, with a stupid fluffy tail and stupid fluffy ears. Did I ask you to act like this is how I am? Do I look funny to you?"

Ambrosine flapped his wings in a way that made a whipping sound in the air to redirect attention back on himself. The Easter Bunny stopped. He sat back on his massive heels, placing his forepaws on the handle of the basket.

"Right. I brought your eggs. They're due to hatch within the week. Any of 'em don't, give me a scry and we'll put them to use at Spellementary for Egg Baby Week. Sign here, please."

Fergus looked at Ambrosine, then put the colored egg in his pocket and reached out his hand. "Thanks, I guess."

There wasn't any further paperwork than signing his name, but there were explanations. Long, boring, detailed ones, and Fergus spent most of the time sitting on the couch, his feet dangling above the floor, resting his chin in his hand while his dad and the Easter Bunny discussed matters about the ducks over his head. He held the basket of eggs in his lap, not super sure what to do with it. Were they warm enough? He didn't have to sit on them until they hatched, did he? Fairies weren't supposed to weigh a lot, but he might weigh too much that he'd crack them.

He was sent to stay in his room with books and homework, away from all his friends. Ambrosine brought him meals and only stayed long enough to get a quick update on the status of the eggs. Fergus passed a lot of time lying on his stomach on his bed, kicking his legs in slow motion, staring at the unmoving basket. He'd put his hands at the bottoms of his cheeks and see how long it took for them to slide all the way up to the tops and pop off. Then he'd drop his head to his messy blankets and scream his little gurgling groans. This was so boring.

When the ducklings popped out at last, he almost thought about hiding so he wouldn't be the first thing they saw. The Easter Bunny had said something like how he shouldn't even bounce a ball for the first couple days, or else the ducklings might imprint on that instead. Fergus had to admit he was curious. What else could he make them imprint on? If he lifted only his hand above the edge of the basket and made quacking noises, opening and closing his fingers like a beak, would they think only his hand was their mama?

But Ambrosine wouldn't be happy if he did that. And Fergus, for all his faults, considered himself a good boy. Páistí refracta foirfe daoine.

Admittedly, the ducklings were very adorable. It wasn't long before they were crawling over each other in the basket, bumping and falling and pecking at everything. They sprawled on their bellies and cheeped up a storm. Maybe it was dumb to talk to the ducks, but Fergus found himself ranting to them about how frustrated he got with his dad sometimes and how he wished he could remember his mom or anything about the first year of his life anyway. The ducklings were patient. The ducklings understood. He decided not to name them. They all looked alike and came when he called, "Ducks!" so what was the point?

"How long does this go on?" Fergus asked on the fifth day after their hatching, holding one ball of yellow fluff near his cheek. They were in the front room, and he was kneeling at the coffee table. Each duck wanted their turn of being picked up, but they kept climbing over the barrier of twisted blankets he'd set up around the table's edges and jumping down to the floor again. Ambrosine leaned against the wall by the fireplace, his arms folded.

"Every decade until you come into your adult wings, unless at least one of your ducks from the previous batch is still alive. In which case you'll get skipped over until next time."

His fingers tightened around the duck in his hand. "Every decade? Are you serious? Is that necessary?"

Ambrosine bent down to stroke one duckling's soft head with his fingertips. "This simulation is intended to mimic reality in a fun, simple way for young gynes like you. It's common for drones to stick with the same gyne for tens of thousands of years. Even hundreds. Who knows? One day you might even raise a drone who sticks for life. Most of your children will probably be drones instead of gynes."

"Don't remind me. I'm sick just thinking about it." Fergus put the duckling in his lap. Then he moved it back to the coffee table, pulled his knees up to his chin, and crossed his arms. "I don't know if I can do this."

"When you're 50,000, the Easter Bunny will bring you goose eggs too, so you can get a feel for the differences, if that helps."

"No. I don't want to do any of this. How do I get out of the program early? Bribe him? What do nature spirits even want? Worshippers? I am not getting on my knees and praying to the Easter Bunny."

Ambrosine placed his hand on his son's tense shoulder. "The Easter Bunny only wants what's best for you, speck. Someday you're going to attract drones, and you need to have an inkling of what they expect from you, and what you should expect from them."

For a time, Fergus said and did nothing. The ducklings pecked around his feet. Then he lifted his head. "Why did Mother Nature have to make us this way?"

Summer of the Screaming Hornbills

"Whimster! Whimsy! Whimzo in the building!"

After checking to make sure none of his ducks had hopped inside his locker, Fergus shut it and clenched his fingers around the bridge of his nose. "What a wonderful world." The hand dropped down and slipped into the pocket of his bulky gray coat. Bulky, because it made him look bigger than he was, and most people might assume the coat's padding was the reason why he looked that way. Instead of answering the will o' the wisp's shout, he turned and started up the hall in the opposite direction. His ducks waddled on his heels, rustling their wings in anticipation of a take-off. Which they weren't going to get. Not inside. Tough luck for them.

"Whiiiimzino!" Magalee Dustfinger flew up behind him, her arms laden with bark strips and books. She didn't slow down, but rammed him with her shoulder, then flipped over so she could see his face. "Whimzozozona! Eyyy!"

"Can I help you?" Fergus monotoned, continuing to walk forward. Having ducks at his heels, as he'd had every decade for millennia after millennia, forced him to stay on the ground for their sake. Too many jostling bodies crowded the tall hallways. Sure, the ducks had their annoying moments, but they were still his responsibility. Time and time again, he'd found his personal pride reluctant to stop caring. Everyone who knew he had freckles knew about the ducks. If a whole batch disappeared one day, or even if they vanished one at a time over a period of weeks, gossipping eyes would question why. That, he didn't need.

Magalee floated after him, her blue and black wings twirling like scarves. A will o' the wisp drake wearing all brown, his dull wings and hair the same color, walked after her in much the same way his ducks were following him. His name was Tobie, though no one ever acknowledged him by it any more than they acknowledged why he and Magalee were allowed to share the same dorm room. "Whimsifine, where's that write-up for potions class you owe me?"

"'Owe you?'" he asked, arching his brows.

"You're late."

"Take it up with my procrastination habits. I had too much to do. I'll get it to you later."

"You're gonna fail this class."

"I'm amazing at this class."

"You're gonna fail your life."

"Pffft. I'll gonna destroy your life. I'll beat you up today."

"I'll fight you with a rock."

"You're bananas, Dustfinger." Fergus waited at the corner, counting duck heads before he turned in the direction of the cafeteria. Leprechauns up ahead. No wings. He crossed to the other side of the hall where the Duck crossing lane was, tonguing his cheek. "You know what? Blitz you. I hate your annoying face."

Magalee stuck out her tongue. "Whims, hey, throw your poor lab partner a bone. You need me. We should study where the cute drakes hang out. What are you doing after class tomorrow?"

"Fighting you outside your dorm."

"And losing. I'd kick your butt if I hadn't injured my kicking foot in Spellementary."

"I could fight you without even using my wan- Oof!" Someone slammed into Fergus' side right as he stepped into the hallway intersection. Reacting fast, Magalee grabbed his arm, saving him from crushing the ducks behind him. "Hey," he spluttered.

The lawn gnome in question glanced back over his shoulder and tapped two fingers against his neck. "Sorry! Overslept!"

Fergus shook out his wings, pushing Magalee's hand away. "Like I was saying, I'll get my half of the project done later. Not tonight, though. I have a thing."

"Courting a fritzy dame?"

