Origin of the Pixies

by FountainPenguin

"I wasn't finished." Setting my glasses down on Cupid's stack of translations, I leaned back on my rusty stool. "The Wolbachia pipientis bacteria changes the entire reproductive system of the host insect. Those who've caught it don't just lose the ability to reproduce with other species. They gain the ability to reproduce parthenogenetically." (Written March 2016 - Ongoing)

41. King Unconventional

A/N - This chapter shows preening! Obligatory reminder that the insect people do insect things and H.P. is the "queen bee" of his hive

(Posted June 9th, 2023)

King Unconventional

It's Sanderson

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Yo, it's your Sand Man. H.P. asked me to write a chapter for his book today. I'm not 100 up on what was drafted so far, but I get that the gist of it has been Pixie history up until my first break-up with Idona. H.P. said he'll pick up the story with stuff that came after I got my adult wings. That leaves this mega gap of 130k years for me to cover in brief. I've been asked to describe what growing up in Pixie Village was like during this period, sort of glance at the nests and the honeycombs, and give my perspective on the experience of developing into an adult pixie body (since I took more specific notes on that than H.P. did when he was my age). So, strap down and let's work with this, boys.

Back in my early 30,000s, Pixie World was not what it is today. We called it Pixie Village (Sprigganhame on paper) and it was a full-on hive estate. H.P.'s caisleán stood in the center almost exactly where Inkblot City's square and Pixies Incorporated stand today. His office had a glass door to the outside so we could go and look at him if we wanted, and sometimes Rice (who usually lay on the cushion by his desk) would come out to romp around. He spent a lot of time watching Keefe. Emery had her own room too in the early years, until her courtship with Ranen turned serious and she took a new place in Faeheim not far from ASPRA headquarters. If I remember right, she ran the Boudacian godparenting branch until after the war, when Needlebark stepped down from supervising the angels.

Being the young pixies we were, the caisleán was the sun of our solar system. It was there we could visit H.P. and show him our accomplishments of the day, or sometimes wiggle a story out of Emery. We could feed and pet Rice, who was always very patient and let us dress him up in suits if we wanted to. He had nice things to say about all of us, even though looking back on it I'm not sure why he bothered. I guess he said them because they were true. In the caisleán we could take baths instead of showers in our tháir, and we could all gather on the couch for presents and fat meals every Season Turn. Everything was bigger in the caisleán, and it smelled more strongly of H.P. than it did anywhere else. That's where we felt at home.

Circling the caisleán were the tháircha, or drone cabins. In a traditional hive estate design, there only would've been one such cabin and three or four drones would have resided there, each with a bedroom and personal office space to call his own. However, it became necessary for Pixies to organize differently. During the early years we had eight tháircha in the village, each with a single kitchen, living area, and washing room on the lower floor that housemates shared. Up the stairs was the loft where we kept our beds. There were twelve of us to a tháir because H.P. said a dozen was a perfect number, and we didn't question it because our social instincts agreed.

My bed was in the best corner, next to Hawkins who had the window spot. I liked my place because it was near the grayfish tank and bookshelf, and I was closer to Wilcox than to Caudwell who always stayed up late and Bayard who used his wand as a nightlight. As we grew and there started to be more of us, we drones made it tradition to wrestle every Naming Day. The winner got to pick the bed they wanted that year. Hawkins and I always won, but I always beat Hawkins. I was the biggest and the strongest back then. Pixie drones still wrestle at the start of every new year to this day, though we don't trade bedspaces anymore. Switching delivery addresses would be additional paperwork we wouldn't get paid for. Instead, we use it to decide who has to be designated pinger at parties, or at least pay for the cost of going out. If you rank high enough and stay consistent, you'll never have to be the sober loser at all.

We do a lot of wrestling. We're a lekking species, so when we hit the sugar bars in groups, we play for damsels' entertainment. Now that we're adults and my position as chéad grá - alpha drone - is undeniable, the others mostly let me win. I don't see the appeal of flirting, but I like that I always get first dibs. There's something powerful about crouching over one of your co-workers at a party, all the while checking over your shoulder at the damsel who's had our mutual attention all night, straining to see if she was watching our match. They usually watch. I've never actually kissed anyone except Idona, but I like the conversations. I try not to talk too much when I'm out on the job with H.P., so times he isn't around work best for meeting my social needs.

Though, H.P. at a party is unique, to say the least. It doesn't impress anyone if he beats one of us in a fight, and most Fairies back away from his pheromones, so he heads out in disguise when he's in a particularly itchy mood. With sticky-lenses instead of glasses and a scarf around his neck, he's not so easily recognizable. Some of my coworkers don't even know he's circling a party unless they happen to recognize the limp in my leg as I follow incognito from a respectful distance. H.P. firmly believes mates are unnecessary and swore off physical pairing after Iris, but every few Fairy Reunions when he finds someone his age he recognizes, sometimes he wants to steal a kiss. It used to embarrass him to have me around those nights, but I think he's realized now he's too advanced in age to flip his brain in the sharing magic mood without someone to compete against. It gets you on, you know? Makes you put in the blood and sweat. He challenges me to drinking contests most nights like that, swearing he'll up my next bonus with every glass I down after six. And he buys the drinks, so it's always a win-win for me. Like I said, entertaining.

Longwood didn't have a bed out in the open loft with us. He had a private nook with a little square door and a curtain, and his own shelf with books. He even had his own lantern. Sometimes we'd sneak inside to look while he wasn't around, but only Longwood ever slept in that bed. We didn't fight for that one. It was special. Wilcox, Hawkins, and I sort of knew why, though some of the others never understood and simply accepted it because that's the way it was. A few of the younger pixies actually thought Longwood was H.P.'s firstborn and that's why he had the curtain room. Ha ha. I always set the record straight when those rumors went around.

The village also had a tekti: a guest house. It sat a nice ways off from the caisleán, and the Onyx Hotel we offer visitors of Pixie World today stands in its place. Because our sleep cabins lacked elbow room, we had a hobby center where we often spent our free time instead. We ate our meals at the pavilion and took turns helping Emery and H.P. cook (if they helped us at all). They never cooked together because they didn't get along, so they took turns supervising and always made sure the other never slacked in their duties. If one of them wasn't in the kitchen to start on time their day, the other would jump on the chance. They'd cite their sibling with a "cooking ticket" to be redeemed at a later date. I'm not kidding when I said they'd jump at the opportunity. They despised making food when it was their actual day to do so, but the chance to cite the other drove them wild with delight. To be real, I think forcing the other to wash dishes while they hovered nearby to gloat was the most enjoyable time they ever spent together.

H.P. visited with us in the evenings, but often kept busy in his office or left the village to talk to some Fairy about some business deal, or organize some project with Anti-Bryndin. Some days I only saw him when I got my licks. Feeding all of us cost a pretty lyn, but he eventually saved up the money to buy two cloudships. He hired young Fairies to work on one and would send them out to deliver papers, gather the mail, and bring in groceries. Since Ambrosine and Emery spent most of their day at work, the tram was slow, shopping took hours he couldn't afford, and he was on magic ration, that's how we survived. It was an intriguing existence- pixies are not true fliers the way some races are, and we can only hover over clouds. Floating high in empty air is possible, but not for long because it requires intense levels of magic and physical strain. We are not as flitty and airheaded as the Fairies are.

Every morning without fail, H.P. would circle the village half a dozen times to mark the property line along the lip of the clouds. We knew the rule: No one goes near the edge. He actually commissioned a real pheromone fence before he got the cloudships, that's how serious the rule was. Only Keefe, who couldn't smell it because of his dysolfactya, ever dared to cross the marking line, and Longwood once when one of the nymphs (I forget which; Abernathy, I think) chased a leaf too close to the drop and didn't stumble to a stop fast enough. We didn't tell H.P. about that close call for centuries. We kept our distance from the moment the fence trail was laid. No one went near the edge.

We attended school in our younger years because H.P. was always busy doing things and didn't have extra time for us. Our Fairy peers lived in the dorms, but we pixies became known for commuting there and back every day. Despite his assurance when I was younger that I could travel alongside him anywhere as alpha retinue, there were plenty of situations where H.P. left the village without me when I was young. Especially once he started falling into vices with damsels. He wouldn't even make excuses for them all.

There was a time he always smelled of strange dames, and suddenly we weren't allowed in the caisleán anymore. We used the cooking door to enter the kitchen on days it was our turn to help and waited outside the exterior glass door of his office if we needed anything, but we weren't to go inside, and never, never up the stairs. The caisleán was his, and like the sun, we didn't touch it after that. Longwood did once, and H.P. snapped at him like I'd never seen him snap before. So we backed away.

He visited High Count Anti-Bryndin a lot at first, taking us with him every once in awhile when he felt like it. I didn't understand H.P.'s relationship with the High Count in those days (I'm still not sure I do) and I simply looked forward to our visits because we left Pixie World for different air. I'm probably the only pixie alive who actually enjoys Anti-Fairy World, even if electricity isn't much of a thing over there. I think there's a certain beauty in their landscape and culture. Yes, even if the media tries to smash it out. Anti-Bryndin always went out of his way to find Anti-Cosmo and make him watch us, even if he was doing something else in a back room of the Blue Castle and there were other Anti-Fairies just wandering around. So until he ran away from home, we early pixies came to know Anti-Cosmo as the moody teenager he was. He had his brains, but I wouldn't describe him as polite. He threw a nasty quip at every occasion, and softened only if you pretended to listen to his Zodii stories or his bragging with genuine interest. Longwood genuinely liked him, though I didn't care for him much myself.