"… Something like that." Fergus checked the hallway, then led his ducks through, glaring at anyone who didn't stop far enough back as he passed. "I'm meeting with the teaching assistant for advanced transformation sciences in the library. I've been having problems turning into anything smaller than a rabbit, and I'm hoping she can help."

"It's because you're a fat pumpkin."

"Possibly. Maybe big Fairies can't turn into small animals."

Magalee zipped in front of him, turning on her back and coasting forward while she had the speed and space. "Didn't you and the TA for advanced transformation sciences grow up together or something?"

"Her name's Marina. She's studying Anti-Fairy history and the Zodii myths, even though she's Daoist. We became best friends as kids after my dad pulled me aside and told me he doesn't like her family and I should stay far away from her."

"Is she fritzy, or just cute?"

Fergus tightened his grip on his books. Shifting them in his arms, he lifted one finger and pointed it at her face. "Don't read into it. We're just meeting for a study session."

"Private study room? Alone?"

"Um. That's- not relevant."

"Cuuute! Your freckles disappear when you blush." Careful of the ducks, Magalee landed on the floor beside him and jabbed him so hard with her elbow that he crashed into the neighboring lockers. "Ducky dad's been gootchie-goggling his bestie!"

Fergus elbowed her back. "Hey, plug it. It's not your business if I like her. Marina's, I don't know. Interesting to listen to." He shrugged. "My dad doesn't like her. She's the only damsel I've ever been allowed to chase after because I think she's special, instead of because he thinks he's found someone who's a good match for me. I don't know. We both like parties. I want to see it go somewhere."

"Dare you to kiss her."

"Dare you to stop me. Ducks!" Fergus clicked his tongue. "Don't fall so far back. I don't want you mixing with other ducks. I'd never be able to tell you apart."

Magalee pushed her hair behind her ears. It was brown, and very long, falling somewhere between her waist and the backs of her knees. "Your birds are cute, but have you thought about claiming an actual drone yet?"

He glanced at her sideways. "No…"

"Let me know. I've got some recs if you're interested."

"I don't…" Fergus slid his sideways glance a little farther across the hallway. "… think you're allowed to give me names. Canterbury v. Oakwing, remember? Confidentiality?"

The wisp shook her head. Her hands went behind her back, and she started skipping a little as she stepped. "Come on. You know I have flawless snatter-dar when I get sugarloaded. What about you? Which classmates do you think are drones?"

As luck would have it, they were walking past a washroom at that very moment. It was a strange sort of washroom, like an inset in the wall with the washing basin and garbage can out front for everyone to see, and the stalls hidden around a bend. A very short drake, thin enough to shatter with a gust of wind, walked out of it as they passed by. His hair was blue, dark blue, and all long and shaggy in the back. A few stripes of hair on his chin were just starting to come in. His shirt was gray. He looked familiar…

His name started with a "Ba", though Fergus couldn't remember what it was. He paused for a second, staring at the back of his head and trying to remember it. Barry, Barty, Balthazar… Whatever it was, he was weirdly graceful as he approached the washing basin, even though all he was doing was washing his hands. The slish, slosh of the soap and water sounded sharp and cliché, and his head bounced a little here and there as though following music that existed only inside his head. Honestly, Fergus wouldn't have been surprised if the core in his forehead chamber had manifested into some sort of musical device. He looked like the type to snuggle up to a huge window with a thick quilt over his legs, wrapped in a sweater the color of autumn, sipping from a mug of cider as some of his more jolly peers ran about outside tackling each other and throwing discs. He probably preferred books to rolling in the dirt; he cleaned his hands very well. Fergus hadn't read any books for fun in what felt like centuries, but maybe he could ask for recommendations. Then they'd have something to strike up a conversation about.

Wait a second.

What.

The.

What.

"Ba" finished washing and turned, spied the fairy and wisp standing nearby, then gave them each a curt nod. He walked away down the hall, wings swishing behind him all long and glimmering. The pair exchanged a look. Fergus folded his hands over his face and backed into the wall until his own wings hit cloudstone. Then he slid down, scattering startled ducks.

"Baltimore?" Magalee asked incredulously. She stared after the departing fairy. "No way. He's too smart to be a drone. He's a poindexter. Though come to think of it, his hips do look a little narrow. I guess I'm always too busy checking out his wings to notice." She lifted her crown with one finger. "Wowza. Shrimp got game in the back. Whimpin? Where'd you disappear to?"

"… That one. I want that one."

She found him sitting on the floor with the fluffy collar of his coat pulled up to his nose. Fergus stared up at her, only guessing how wide his eyes must seem from the outside. His tongue lay heavy in his mouth, puddled in saliva. He really wanted an ice cream cone right now, because his entire face was way too hot. Magalee sighed and crouched down to pat his arm.

"Oh, loverboy… I don't think either one of us is getting him, sweetie. He's a bookworm, but he's still out of our league. We don't even know if he's a drone yet. Anyway, you don't want Baltimore. He's always too busy reading ahead in his textbooks to notice a wonderful gyne like you."

Baltimore. Fergus didn't fight the lump swelling in his throat. He wanted to touch his hands against the sides of Baltimore's sweater, pressing them in until he felt skin and understood his shape. He wanted to lift him onto the stool of a bar and then lean back on his elbows with a cold soda, chatting about books he hadn't read and asking for recommendations he didn't plan to get around to checking out.

Scratch that. He didn't want to read "for fun". Reading "for fun" was a waste of valuable time that would be put to better use doing something else, like reading up on court cases and recent news. He just wanted to listen to Baltimore tell him about what he'd been reading. Fergus could envision it now- the two of them walking down the school hallway, Baltimore trotting along, hands clenched in front of his chest and his eyes shining as he gabbled, he himself following at a slower pace with his hands stuffed in his pockets and a small smile on his face. He wanted to know what lit the short drake's world up, what made him dance with passionate energy. He wanted to drawl on about politics and listen to Baltimore enthuse over how such and such he'd read was going to change Fairy World. No. All the Worlds. He wanted to be there when Baltimore published a book himself, wanted to be there when Baltimore was brought into interviews to talk about his work before adoring crowds, wanted to be there to push the dark blue hair down over his face in jest, wanted to be there if Baltimore ever had kids of his own…

"He doesn't talk much," Magalee murmured as though she'd tapped into his mind. "You'd get lonely. You need someone more open and energetic. Someone who can take your sass. You deserve better than Baltimore."

He pushed her off and wrapped his arms around his knees. This hid the rest of his face in a convenient fabric package while leaving just enough of his body recognizable that this ducks didn't get confused and wander off. One of them was scrounging around the tall garbage can for food crumbs. Almost immediately, however, Fergus hopped up and marched over to the washing basin. There were still two full buckets left this morning. He grabbed one and rubbed down his entire face. Then his hands and forearms for good measure, all the way up to his elbows. Blessed chilly water. He tried inhaling air through his mouth the whole time. Finished, he turned back to face Magalee, but kept his hands gripping the rim of the basin. He puffed out his cheeks.

"If you're feeling it, that means your adult wings are coming in soon," was all she said.

"No more Easter ducks after this batch," Fergus realized. He wasn't sure how that made him feel.

Autumn of the Blue Roses

This was one of the larger and noisier magical towns that littered Planet Earth, bubbled up in a layer of warm Fairy magic that kept out the freezing weather of the Great Ice Times to some degree. Bayard, the people called it. It was a coastal cliff-side town by the Atlantis Ocean, famous for both its beauty and its distance from the Rainbow Bridge to Fairy World that touched down on the opposite end of the continent.