Let's not be mistaken: I consider Anti-Cosmo today to be a very effective leader for his people, even if I wouldn't want him to be mine. They're Anti-Fairies; that extra flair of chaos works for them. Admittedly my relationship with the modern-day High Count is complicated. He's exceptionally good at standing right behind me in a way that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. No one else seems to swing H.P. in a good mood like Anti-Cosmo can. I'm not jealous- merely underlining this.

Those days are the best for an alpha retinue like me; a pleased H.P. is an agreeable one who'll answer questions and explain his thoughts in detail, and I won't deny there are certain benefits to preening with him those happy evenings. I actually pity all of you who don't get to be alpha retinue those nights, because you're freakin' missing out. H.P. isn't normally one for using his hands, even with me, but on his good evenings he really rubs the pheromones into my cheeks with his thumbs, plays with my hair like string, his influence crashing and ebbing and flowing through my veins in pulsing waves so it's this physical minty cool sensation with his licks so buttery warm against my face, smoofing dust…

I had a point to this.

There's weird history between me and Anti-Cosmo, especially with our past preening. I blame Sunnie for a lot of it, because Anti-Cosmo channels his influence in the mortal world in some way. I think he can basically pray and Sunnie can turn him into this super powerful dominant force for twenty minutes every once in awhile. I don't totally know how it works, but that sounds right. I was born in a Water year, so Sunnie's aura permeates my brain more than any other nature spirit's would.

When Anti-Cosmo became High Count, it got a lot harder to concentrate on work if he was around. H.P. probably doesn't like me saying that, but it's true and I thought it should be noted. Talon, who'll grow up to be Anti-Westley, is Anti-Cosmo's heir. He was born in the Breath year, so I think it's important to warn future Breath and Water pixies about the dominant signals even Anti-Fairies give off if they're strong enough. Sky years be wary too- let's not forget the steady force that Anti-Wanda is. No matter how chaotic Anti-Cosmo gets, at least she's always there to keep Anti-Fairy World from crashing down. Plus she likes parties and she always says hi when she sees us at one. I think a lot of us get a little moony over Anti-Wanda. I have her autograph.

Anti-Cosmo was courting a damsel back then: Anti-Saffron. He went on to marry her and even made her his first High Countess, but something changed between them after that. The birth of young Talon I think is what drove them apart. Anti-Cosmo was a whimpering disaster after she abandoned him with a violent pup to raise, but I'll leave that story for H.P. to tell. I'm curious to know what he's like by the time future pixies are holding this book in their hands, Talon. These days he's passing time in temporary service as a Zodii acolyte for the Water Temple here in Pixie World, having been raised by both Anti-Cosmo and the boss. I'd be interested to learn if anyone ever succeeded in giving him a hug without him freaking out. Well, anyone besides Anti-Wanda. She doesn't count because I don't think she can feel pain. I should do an interview.

Let me think. In the early days of village life, H.P. and Iris Needlebark grew pretty close while they worked on the angel godkid thing. Sometimes she came over for breakfast, and Emery stayed home to watch us more and more. Especially when it was evening in Faeheim and H.P. dressed particularly nicely. He'd go out for dinner instead of eating with us. Emery wouldn't cite him with a cooking ticket those days, but would totally hum and dance around the kitchen while she watched us make our food. Iris didn't talk to us much, but that was because she was shy, not rude. Longwood and Hawkins knew her better than anyone did, and I knew her almost as well. We played a few card games and she helped us with our homework here and there. She treated us like adults instead of babies, and when she turned and looked at you, something fluttered inside your head because she smiled like you were an equal, not a side burden that came along with befriending the Head Pixie. A fine dame. Everything that happened to her in the end was terrible and she didn't deserve any of it.

I know H.P. and Iris didn't start a Year of Promise then, but I know he asked. In the later years, he even asked me, Hawkins, Wilcox, and Longwood for permission to court her, all before he even asked her about it, and we all encouraged it because we knew just being around her made his world brighter. I knew he liked hanging out with her. It's a shame she said no. If she'd said yes back then and they'd had their Year in those early days… Well, everything would be different. And nothing would be the same.

I still passed Idona in the halls at school. She was training to take over from Magalee Dustfinger as will o' the wisp ambassador, so she and one of her future harem drakes - Dip, who did not like being addressed as Diphthong - were allowed to attend public Fairy school during an age when other wisps weren't. It's still illegal for other wisps today and I don't know if it will change any time soon. I used to call her Donnie, she called me Sandy. Things got way awkward after I broke up with her. We still had most of our classes together and she still liked me. We ate lunch together and shared our books when we studied because both of us came from frugal parents who sent us to school under orders to share with other kids. Donnie and I pooled our money and bought our books together because that's what we thought we'd been told to do. After the break-up, we argued almost every day. We don't call each other nicknames anymore. Mostly.

As we grew older, we pixies each took on more duties around the village. There was always a garden to be tended or a shrub to be pruned or a window to scrub or paperwork to copy. We did a lot of paperwork even then. When Longwood had his 50,000th birthday, H.P. dared to let him forage for groceries by himself. He'd been going with the Fairies on our cloudship for decades before that, but never alone. I remember the grin on his face when he came back with his hands full of bags. He couldn't have been prouder, and H.P. relaxed that evening for the first time in almost forever. Maybe that's when things went downhill for me: when he started trusting Longwood to go out alone. Juandissimo knew my silent struggle, I think, because I saw him glance at me sideways for a long time while H.P. showered Longwood with praise. To his credit, the fairy didn't say a word.

Our village grew steadily. We added more buildings and developed our own architectural signature around the edges. I wouldn't describe us as an artistic species, but we were learning about ourselves back then and held performances of all kinds almost every night. We held contests and seasonal celebrations. We experimented with magic. We started a newspaper. We sold soap pretty enough to compete with the stuff the Anti-Fairies pack in their care packages. And always, of course, there was baking to do. After all, we had a brand to maintain. Everyone loved our pixie cakes. Even the von Strangle family knew all about them.

Some years were easier than others. Dewdrop suffered a snakebite once and spent six months recovering from it, leaving Luis and Juandissimo to look after us when H.P. wasn't around. I got to meet Juandissimo's girlfriend: a fairy named Wanda Fairywinkle, who dyed her hair fuchsia pink. H.P. admired her in his cool and calculating way, though when I drew his bath at night or prepared his morning coffee, he'd sometimes grumble about her father. The Fairywinkles still had the village's trash collection contracts and we didn't dare pull out of that, but if I had to pick just one fairy that H.P. was scared of, it would be Boss Fairywinkle. I think Wanda knew it, because although she stayed polite and kept her visits confined to her boyfriend's apartment, she seemed well aware of the power that she held. We always stared at her when she walked by, and she'd flush and drop her head before hurrying on.

As the years went by, she started spending longer stretches of time on our turf, and some of the drakes started to notice her. Not the pixies. I mean the students. To stockpile cash, H.P. had lined the river with nice apartments and rented them out to any high school, university, or Academy kid who asked (gynes approved only on a case by case basis). Who can resist a modern, spacious place just a moment's float from a waterfall? We were booked all the time, though there were days when the younger pixies lugged armloads of sheets down the road to the laundromat that I was grateful for my desk job. The laundromat stood at the edge of Pixie Woods and a lot of Fairy students - even the ones who didn't technically live in our area - would sometimes catch a tram and fly over to use our machines. I get that. Magic prices were prickling higher and higher around that time and some people need to save a few coins. I grew to recognize this one green-haired drake named Cosmo Cosma because of that. He didn't visit every Thursday, but when he managed to slip away from home, I often saw him flipping through textbooks or struggling through his essays while waiting for his clothes to wash. I said as much to H.P. one time and we made some arrangements for another pavilion nearby so he'd have a place to sit.

The reason I point this out is because several times, Cosmo begged me to cover for him if he spotted the Anti-Cosmo on the horizon. Anti-Cosmo paid his dues to Pixie Village from time to time, always snooping about with feigned innocence. He coaxed a letter of recommendation off H.P. for the godparenting program while I was in my early 30,000s, though I still don't understand how he managed that. I swear, he sticks out a pouting lip and the boss will hand him anything short of a rabid dingo. Anti-Cosmo only rarely asked me if I'd seen his counterpart around, but I'll tell you this for free: he didn't get any details out of me. Not even when I dropped hints. I like the guy, but he really doesn't know how to bribe.

Then the years dragged on, and things got harder. The triplets left a gouge none of us anticipated. They sucked up too much magic, landed H.P. in the hospital for weeks, and we had one or sometimes two of the Eros Triplets popping in and out of the village for days. No one would tell me where they went, though Juandissimo tried to be sympathetic when I blustered about my insecurities. Then H.P. came home, tired and emptyhanded, and Venus told me the triplets hadn't made it.

"How long has his magic been unstable?" she wanted to know, cornering me near Juandissimo's apartment. I stared up at her, not sure what to say.

"I don't know."

"Aren't you the alpha drone?"

"That's Luis, actually."

Venus shook her head, her pink pegasustail bouncing, and irritably poofed away. I floated above the road, wondering what she meant by that. How long has his magic been unstable?

Was it? I hadn't even noticed. Not like I had back before Newman, Hamilton, and Faust were born. That had been a blatant shift. Not like this.

H.P. needed a lot of time alone after that. He barely let me see him for a year, and I had to be okay with that.

But the following cycle brought with it a beautiful and healthy baby, who turned out to be another pixie gyne. That was quite a moment. We hadn't had one of those since Smith, who was now 50,000. Longwood was just over 60k. I don't think either of them knew much about their inborn status, but when they heard the baby had freckles, they came together to see him. Yeah- Luis, Dewdrop, and I hovered like the most irritating nannies in existence around H.P., who held the baby to his chest and stared up at them in silence when they paid a visit to his office. Neither said a word, though Longwood stared for a very long time and Smith adjusted his shades in a way that I didn't particularly like.