Fergus wasn't crazy about the place even on his best days. It stank of fish and salt, and the people who lived there were always loudest in the mornings he needed sleep the most. But, he was an adult on his own now, and the town of Bayard had work for him. He rented a tiny place, and he was doing okay for himself, considering he and Ambrosine had cut ties and parted ways on such bad terms all those centuries ago. That was fine. He didn't need Whimsifinado money. He was okay.

Bayard was a place that attracted attention. Its high position on the cliffs made it perfect for watching breaching sea serpents and mermaids out in the ocean, as well as roaming animals if one looked inland instead. It had its architecture, its royal family - the habetrot ambassador to the Fairy Council and her relatives - and its share of culture too. Habetrot were renowned for their spinning wheels and embroidery, so there were always beautiful garments to be made, marketed, and sold in Bayard.

Problem: The town only had one pub. Not only was it located on the highest cliffs, far from the residences of poorer folk like him, but it was close enough to the royal castle that the wealthy types frequented it often. Certain precautions had to be taken to ensure their safety and optimal level of comfort. Respect to all and a regal air was a must, which almost defeated the pub's purpose altogether. Still.

There was something about the music there that lured Fergus up the chalky cliffs week after week. Which was weird. His father was a singer, so a stubborn streak in his genes didn't want to be caught liking anything of the kind. He'd never much cared for music before. Especially not this kind. It was more somber than upbeat, for the elites liked it that way, and they were the ones with coin. That alone drove many of the rebellious youth to boycott it every so often. But, again, only pub in town. Everyone had their vices and needs. People learned to deal.

The Fairy outside the door was unreasonably short, for a bouncer. He carried himself more like an orc than a tiny duende without a crown. "You're a gyne," he said, arms folded firmly. "The pub is neutral territory. You have to scarf yourself if you want in."

Fergus considered clobbering the short Fairy, then decided it was less effort to put on the scarf. Oh, the scarf. One day reform would come and adult gynes wouldn't be subject to covering their pheromones every time they stepped out in public, but for now, that was the rule. Fergus was nothing if not obedient to the rules. Most of them. And his scarf was nice. He'd commissioned it specially upon arrival in Bayard with almost every coin he still had. It wasn't thick cotton that would make one sweat too easily, but beautiful purple silk. Fergus drew it from his satchel and slung it around his neck as instructed to. He tied it with a double knot in the front. It wasn't pretty, but it was practical. It counted.

"That stays on," said the duende, and the first note of nervousness crept into his voice. Poor kid. Someone should teach him the power behind a proper, confident monotone.

"Scarf on," Fergus acknowledged. "I'd like to go inside now."

The pub had attracted a small crowd tonight. A few patrons were seated at the bar or in one of several booth seats lined along the same wall as the entrance. Other Fairies hovered on the left side of the pub in front of the stage, dripping rings and necklaces, long fingers clutching tall sodaglasses of sparkling drink. Brownies floated among them with laden trays of fresh fruit or dirty dishes, dressed in all black uniforms and keeping their eyes politely downcast.

The usual band was already up on the rounded stage, all four of them with swooping or spiky hair that ranged between purple and blue. One of them raised his head as Fergus floated by, then turned his attention on the springcase in his lap, and hunched into his wings. He'd rosined his bow to the point that it was a miracle he had any rosin left. The strings looked about ready to snap. The lead singer's tongue was lolling, as though he'd just hollered exhausting lyrics at the top of his voice and needed a moment to recuperate. Someone in the crowd called, "Play River Valley Races tonight."

Fergus rolled his eyes. An upbeat song like that one? Sure. He turned to drift away, when a soft voice called him back.

"Excuse me, Mr. Gyne."

He was a gyne. He turned back. The speaker was the drake with the springcase, seemingly shocked that he'd even opened his mouth. He plowed on anyway.

"You… you come here to the pub a lot, but you never make requests for our music. Now's your chance."

Fergus paused. He shifted his weight between his wings, very aware of the eyes turning his way. "Um. Sure. That would be jazzed. What do you know? Just Earthside stuff? Or cloudland music too? I'm from the cloudlands myself."

The springcase player shrugged. "Whatever you want. If we can't play it, you can pick another."

The lead singer glanced over his shoulder warningly. "And then after that, we take a request from someone else."

"Of course."

What should he request? Music was fine, but Fergus wasn't all that crazy over it. A song was a song. Not only that, but the elites would expect something slow and proper. He preferred a quicker pace with a strong, steady beat.

"How about, Charter Pine?" Perfect. That was an Earthsider song, with some message about some drake who'd been struck dumb after breaking Da Rules and forced to beg for scraps from the Anti-Fairies or something. It was chipper, but had a dreary moral to it.

"Oh, that's one of my favorites." The springcase player turned his attention on the lead singer. "Would it be okay if I sang that one? Just this once?"

"You play, I sing," the singer said simply, adjusting his bola tie.

Fergus bid them both good luck and picked his way towards the bar itself. He took careful care to skirt the darting brownies. He didn't even make it to the counter before he was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. Since he'd just broken out of the crowd and it probably wasn't an accident, he decided to look.

Oh.

The figure who had tapped him floated quite a bit above the ground. His clothing was nice, though not as exquisite as those of the royals. The heavy sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing dark brown freckles up and down his arms. Beefy arms. He balanced a large red drink in one hand. Freckles lined his sharp jaw too, running from his neck to his nose. Fergus made the instant decision to behave submissively to the older, stronger gyne. He touched down on the pub floor. To further demonstrate that he didn't intend to cause any trouble, he traced the signal pattern for Most honored along his neck with his fingertips, then bowed with one hand behind his back and his wings splayed.

"Jasper Higgins, if I'm not mistaken. I've been instructed I'll want to admire you, and I can't say I disagree with the reasons why. You appear strong in the wing, and I'm sure your brains aren't any farther behind."

Jasper allowed his eyes to wander over him from his broken, floating crown to the black shoes he normally took extra care not to scrape in the dust and mud. "You've been in town for a few months now, stranger, but I've never gotten your name. Come." He gestured to the nearest booth. "Sit with me."

"I think I'd prefer to stand, sir."

Jasper arched both his eyebrows even archier than they had already been. He slid into the booth seat anyway. "You seem very nervous."

"I'm a gyne. You're a gyne. You approached me. Gynes kill gynes. You look a little tougher than I usually handle. I think I have a right to be nervous, yes."

Jasper chuckled and let two fingers fall into place beside his eye. His elbow went on the table. His wings frisked back and forth behind him as he adjusted his legs. "I wish to discuss business with you."

Fergus pricked his ears, but remained a wary distance. "What sort of business?"

"Gyne business. You see, my son's taken a liking to you over the last several weeks."

"If you're offering his hand in marriage, I'll have to turn you down. I'm looking for a wife to mother my biological nymphs. I'm not interested in drakes."

Jasper nodded. "You misunderstand. My son is a drone."

Oh.

Wait. What?

Jasper read the confusion printed on his face as clearly as the sunlight, and nodded. He raised his drink to his lips. "My son is a drone. He's, oh, about your age. Perhaps a little younger. Take a seat. We'll talk."

Still in a daze, Fergus took hold of the back of the booth and plopped down across from him.

"He's a good man. My only drake. I wish to give him away to someone who'll take genuine care of him. He's asked me to consider you. I've been watching the way you conduct yourself in the marketplace. I know you're a businessman at heart. Let's make an arrangement, gyne to gyne."

"… What?" Fergus' mind reeled as he attempted to decipher the meaning behind Jasper's words. He was prepared to give his son away to a stranger, just like that? Back during his father's time, before the war, a gyne could walk into the residence of any town crier and request a list of all the drones registered to gynes in the surrounding area. Canterbury v. Oakwing had changed that. Now, it was getting to be so a gyne had to actually weasel that sort of information out in casual conversation with the drone himself. So unfair. So much work. And now, here was this gyne, just- just- prepared to-

"What?" he said again.