We did not let them anywhere near baby Cresswell after that. Smith had started hanging around the village more often now that he was older, though he still spent his summers with Emery and Logan pretty often. Dewdrop saw to Cresswell's care while I made it my personal mission to tail Smith whenever he came around. He hadn't done anything to cause alarm, but I felt a lot better when I kept an eye on him. 15,000 years later, we saw another gyne baby - Chidlow - and I thought Smith would hit the roof. Longwood never seemed bothered by the anxious kid as he grew, only wrinkling his nose, but Smith seemed to take Chidlow's existence as a personal affront. He'd stand there like a cat sith watching a rat whenever one of us tried to lead Chiddy around by the hand. No wonder he turned out to be so paranoid.

It wasn't practical to leave Pixie World in large numbers very often, so we spent most of our lives around the village. We fell into our routines of school and cooking and childcare, and H.P. bore a single nymph every five hundred years on a consistent schedule, more or less. His hair grew a new stripe of white every couple of decades. I thought about him a lot, and about the Eros powers keeping him alive. Somehow, I got it in my head that I wanted to get my alteration magic license. I announced this over dinner in the pavilion one night just before I turned 100,000. Wilcox laughed.

"What?" I asked.

"It's a lot of schooling," Wilcox said. "And after you get your alt license, you have to take more classes every five hundred years just to keep it."

"I enjoy it," I said. "It's not a common field."

"I just think it's a weird choice."

"You were a weird choice."

"You weren't a choice."

"You weren't a choice!"

"You can study whatever you want, Sanderson," H.P. said without looking up from his soup. He patted his roll in it and didn't sound like he was paying us much attention at all. "Just work hard in whatever it is you pick, keep up with news in the business world, and be good."

"Bite my buns, Wilcox," I muttered into my plate.

Hawkins lifted his hand. "I'm okay being done with school, sir. I think I can be more help around the village."

"Mmhm." H.P. kept swirling his bread around the soup, petting baby Woolley on the head. "If any of you want to pull out, just tell me before the start of the zodiac cycle. You don't have to go if you don't want to. I have plenty of work that needs doing around here. We've expanded rapidly and I'd rather have you all working for me than those Fairies I've had to hire… It's about time I truly brought you into the business world."

Longwood raised his hand. "I'm interested in keyfinding magic, sir. I was in the library yesterday and I found a book on the floor about it. I read it all night and I think it's really interesting."

H.P. looked up for the first time. "Sanderson, wasn't it your turn to clean the library after lunch?"

"I did, sir. I spent three hours doing it."

"If Longwood found a book on the floor, you didn't clean. I'm docking next month's paycheck."

"That's not fair, sir. It was clean when I left. Longwood's making it up."

"Clean better next time." H.P. pushed his bowl away and stood, still chewing on his roll. He put his fingers around Woolley's head and moved him to the bench. "Finish eating, then see me upstairs."

It went cold and quiet around the table. I stared at him, clenching my spoon. "Upstairs of what?"

"The manor," he said. "Take your time with dinner, but come soon. It's important. Hawkins, you're in charge of dishes. No one else is allowed to need me tonight. I'm with Sanderson."

We all exchanged mental glances with one another. My gaze dropped to my bowl. I fidgeted my wings.

"I'm sorry," Longwood whispered when H.P. had gone. "I didn't mean to get you in trouble. I just thought it was a good book."

"Whatever," I muttered. He didn't care. I left him to his thoughts and joined H.P. on the other side of the village. He took me into the caisleán, up the stairs. I floated after him, silent as a wraith. Very puzzled, very wary. Was he really that mad about the book? What else could he want to see me about? He couldn't be giving me licks, because he always gave the other pixies licks in the appropriate tháir, and he'd grant my special evening licks in his office. I ran every cruel and clumsy thing I'd done over the last century through my head, but nothing seemed it should warrant extreme punishment. Even so, I figured the boss was going to twist my wings. Normally he made me a public example, but maybe this time he wanted to finish a scolding by shutting me in the closet.

Then I remembered the washroom. It had a tub. I mused over the possibility of H.P. slicing me to bits and tossing my parts in there to drown one by one. Messy, but effective.

At the top of the stairs, H.P. veered right, towards Emery's former bedroom. She'd moved to Faeheim by this point, but I still lingered outside the door, just studying the wood. I wasn't really allowed in there. After a minute of this, H.P. poked his head through the doorway again.

"Are you coming in or staying out?"

I joined him inside, still quiet. Although the caisleán, like all our buildings of the time, was constructed primarily of cloudstone and wood, the wall of what had formerly been Emery's bedroom was now aligned in a perfect repeating pattern of irregularly shaped rocks, as though someone had peeled a walking path from outdoors and glued it carefully around the sharp bends in the walls. Blue-tinted curtains flanked the single window, which overlooked the stable and the saucerbee field. It was a brightly lit room, awash in a white glow rather than yellow.