A slow nod. "I want to know if you have what it takes to bring my son under your wing. No tricks. No strings. What's your story? Convince me you're a fine bloke, and no one has to get hurt."

Fergus moved his eyes from Jasper's face to the door of the pub. Then they moved back again. He tightened his fingers around the table's edge. "And if I don't win your favor, you don't plan to let me leave this place alive tonight. Right?"

"Well." Jasper smiled a little wider, though his eyes remained pleasant and only half open. It made Fergus a little envious, just seeing how calm and businesslike that burly man could make himself appear, like nothing fazed him. "That's how these discourses typically end, ain't it? There can be blood and dust coming out of this, but there doesn't have to be. Make me an offer. Spin a yarn, or snap a wand."

"Then I'll begin with introductions." Not that the story was what Jasper was really here to observe him for. He wanted to assure himself of the same thing every drone did: Dominance. No drone wanted to belong to a gyne of low social standing who spent his days emitting borderline submissive pheromones. Pushing himself to force the power move, Fergus leaned away from the table and signalled for a waiter with a swoop of his hand (Shame he'd never learned to snap his fingers). He kept his eyes on Jasper's face even when the brownie girl made her appearance. Inwardly it was a little mortifying, for Ambrosine, for all his faults, had instilled him with a sense of manners. He ought to look at her when he ordered food and drink. But fortunately, the waitress observed the freckles on the faces of both patrons, and kept her mouth shut. "One serving of rain deer venison," Fergus said to her, and then to Jasper, "My name is Fergus Whimsifinado."

A flicker of interest passed along Jasper's face when he heard the family name. "A socialite with a Fairy World name wandering Earthside in rags instead of riches? Do tell."

"I'm heir to the mind and magic therapy business, Wish Fixers. It's located in the town of Novakiin."

"Never heard of it."

"It's situated along a thin strip of cloudland on the other side of the Tortoiseshell Peaks from Faeheim. A wealthy neighborhood. Small. Clean. Charming."

As the Fairies on stage began to play a new song, Jasper inclined his head. "Go on."

"I was originally enrolled in the Academy to begin my training in the field of psychology. But that wasn't what I wanted. Within a month, I convinced my father to allow me time to wander Earth on sabbatical, so that I might get in touch with the minds and circumstances of Earthside dwellers who come from a much different background than I did." Technically, none of that was a lie. He'd just omitted the part where he and his father had broken into a brawl over it, and he'd been forced to run away. It had been centuries and Ambrosine hadn't come to haul him back, so clearly he'd conceded to the stubbornness of his son. Not untrue.

"Interesting…" Jasper took the table's complementary salt shaker by its top and slid it to the towards the wall. His fingers lingered on its lid, tempting probably every Anti-Fairy for cloudlengths. But, he didn't tip it over, and withdrew his hand. "Ever wrangled drones before, Fergus?"

"I admit that I have not. But, I did raise ducklings and geese every decade since I was 5,000 until I moulted into my adult wings. I also took a few classes in school. Since I do lack experience where actual drones are concerned, I'm grateful for the opportunity to start my wrangling off with one instead of multiple." Phrased with perfect confidence in Jasper's willingness to agree in the end.

The conversation continued in that businesslike manner as food was brought out and gradually eaten. "Final question." Jasper leaned in, clasping his hands. "Do you have any questions for me?"

Every alarm in Fergus' brain fired at that moment. Questions? This conversation hadn't prepared him to ask questions of a more dominant gyne. That went against every teaching in Fairy society. Their hierarchy was their hierarchy, and it was expected that certain protocols would be followed. For one thing, you didn't make demands of either drakes or damsels above you unless you wanted the dust on your butt handed back on a copper platter. Fergus clamped his fingers around the edge of the table, rubbing the underside with the pads of his thumbs.

"What does your son expect from me, and what advice do you have for me when it comes to looking after him?"

Jasper fingered the rim of his sodaglass. "He's thoughtful. Be sure to heed his advice now and again. Beware falling into the traps of stereotypes. I used to believe them all, until I had my first. To tell the truth, drone or not, I think my son may be smarter than all my daughters. He's quiet, but powerful in mind. And, there's this. Always remember that if you've looked after one drone, you've looked after one. Not all of them. Every drone is distinct. Be patient, be gentle, and never forget to express your appreciation. Drones don't ask for much, but they do value appreciation."

"Excellent." Fergus started to reach across the table with his right hand, then recognized his error and exchanged it for his left. "When can I meet him?"

Jasper unclasped his hands and pointed one finger at the stage. "That's him up there."

As they shook to seal their deal, Fergus craned his head. "Bola tie? Front and center?"

"Back left."

Ah. Not the singer. That springcase player, with his solar system purple-blue hair sweeping behind him in an upwards crest, a bit like a cockatoo's. He took after his father's broad build, but only to a certain point. Lanky was the term that came to mind. Broad-shouldered, but outfitted with long, skinny arms and large, clumsy hands.

And he was gazing directly across the pub at Fergus with an expression usually reserved for adolescent lovers giggling together on a balcony overlooking the gardens.

On impulse, Fergus yanked his scarf up over his mouth. His cheeks were about this close to imploding with confused heat. So this springcase player was the drone who had an interest in him? Should a drone be staring at him that way? Was that still against Da Rules, or did Canterbury v. Oakwing change all of that? Did Canterbury v. Oakwing even apply down on Earth? Why was it suddenly so hard to remember?

Honestly, Fergus had to admit to himself that he'd never actually stopped to wonder what drones thought about before. They were all just obedient, easily-confused, desexualized, empathy-lacking bobbleheads who lived to serve whichever Fairy nearby happened to produce the most dominant pheromones with unquestionable devotion. Right? People made jokes about drones flinging themselves into the line of fire for complete strangers, or murdering anybody who so much as managed to make their supervising gyne break a drop of sweat, or dumb enough to walk off the edge of the clouds and plummet without realizing they should flap their wings, all the time. The stereotypes were true, right?

Maybe?

Did drones actually think about what they wanted in a gyne? Did they gossip about things like that with their other little drone friends when no one else was around to hear? Could drones even have preferences when it came to gynes?

He was somebody's preference?

What. What?! But why.

Suddenly, it seemed to click for the drone on stage that he was making eye contact with a gyne who wasn't his own. At least not yet. Immediately he dropped his head, feeling the strings of his springcase up and down with flowing fingers. Fergus stood, not stepping away from the booth, just to see past all the heads. He sat down again.

"You should get closer," Jasper said casually. "I'll pay the tab."

Fergus needed no further urging. There was never a downside to moving away from another gyne. Clutching his satchel to his side so it wouldn't bounce obnoxiously against his hip, he pushed his way through the little crowd of jewelry-laden and/or half-sloshed patrons until he ended up right in front of the stage. The lead singer stepped forward. The keyboardist and panpiper stood at the ready. The springcase player sat in the back with his springcase on his lap, bow poised. At a signal from the singer, he strummed his fingers up and down the strings to incite a perky rhythm into the air, then went straight into the flowing part of the song with his diving bow. The singer pushed his hair back with his hand.

"I won't be stuck on Earth forever. But I won't go back to Fairy World again. That place weren't right for me as is now. So Da Rules would have to change before then."

The purple-haired drake raised his head, his expression a wistful pout as he continued playing to the patting beat and his friend continued singing out.

"I fell in love on Earth and I'm a fairy. Da Rules would say my family's her and done. I think I'm ready for some kids now. It really don't hurt nobody to break that one. Look out. Look out. Look out. Look out. This rulebreaker's been called hooome!" The singer's hands went out to either side, arms bent down but wrists and fingers pointed up. "And Fairy Court is nothing! Nothing! Nothing! They can't rob me of the ones I looove! And I left my will in a charter pine, but they can't take what's rightful mine-"

They were good. Maybe not the greatest, but good. The crowd released small sparks of color into the air with their wands to signal polite applause when it was over. The singer blew kisses. The three instrument players began to pack their things away. Was that it? The night was still young. Oh. Duh. The other entertainers were coming in for their shift. They wanted a turn.

Hand over hand, Fergus moved along the rounded stage until he hovered near the back. The purple-haired drake in front of him strummed his springcase quietly. Everyone was infatuated with the singer, or perhaps with the keyboarder. No one minded him. He glanced up briefly when Fergus stopped.

"You know, you play very well."

The drake hiked up his springcase, dropping his gaze to the floor. "I only just started a decade ago."

You should say thank you when someone gives you a compliment. He didn't say it. Drones didn't know how to show proper appreciation; that's just how they were. It wasn't his fault. Correct him, wait for him to repeat it back, and move on with the conversation.

Wait. No. That… wasn't right. People said that. People taught that stuff to gynes. He'd learned all that in class, about how drones needed correction, and it was the duty of the gyne to make them learn. But that… wasn't really right, in practice. Was it? This drake knew how to play an instrument. Surely he knew how to say thank you too. Maybe he was just nervous, and that's why he didn't say it. That could be it.

Fergus blinked at the top of the smaller fairy's head, and decided not to demand that he say "Thank you" any more than he'd demand it if he'd walked up naturally assuming that this drake was a kabouter instead of a drone. Instead he said, "Well. I liked it. What's your name?"

"Cosmo. Cosmo Higgins."

Fergus could have kicked himself. Duh. That should have been his first guess. Probably 1 in every 10 fairies you ran across in a year was named Cosmo. People should really stop naming their babies Cosmo. No one liked an overplayed joke. Well. Apparently all the people naming their babies Cosmo did.

"Higgins. That's an Earthside name, I see."

"Yes. My father hails from Fairy World, but he chose to take an Earthside name when our family left the cloudlands behind after the fairy baby mandate." He continued staring down at the stage, fingers tight around the neck of his springcase and his bow. When his feet shifted, the wood creaked.

What was he supposed to say? He was just floating there like a starstruck smoof. Hey smoof-for-brains, get talking.

"I liked it," Fergus blurted again. "I liked your music. It's good. I don't sing. I never sing. Not for anybody. But I studied the springcase for a few centuries myself. My father made me learn how. You play it better than I ever did."

"Thank you, sir," Cosmo mumbled. For one instant, he glanced up. Again. Their gazes linked. His eyes were piercing blue, almost silver or white, just like chips of ice. His eyebrows peaked beneath his sweeping hair with a mix of concern and hope. Like he was waiting for something. Then, remembering the proper etiquette regarding eye contact and strangers, he looked back at the floor. Again. Fergus held up his hands.

"It's okay. You don't have to do that. We're talking. This is a conversation. You can look at me."

"Not… yet," was the hesitant reply.

"Well, when you want to, you can look. Cosmo. I like that name."

"It's common."

"Don't care. It suits you. But…" Fergus tapped his forefinger against his cheek. "There's something about you that absolutely rubs me the wrong way."

That prompted yet another split-second peek at his face.

"It's your father's pheromones lingering around you," he finished, and offered his hand. "Ever thought of switching them out for mine?"

Winter of the Blue Roses

Cosmo was the only drone among four sisters. It was his family's intention that he be sent off in style. There wasn't a ceremony. This wasn't a marriage. This temporary relationship might not last longer than a few millennia, or maybe a few dozen if they were lucky.

But Cosmo's whole family crammed together on the porch to see him off, exchanging hugs and pats and tears all around. Jasper had opened an entire bottle of orange cream soda, and everyone had drunk their fill without spilling over.

Once the good-byes were final (For now, at least- Heck, he only lived down the cliff a ways) and Cosmo fluttered down the steps with his suitcase dangling from his arm, Fergus took his shoulder off the wall. He straightened up, though didn't slide his hands from his pockets. "Ready to go?"

Cosmo bobbed his head enough times to ward off a rattlesnake. "Yes. Is it far to walk?"

"If we didn't have wings and had to zigzag our way down the cliffs, it would take longer. But we can fly. And when I get around to re-certifying my wand license, or after you see the place yourself for the first time, then we'll be able to poof. And you know, you can look me in the eyes now."

"Not yet," Cosmo insisted, watching his feet as they moved along the edge of the cliff. "I can wait a little longer. I want to be a little traditional about this."

"Preening tonight?"

Cosmo tucked his hair behind his ear. "Do you mind?"

"Mm." Fergus glanced up at the sky. The clouds were unreasonably puffy tonight. "To tell you the truth, you're the first drone I've ever kept."

"I wondered about that. I know you're scarfing now, but I can still pick up a little. You do smell like a…" Cosmo waved his hand in front of his face.

"Virgin." He rolled his eyes. "I know. I don't care. I'm way too young to want to do that stuff. For the record, I'm a virgin by choice. Frankly, I don't care if my extra layer of pheromones never switches on. I'm just not interested in anyone right now. I'm sure I'll get around to finding a wife someday, but right now, that's not really in the cards. You get virgin gyne pheromones. Sorry."

Cosmo shrugged and smiled in a cheery way. He buzzed out over the open sky and spun around just once. When he slowed, the suitcase bounced against his knees. "I don't mind. I'm not just here for your pheromones."

Fergus slowed his pace, keeping one hand on the wall of the cliff. He turned his head. "Wait. What? What else is there to possibly want? In case you haven't noticed, I'm really not much of a catch. Most of this weight I'm carrying isn't muscle."

"You're around my age," Cosmo said seriously. "That was important to me. I've never had a gyne besides my father, and you've never had a drone aside from Easter ducks and training classes. When we do get gynes moving into Bayard, so many of them get envious and hot-headed when they learn of my father's wealth and standing. My family's been keeping bets ever since you first showed up. We wondered how long it would be before you lost your temper. But you didn't."

"Call it a selfish sense of self-preservation."

"It kept you alive. Plus, I just liked you. I've heard some of the sarcastic comments you make when you think no one else is listening. I've heard you trick angry people into calming down instead of beating you up. You make me laugh."

"Well. I am pretty likable."

Neither said anything else until they'd nearly reached the bottom of the cliff-face. Fergus found his little hole in the wall (literally) and pushed the curtain aside so Cosmo could fold up his wings and step through. It occurred to him then that the drone wasn't wearing any shoes. The bare stone floor was white and pretty, but it probably chilled his feet. Idiot. Did he forget we were going out today? What's he doing?

Wait. No. That wasn't right. Cosmo came from an involved, caring family. They were certainly rich enough to own footwear. If Cosmo was bright enough to play the springcase, he probably knew how to put on shoes. Maybe he just didn't like wearing them. Or maybe there was some kind of ceremonial, sort of spiritual reason why he wanted to walk into his new gyne's place with bare feet. Who knew.

"This is my place of business." Fergus pointed at each object in the room one by one. "That's my book and clothes shelf. That's my bed. That's the bed your mom poofed down for you. That's my box of cereal. That's my window. What do you think?" He hadn't lit any candles, but there was enough light coming in from outside that the outlines of various shapes were visible.

"I love it."