H.P. stood by the washroom door, just staring at me. He said, "I've put together a mhaisci room. What do you think?"

I glanced around again. A fireplace snapped and growled a mere wingspan from the end of the white… I didn't know the name for it at the time; neither "bed" nor "couch" quite articulated what a preening pallet was. A wide, padded bench with no headboards, no back support, intended simply for lying across and rolling another gyne over on in a show of dominance is what it was. It looked like tough fabric. Something that wouldn't tear between teeth nor allow feet to slip too easily. I did not touch it.

"It's nice, sir."

"Too much? Too little? I want you to like it."

I eyeballed four colorful bottles set on a small table, lying there beside a pile of clean gray rags. "It's fancy."

"You hate it," he said, eyes wide. He looked away, gripping his cheek. He was very twitchy that day, our boss, as smooth as he normally is. I don't even blame him. He's a wonderfully calm man in conversation because of all the practice he's had, but today was a new situation he'd never experienced before. Something would change today and last for the rest of his life. It had to be perfect. Anything less is unbecoming of us as Pixies. That's what I think.

"I like the room, H.P."

"Of course you like the room," he muttered, rubbing his knuckles. "You know you'll be getting slathered in here."

"I don't understand, sir."

"I'm aldra mór and you're chéad grá," he said bluntly. "You basically know what that means, right? You seem to have figured out this whole gyne and drone thing without more than the basics of the nests and the honeycomb."

"H.P." I had to roll my eyes, floating closer. "I've known that stuff since I was a kid. Wilcox and I used to stay up all night whispering about it while Hawkins stood by the door to sense if you or China were coming."

He almost blinked. "Oh. Wow. Uh… That's not really age-appropriate behavior for youth, but good job taking initiative."

"Thank you, sir."

There were several beats of silence.

"I don't know what to say," H.P. admitted. "But you're older now, so it's time we step up your retinue duties to deep preening."

"Is that why I've been summoned, sir?"

"After we finish retinue duties, yes. I'd like us to have a session. It'll be slow while I talk you through things, but don't get frustrated. You'll get your dominant licks at the end."

"A session?" I asked. I tried to keep the curiosity from my voice, but it twanged nonetheless. "How do you mean?"

H.P. closed his eyes. Fingers twitched slightly towards fists. "You're far too young to have an urge for preening. You won't get it until a century or two before you moult into your adult wings. Until then, it's going to be incredibly, completely uncomfortable. I trust you can maintain a professional air anyway."

"Sir?"

His eyes flew open and he was pink in the face, jagged nails digging in the soft flesh of his cheeks. He always chewed his nails. He stared at me for twelve seconds, his brain in full shutdown, then shook his head. "I changed my mind. I can't do this. Go away. I need to rehearse my speech."

"Yes, sir."

The following week, I met H.P. in the mhaisci room again. He gripped me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye.

"There's no easy way to lead into this, Sanderson. I need you to know that this is just practice. Your body isn't fully developed for this yet. You don't have the instinct. Right now it's weird, but one day it won't be. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." The ever-present response. H.P.'s eyes flickered shut again. His hands slid down my arms to my elbows.

"It's important to me that you're able to conceptualize what deep preening looks like so you can understand the changes in your body as you grow. I'm going to lie down on the preening pallet here and I want you to sit on the chair next to me."

"Okay."

"You remember shallow preening?"

"Yes, sir. You open the pores on my cheeks by licking them with your warm tongue. This allows my skin to absorb the calming pheromones you naturally release from the patch behind your neck. I understand the concept and have heard it should be very soothing."

H.P. hesitated. "Well, it's like that. But deeper."

"I imagine so, sir."

He released my elbows, floating half a pace back and either not noticing my sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. Likely the latter. H.P. always notices; it's why he's the boss. "In this post-war era, deep preening is not something one casually engages in with most individuals. It requires a purposeful level of acknowledgement, trust, and respect than shallow preening does. To shallow preen is to welcome a guest into your home for an evening meal. To deep preen is to welcome them into your life… Into your soul, you might say. To deep preen is to leave an impression. Anti-Bryndin referred to this as 'a blending of karmic weaves.'" He tipped his head then, trying to find another way to phrase himself. "Fairies like us can always smell another's past. We detect dominance by reading signals in one's imprint, which inform us of the fights that fairy has won or lost before. Once you come into your mature body, you'll be able to do that too. Anti-Fairies are like that, in the opposite way. They can listen to echoes and rings in the energy field to determine nothing about the fights you've won or lost, but everything about the identities of those you've deep preened before."

"I'm not following, sir."