"It's common," Fergus confessed, letting the curtain fall behind him.

"It's perfect." Cosmo trailed over to the window. He let his soft bag drop to the floor and raised his hand to his eyes, peering out over the ocean. "Oh. The beach is so pretty down here."

"Is it? I didn't notice."

"Can we hear the waves from here?"

Fergus sat on the end of his bed and stretched his arms. "You can late at night when it's really quiet, unless the parties get too loud. Are you hungry? Your family fed us well. I'm stuffed."

Cosmo turned around. He braced his hands on the windowsill behind him. "No. I'm not hungry."

"Good."

Electric hesitation. Burning at their tongue tips. Fergus looked at Cosmo. Then away. He scratched his knee. Cosmo looked at the floor. He cleared his throat.

"So… Are you too full for preening tonight?" He kicked his heel against the floor. "I mean. That's what we're supposed to do now, isn't it? So I can learn your dominance pheromones?"

"Too full? No. Too drunk?" Fergus massaged his temples. "I hope not."

Cosmo's shoulders and wings relaxed together. Releasing the window, he took a few steps forward. "Of course, every gyne does their preening ritual differently. Some even do it differently for each of their different drones. I know I'm your first, but have you ever worked out a plan as to how you want it done?"

"Uh… Yeah. That's certainly something I got around to."

"It's all right if you haven't," Cosmo said, the tiniest, most innocent note of scolding in his voice. He stood in the center of the carved-out room, with its slightly lumpy floor and sharp square corners. He rested his hands on his waist. "I'll help you figure out what you like and what you don't. Over the years, I've tried out different things. We'll do this together. Where would you like to start?"

Fergus… scratched his head. Preening had never been one of his top interests. In the back of his mind, despite his protests, he'd always kinda figured it was inevitable that he would gather drones someday. Maybe even as many as two at the same time. But still, the idea had always seemed so far away. It was a weird thing to think about, and he didn't really like it. He didn't know enough about it to have preferences.

Sure, he had a basic idea. Gyne tongue goes on drone face here, drone tongue goes on gyne neck there. Figure A, Figure B. Everyone said it was this wildly intimate and precious, protected thing and the greatest experience a gyne and drone can have together, that sort of stuff. Drones had to make all escalating moves, lest a gyne be accused of forcing them against their will. He'd been over this. He'd made art projects about this. He'd written essays on this. He'd demonstrated this with a partner in class and scored a five-star grade.

No one else seemed to care that it was weird to lick another drake's face like that. Just him. Figure A. Figure B. Plain and simple. It seemed so easy in practice. He'd never actually done it in real life, though.

"Let's go through this bit by bit," Cosmo suggested patiently, his dark shape silhouetted by the window and the clouds in the night sky. "Should we wear day clothes, pajamas, or even less than that?"

"What? Uh- Day clothes are good." Why was that a question? Had Cosmo come here expecting them to undress together? That would be weird even if they pulled on pajamas afterward. Changing clothes was sort of an intimate thing. You didn't just do it in front of people. What the smoof? Who was out there doing that? They'd just met this week. Fergus didn't even like sleeping with his shirt off when he was alone. There was a reason pajamas were a thing. They were for wearing. Why would you not use them for their intended purpose?

Maybe he was biased towards pajamas. He'd been wearing pajamas when he ran away from Fairy World all those years ago. With an unactivated wand to his name, he hadn't had any other clothes to switch into as he wandered Earth in search of a place to settle for a little while. He liked pajamas.

"Day clothes," Cosmo said, no judgment in his voice. "Next question. Should we do this standing, sitting, or lying down?"

"Standing's good." Why was lying down with a drone an option? Gross. Gross. Gross. Don't think about how there were probably gynes out there who did that. Don't wonder if you'll ever have a drone who's been intimate even further than preening with another gyne before. How does that even work? Don't wonder how that even works. Was it wrong to judge a drone by what he'd done with previous gynes? It was taboo to discuss it, but was it wrong to be weirded out by the thought? Was it wrong that he wished he was Cosmo's first? Did they really have to go this far tonight? Why was this room so small? Had it always been this high up the cliff?

"How would you like me to approach you so we can begin?"

Fergus was pretty sure "Not at all" would not be the proper answer. It also wasn't… the true answer? After all, he was a gyne. He'd been taught Figure A, Figure B his entire life. He wanted this. Badly. If he didn't get answers tonight, he'd feel like he lost out. Dear dust, he wanted to feel it inside. This amazing preening thing. He was honestly curious to see how it all came together to be this beautifully intimate exchange. He just sort of wished he could be observing another gyne and drone pair first instead of going through the motions himself. Was that creepy? He probably shouldn't fantasize about what it would be like watching someone else during one of their most private, tender moments. Fergus rubbed his hand behind his neck, fingers catching in the silky folds of his scarf.

"I don't… care. Why don't you just do your thing? I'll just… do my part."

"You can take that off now," Cosmo said quietly. His wings beat just a hint more rapidly. "We're not out in town, and I want to be yours. I have to get your pheromones for that."

"Oh. Right. I guess I should do that." Fergus picked at the double knot, finally managed to untangle it, and turned away to fold the scarf up and place it on his shelf. Cosmo was on his toes when he turned back around, holding his cheek. He nodded.

"Give me a second to practice on the air. Then I'll try it on you." Cosmo put out his hands as though Fergus was standing directly at his side, and gave him a slight bump with his hip to push him away. Was that what he was doing? Why was he doing that? Were his hips always that thin? Was it because he was a drone? Was that a thing? People said it was a thing, though Fergus was pretty sure he'd seen exceptions before.

Cosmo pulled an imaginary figure towards him and spun it around. The way he flowed made him look just like a picture in a preening instruction manual. Why had he turned his back? Why was he spreading his wings like that as he moved? That was weird. This cave hole was too small for spread wings. He'd bump into something and crumple them. Silly drone. Seriously, what?

Wait. It may not be practical, but was there another reason he held his wings like that? Was he trying to show them off? Did he think Fergus… wanted to look at his wings there in the dark? What? What did he think Fergus was going to do just watching them from the other side of the room? Why was he still facing backwards? Were drones allowed to face gynes backwards? Did Cosmo think he was going to come forward and touch them? Was Fergus supposed to do that? Is that why he was shaking them like that? Why would he want to do that?

Cosmo stopped midstep, his arms still poised in the air. Then he checked over his shoulder. "What if we included a dip?"

Fergus looked behind him. There was just a blank wall. Then he turned back to Cosmo again, and brought both hands near his chest. "Wait. Do you mean me? Oh, no. I can't be dipped. I'm too big and heavy. It wouldn't work."

Cosmo looked him directly in the eye, and held out his upturned hand. A little warily, Fergus walked over and accepted it. Cosmo yanked him forward, wrapped one arm behind his waist and below his wings, pulled him around so Fergus leaned over his leg, and dipped his head down so far, his feet left the ground. A wingbeat of vertigo kicked in immediately. Fergus grabbed the drone's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut.

"What-?"

"Any drone can learn to dip a gyne," Cosmo insisted. "We're Fairies. Our heads are full of helium. We don't weigh very much. What do you think?"

"I- I-"

What in the name of dust? What did he think? Well. He wanted to know how a noodle like Cosmo could sweep him up and over like that, for one thing.

It felt nice.

"I almost feel like… a prince," Fergus managed, though he didn't open his eyes. It sounded dumb. Cosmo didn't seem to care.

"Okay. That's good. If you like that move, we'll keep it."