"I'm saying that choosing who you deep preen with is just as important as choosing who you fight." He locked his steely gaze with mine. I did not flinch, didn't even raise an eyebrow. "Once you come fully into your unique magical signature, you will develop an identity. Who you've lost a fight against, who you submit to in preening, will be tracked and held against your status for the remainder of your life. Everyone will know. So be deliberate with your choices. You cannot let your reputation fail you. You're the pixie chéad grá. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. I'm your alpha retinue drone and as per your request, I will not preen below my station."

"Maintain your dominance, Sanderson. Your rank in society is your identity. If you lose your dominance, you lose what makes you chéad grá. And if another drone usurps you in the dominance hierarchy, you will have to be replaced. Chéad grá means Leader of the circle. That's the way it works."

We slipped into another silence. Then H.P. gestured to the preening pallet with his hand. "Sit there."

I did, folding my wings carefully down my back. H.P. pressed his palms in my cheeks and brought my eyes level with his.

"You're 100,000 years old now. That's very much on the younger end of learning to preen. If I were a stranger, it would not be okay for me to do this with you. It's only okay because I'm your sire. I'm trying to show you how to preen in a safe environment before your peers at school expose you in a weird way. Because it's me, it's okay."

"I understand, sir. I'm ready to learn."

He stared at me, unblinking. I waited. Then he pushed me back and covered his face. "Nope. No. No. No. I can't do this; you're a kid. Come back tomorrow. I'll have Luis here and we'll show you what deep preening looks like."

"… Yes, sir."

Luis.

I had nothing against Luis as a person. He worked diligently and silently in all duties, maintaining order with never a protest. He'd lived in this village for about as long as I had, and he had every right to be here. His son Juandissimo had always been nice to us. But Luis was H.P.'s alpha drone, and in my way.

After H.P. sent me out, I tracked down Juandissimo's studio apartment by the laundromat. Small place. H.P. had ordered construction of many apartments for future pixie use, but since we didn't need them all yet, we rented the rooms out to hungry university students who otherwise would have struggled with finding cheap room and board. Or food, or laundry, or entertainment, or whatever it was they needed. Some of them received free housing and laundry services in exchange for unpaid internships or construction assistance. Juandissimo was a special case, grandfathered in. Since he kept his head down, did what he was asked to, and his father was the boss's current chéad grá, H.P. had never kicked him out.

An entire neighborhood of studio apartments had spread like moss across the southeastern side of the village, near the canyon and the waterfall. I'd always envied the older fairies who lived there, but H.P. would never let me pick my own spot out. He wanted me to keep near the village center. One day, maybe.

Still, the point I'm making is that Juandissimo had his own place and a fantastic view no matter which window you peered through. His girlfriend, Wanda Fairywinkle, had moved in with him about two years before this encounter. Wanda was heir to the Fairywinkle estate. Still kept in contact with her daddy with monthly letters, which Smith picked up at her doorstep when he came to collect the rent. Her father loathed the fact that she'd taken up residence on another gyne's territory, but unless he wanted to pick a fight with H.P. over it, there wasn't much he could do. And he wouldn't fight. The boss had diplomatic immunity.

Juandissimo lived on Pixie property. It never bothered me if I bothered him. Juvenile pixies lived here; that was part of our arrangement. After H.P. sent me away from preening that day, I knocked hard on the fairy's door. After a minute, Juandissimo pulled it open. Juandissimo liked knickknacks and clutter. That's one of the first things you find out about him. He loves beaded animals… especially turtles, pigs, and lizards. I swear he added shelves to his walls just to store them all. And he hangs his cooking pans on wall hooks too, which is just really weird. Past his arm, I could see clean dishes on the table. A pot of water balanced on the nearby stove, slowly boiling. And beyond the kitchen, I saw Wanda sitting on the pristine couch with her guitar balanced on her knees. I'd always liked Wanda because she wrote songs in her free time, though she never shared her originals with me. She sings well, at least. I grew up playing the springcase, but Wanda helped me a lot with the guitar over the years.

"¿qué pasó, Sanderson? Mi amigo, you look like a beetle kicked and trodden while marching along a busy walking path."

"I want to learn massage therapy. For gynes."

Juandissimo blinked, still gripping the edge of his front door. "You are a little young for that, wouldn't you say?"

"When can I learn?" Glancing over my shades at Wanda, I added, "Sometime before you and your dame get hitched and move out of Pixie World would be ideal."

Wanda fell over laughing on the sofa while Juandissimo slightly flushed. "Ah, Sanderson, can we discuss this another time? I am cooking tonight."

Fine. I pinged up a copy of my availability for the next month and handed it to him. I'd get my training one of these days. And I'd be the best drone H.P. could ever ask for, too. The only one he should ever want.

When H.P. summoned me again, I reported respectfully to the mhaisci room. Luis was waiting for me. H.P. lay on the soft white preening pallet, shirtless, not looking at me. He kept his face down and his fingers wrapped around the pallet's upper edge. His bare wings twitched. I tilted my head. I'd been preparing H.P.'s baths for most of my life, but he never removed his shirt until I left the room. I could sense the meandering patter of his breathing lines as they flickered in and out of contact with the energy field. That too wasn't usual for him. Did I make him nervous?