Why didn't he put him down? How long was he going to keep him upside-down like that? Fergus cracked open one eyelid. Cosmo's expression turned more tender as he floated there, holding the larger gyne almost the same way he held his springcase when he was really in the groove. He lowered his head, his tongue breaking from between his lips.

Wait. Suddenly they were doing this now? Was that how it worked? So you didn't offer an exact list of what you planned to do, it was more like a spontaneous fight than a scripted ritual, and you just- Oh. Oh, like that. That's how it worked. Tongue goes there. It slides over and upward like a kiss below the ear. Figure A. Figure B.

Cosmo made a few opening markings to signal his desire to proceed, light and shallow, then withdrew his tongue. "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready." He was still upside-down. Cosmo seemed fine holding him like that, so… apparently that's how they were doing it? Every gyne had his own signature stuff he did before the preening started, and apparently this was his now. Okay. Envisioning the models and arrows drawn on the blackboard, Fergus drew his tongue hard and deep across Cosmo's cheek. He had to reach pretty far, but Cosmo bent low enough that it didn't put too much strain on his neck. When he'd done that rasping thing for a few minutes, he pulled his head back. "When is it official so you can look me in the eyes?"

"We'll know."

What was that supposed to mean? Maybe he meant when the symbols were done. Rough tongue scrapes always came first to ensure the pores were sufficiently open and ready. The swirling symbols that carried meaning came later. Twelve standard dominance signs, twelve standard submissive ones. There were others too, affectionately referred to as "unlockables" among the younger generations. Occasionally you stumbled across a drone who dared to innovate in an entertaining way, deviating from the usual practice, revealing a signature slip-up or hitch or tell. It was supposed to be fun. Collect them all. Fergus assumed that was a joke. He hoped it was a joke. That would be weird if it wasn't.

They hadn't even moved forward from the beginning parts to the meaningful symbols when Cosmo stopped and looked down at him. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Y-yeah."

"Do you want to take a break?"

"Yeah."

Cosmo set him back up on his feet. Slowly. "You're clenching your hands in my shirt pretty tight. Right around where my wings are. You've scratched up your fingernails somehow."

Fergus looked down to see that he was right. "They're short because I chew my nails. They're always like this."

They waited a moment, twisting their hands. One of them coughed. The other looked away.

"Are we still going to preen tonight? Sir?"

"Oh. Oh, we can still do it. I just… Yes? We should? I dunno. I like the idea of preening, I guess. Ever since your father approached me last week and we talked everything out, I've been daydreaming about this. It's supposed to be great. I was excited. I just don't like it when it actually happens. It's too much to deal with." He scratched his arm. "Maybe we rushed this. We can try again next week."

Cosmo was silent. Dead eyes staring, but only for a moment. They burned like stars when they fell. Fergus licked his lips and made the attempt to speak again.

"I think it's too soon for this. For me. You're great- this is no offense to you. It's me. I think I just need more time before I can get into this. Let's try it again next week. Okay? Cosmo? I promise I'll be able to do it next week. Just give me a little time."

"That's not fair," Cosmo told the cold floor. "I need regular gyne pheromones, or I'll start losing my mind. You know that."

Fergus pressed his thumbs together. "I know. But I can't. Not right now."

He blinked a few times. "What are you saying? It's our first night when we're officially living together. We can't… not preen. This is our night. We're allowed to do this. We're supposed to."

That about summed it up. He was being a baby about this. Fergus held his hands up near his chest. "It's not you. I'm just nervous because I've never done this before. Remember, you and your dad, I guess, have been doing this kind of stuff basically since you were born. It's new to me. Just be patient, and I'll try again."

He tried again. He let Cosmo dip him down again and everything, and then it all just sort of happened without any more breaks. After some time, they moved from surface licks to pheromone signals, and those went on for a while. It started to be soothing, at least compared to how he'd felt when they'd first started the ritual. A gyne and his drone. It was great.

"See?" When it was over, Cosmo held his gaze, and smiled. "That wasn't so bad, was it? You preen very well."

Fergus stared up at him blankly. His fingers tightened along Cosmo's spine. "I mean, I guess?"

"It just takes practice. You'll stop saying you're nervous after the first few weeks."

In a way, Cosmo was right. He didn't complain again. There wasn't a point to. Pet canines needed to be walked, pet felines needed their litter boxes changed. They came with responsibilities that you couldn't just ignore and act like they didn't need. Drones weren't exactly pets, but they still had needs. They needed pheromone exposure. Complaining wouldn't fix that. Fergus had heard once that you could practice the preening signals very well by licking the patterns onto your palm or the back of your wrist, which was as gross as it sounded, but at least it was practice. Soon he could perform every action exactly the way Cosmo expected him to without skipping a wingbeat. It got easier after a while. He only made the mistake of suggesting bottled pheromones from a donor once. After that? They never argued about a thing. It was perfect.

And you know? He liked having a drone around to brighten up the place. Dear dust, he'd been alone for so long, almost ever since he'd left Fairy World. Cosmo proved himself to be a wonderful companion. It was like having an extra set of hands to help him, not to mention the fact that Cosmo actually had a wand. That made things easier. He'd do a lot of cooking, and play all the music on his springcase that anyone could ever want. The loud and bouncy music was especially impressive.

Yes. Living with an adult drone was a great deal easier than raising one as a child would have been. Fergus was sure of that. Such a shame that nothing could last forever. Not ducks, and not even drones.

It was at a party one evening, after more millennia than Fergus could count on one hand. He'd had too much to drink and they got separated, and it was all the chance some other random gyne needed to sweep in and steal Cosmo away like a shiny pebble. The guy didn't even have the decency to ask about Cosmo's stuff. He didn't even take the springcase. The last time Fergus spotted Cosmo, he was nestled comfortably underneath the other gyne's arm, gazing up at his face with an expression usually reserved for adolescent lovers giggling together on a balcony overlooking the gardens. It was just a glimpse as he was walked away with a hand around his lower back. He didn't say good-bye after everything they'd had. Drones were so disloyal that way.

What a thing to wake up to, heaving out your guts out on the front path of some club someplace, not so much as a single friend to your name.

Spring of the Charged Waters

Sandy's birth began and ended with a question mark just outside a little dirt cave in a dark little hill. Inside again, out of the snowfall and away from the icy pond, Fergus rested on the end of his messy bed of cushions and held the tiny nymph in his cupped hands. The wind beat against the awkward wooden door. A single candle burned on the rickety structure that passed for a kitchen table in a cave meant for one. One gyne, no drones.

Sure, he'd had a few after Cosmo. Buck had perished in a blizzard like this one some centuries back, and the Hasten twins were clueless even if they were friendly. But when he'd gotten bored with them and their neediness, Fergus had cut them out of his life, and locked himself away. He didn't live in town anymore. Deliberately. He lived on his own in the hills, and he'd dug this cave out himself. For now he was, quite happily, alone. He didn't need drones after all. Take that, society.

So what just happened?

It seemed pretty likely that he and the fairy baby were related. Sandy had newborn-pink skin, lavender eyes, and a curl of black hair on his head, much like Fergus did. He was lumpy with an angular face. Fergus himself had also just given birth to the squirming thing, so there was that.

Who was the mother, though?

It wasn't that there were too many faces in his memories that they all blurred together. No. Fergus had the opposite problem. As near as he could remember, he'd never gone, mm, how do you say, all the way with a damsel before. Oh, there had been one he'd wanted to… he'd really, really wanted to, and almost had… Long ago at an Academy party more than half his lifetime in his past, when their conversation had begun with digging for rocks in the sandpit as children and quickly turned to Anti-Fairy politics and to how oh, wasn't it funny that here they were at a party, and did either know if as children they'd despised each other or been in love? They couldn't remember.

But do you remember when you were a TA? You're looking well, you too. Want to dance? Thought you'd never ask. Care if I kiss you? I'd be delighted. Which of these sodas was yours? Can't recall. Probably grape, then; you taste like grape. Then you must have had the orange. It's not as private as we hoped under the stairs, but we already walked all the way over here. I don't mind. Actually, I do. Hang on. I know. Rented a room here; wasn't expecting to use it. My roommate has the key; we split the bill. Her idea; I wouldn't do this for anyone but you. Perfect. You get that key and I'll get a refill on our drinks. You know what this means, don't you, Fergus? Of course. When's the wedding, then? The Tuesday after our Year of Promise ends. My father will be furious. I never liked your father and I'm glad to hear it. There's my roommate now. Back in a moment. And I'll get those drinks. Good-bye. Good-bye. And the rest was history left unfinished.

Raves were such pleasant sources of entertainment that way. Conversation was so easy to strike up in a rave, with so many games and activities available, and external justification abounded and left a fellow without regrets. Raves were absolutely wonderful.

Mary Black, his hungover self had finally remembered was the name she'd given. Not Marina. He'd hardly spoken to her since their soft kiss in the library, which Magalee had jumped out and interrupted, because she was rude and thought herself a comedian. Mary hadn't ever explained where her family came by the money for Academy expenses. So many secrets between them, too little time for questions when the soda was pumping through their veins and the atmosphere itself practically drooled at the thought of stealing smooches in the dark.

Mary Black. The name was so simple, so dull, and he adored the feel of it on his tongue more than he'd ever admit. He'd have to try to get in contact with her again one of these days so he could pick up with her where he'd left off. Someday. Eventually. Probably. It had been hundreds of thousands of years, but she'd want him, wouldn't she? She'd wanted him then. After all, if they'd planned to notch each other's wings a year after that half-drunk but unregrettable encounter, that meant she was the one he'd given his soul away to, right? If he married anyone else, he'd be guilty of serial monogamy.

But Sandy's mother wasn't Marina Black. It wasn't possible. No one was possible. Yes, okay, so he'd opened his door to travelers on occasion. It was the middle of the Great Ice Times; what else was he supposed to do? And yes, some of them had been damsels. But he'd never kissed a single one of them. Hadn't been interested.

Fairy pregnancy only lasted three months. Today was the last day of spring. He would have had to have gotten pregnant either during or just before the Naming of the Seasons. Yes, Nephel and Sasa had paid a visit that day, and they were all drunk on soda that night, but that didn't make sense. He didn't particularly like Sasa, and she barely tolerated him, the two of them acquaintances only through mutual respect they held for her husband. Nephel and Sasa had only come to celebrate the turn of the New Year with him for a few hours, and hadn't even stayed the night.

Wasn't that right? He didn't remember being that sugarloaded on Naming Day. Couldn't be Sasa. Couldn't be anyone. It didn't make sense. It wasn't plausible. No. It wasn't possible.

Here they were anyhow. Fergus, only half-recovered from the loss of magic required to give birth, leaned back into his cushions and closed his eyes. He held his pointer finger to Sandy's lips so the nymph at least had something solid to suck on. It wasn't a bottle. They didn't have milk. It was a blizzard out there by now. No milk in a snowstorm meant the baby was soon doomed to die. Oh blitz, his head… He shouldn't have named his son Sandy. Now it had a name and he risked getting attached.

"Look at us," Fergus muttered. "No mother. No wife. Not even a drone to offer us some company. I shouldn't have bid good-bye to all of mine. What are we doing?" Then, yanking back his finger, "Ow! Stop biting me, you little devil."

Sandy, startled, began to wail. He reached out with his tiny hands, grasping the air. Fergus pinched his nose and rubbed his fingers up and down. Then, rolling over decidedly, he wrapped both arms around the nymph's stomach and held him so tightly, Sandy stopped screaming. He squirmed and squealed, then gave up and patted the hairs on Fergus' arms. For a few blissful minutes, they were embraced in silence. Then Sandy began to whine.

"What are you going to be when you grow up?" Fergus muttered without opening his eyes.

He wasn't asking about potential career paths. Even by his standards (especially by his standards), it was much too early to think about anything like that. Gynes could only produce kabouter offspring when they had daughters, and Sandy had proven himself to be male. What was his destiny, then? Gyne, or drone? It wasn't as though Fergus could just shimmy outside where the light was better and check. Too soon. Gyne freckles, if there were to be any, didn't come in for at least the first seven months. Nine on average. Maybe thirteen.

Sandy had learned he could kick and scratch with his fingers. Fergus loosened his arms, allowing the baby to weasel his way out and start the long crawl over to the edge of the bed. To be fair, the only glowing candle in the dim cave was sitting in a dish on the table over there too. It was an enticing thing for a newborn to want to touch. When Sandy reached the drop and made as if to keep going, Fergus reached out, caught him by the little foot, and dragged him backwards. Sandy yipped in alarm, desperate hands outstretched.

"Oh. So you don't even like me? I see how it is. Come here, you." Fergus held him to his chest. Sandy promptly climbed around him onto his shoulder, poking his fingers at the back of his neck. He climbed higher, scratching his foot against Fergus' ear as he struggled for a boost. His tiny wings were still coated in their flight casings, and click clicked together whenever he moved.

"What are you doing up there?"

Sandy flopped over on the flattest part of Fergus' head, making bubbling noises with his cheeks puffed up and tongue sticking out. "Bleh."

"Stop it." Fergus reached up and pulled him off. When he looked at the nymph again, he realized he was holding him upside-down. Sandy's pudgy arms dangled towards the bed, while his legs were bent towards the ceiling. He turned Sandy over, placed him in his lap, and covered his eyes. He massaged his face for a long time.

"I don't know," Fergus forced himself to say at last, and that was hard - that was so hard - to look his child in the eyes and say that. "I don't fully know where I am. I don't know who your mother is. I don't know why you had to be born to a drake who can barely muster up the energy to take care of himself. I don't know how this happened at all. All I know is what I'm going to do about it."

Sandy squeaked twice in a row.

"That's right. I'm going to get you milk. Somehow. Even if I have to brave that terrible storm." Taking Sandy in his hands again, squeezing him very gently, Fergus lifted the nymph to his face and pressed their foreheads together as though they were touching cores and souls. "I'll find you a foster mother. I had a foster mother myself for twenty-nine years, so I know it will be okay. Scary, lonely, but you'll come out okay. I promise. A gyne's duty is to ensure the health of his drones before his own. It's snowing, and cold, and frankly I'm afraid. But I've had almost 500,000 years of living an okay life. I can spend a few days or even weeks doing this for you. I'll make sure you go to a good home, with people who actually know how to take care of you better than I can. That's the honor code we live by as a gyne and his drone."

Sandy grabbed two fistfuls of his hair and pulled it into two tufts at the front. Fergus sighed. It was kind of adorable. Absently, he brought his tongue to Sandy's forehead and gave him the tiniest lick ever. It wasn't a kiss. Just a preening lick, just because whatever. Nobody saw that, right?

He got up and put Sandy down on the floor. Sandy didn't want to stand up, so Fergus let him sit in the dirt for a moment. Sandy pulled on the leg of his pants, already complaining that he wanted to be picked up again. Wow. It's been one second. Calm down.

"In a minute, speck. We're going out. I need to make myself a coffee first, and get my coat." Shaking his head, Fergus walked towards the back of his cave, with Sandy chasing after his heels. He wasn't exactly a little duckling, but you almost couldn't tell the difference.