Luis motioned for me to stand beside him, explaining his plan to show me "a few techniques to soothe the skin." I watched him run through the different motions. He used every part of his hand like an expert: the heel, the fingers, the palm. He knew where to rub them, how to roll them, and even though H.P. tried his best to remain unmoving in my presence, I could tell it had an effect on his nerves. As the massage went on, his restless lines steadied out. His breathing steadied. At peace.

After about thirty minutes, Luis turned to me, keeping his fingertips pressed to H.P.'s bare back. "Would you like to try?"

I moved forward, slowly, and lay my fingers against H.P.'s freckled shoulder. He kept his eyes closed, but I knew he was still looking at me. He wouldn't relax his wings. They trembled lightly at his back.

"Tell me what you feel," Luis urged. "Center your thoughts on the magic flowing through your system. Tug it gently from its pool, then push it away again. Ebb and flow, as the crisp wave breaking against the shore."

I inhaled and exhaled as instructed, tasting the ripples of magic flickering over me as I toyed with them and pushed them off again. Magic is a lively, snappy thing. I leaned my mind against the energy field. While managing my own sparks, I tried to listen to the way magic flowed over H.P.'s still body. I tried to taste its reaction in the air. "I can detect… senses. Like skin texture, even with my hand up here on the shoulder and nowhere else. I can feel the tight tension in H.P.'s muscles. I can feel the magic flowing through his internal lines."

"And how does this feel to you?"

That question took some consideration. I knew where the magic in him clustered. I knew where it flowed unobstructed. Luis had me watch the way he ran his fingers over H.P.'s skin. He traced swirling patterns along his neck with one hand. I could sense the magic in the air flickering around him as though disrupted, which wasn't like magic at all. I'd never seen magic bend like that. Luis wove it somehow around his hands, untangling knots and bumps in H.P.'s energy. "I like it," I finally said. "It's… a piece of H.P. It's like I'm sharing in a part of his soul, like I'm tasting his breath."

"Yes… You are feeling this part of him that is stressed. We ease him towards relaxation. The release of anxiety. The polite organization at the end of a long day."

I wound my finger around one of the cords of magic in the air. Not literally, of course… but I could feel it. I sensed its presence without using field-sight. It was like placing my palm against the leg of someone who slept beneath a blanket: I knew the shape of them in daily life, so I knew the shape of their body covered up. I knew the leg, and I knew this magic. "I understand."

Abruptly, H.P. pushed me off. "That's enough teaching. Luis can finish this."

I withdrew with a flutter of my wings, taken somewhat aback. "Did I overstep, sir?"

Even Luis frowned. "Señor, he will learn very little if we cut this session short. He does need to return to school tomorrow. Forgive my forward question, but… should we not complete this in his presence while we can?"

"He doesn't need to touch my magic."

"Sir," I said, "are you embarrassed?"

H.P. stared at me, coldly, from his place on the preening pallet. His fingers curled around the edges. "You are a pixie. You aren't meant to 'feel.' Analyze this logically, or I will restrict your ability to preen at all."

"I wasn't relying on emotion to communicate my thoughts, sir. From an objective perspective, the physical sensation of my magical signature overlapping with yours is enjoyable. It's like clinking sodaglasses at a party. Taking steps to prolong this seems like the natural response. As someone experienced in the ways of preening, I'm confident you recognize this."

He didn't seem satisfied by my answer. Nonetheless, he lay his head back again. "Continue the session."

Luis looked at me for confirmation. I stayed where I was, arms straight. "Sir, if I will be made to feel guilty for the natural responses I experience as a drone, I would prefer not to be chéad grá at all. You know that if it were possible to influence myself at this point in life, my preference would be to develop as a gyne so I might prove myself your worthy equal in every way. I cannot become a gyne, so I ask that I be allowed to embrace the drone aspects of my identity to the fullest extent. That is my request."

"Embrace, Sanderson. Not enjoy. Enjoyment is an emotion."

"I disagree, sir. Enjoyment is an expression, and is optional. If I can conceal any sign of emotion, I am not going against the values of professional efficiency you stand for. I think this should be allowed."

H.P. considered this, eyes closed the whole time. "Very well," he said in the end. "You are allowed to enjoy preening. Just be subtle."

Subtle is not who I am. I think this became apparent to H.P. as the years grew on and I grew older, slowly older. The boss never did relax completely around both me and Luis at the same time, but he did stop bickering as Luis swayed him to agree I needed a full education if we intended me to take up the reins someday. I helped to clean and brush his wings most evenings. I washed the sore parts of his back in the place that's difficult to reach, around the knobs of his wings. I cut his hair, helped him shave, prepared breakfast in the mornings and brought it to him on a tray. I managed his laundry personally, alongside Dewdrop.

H.P. resisted some of the deep preening education for a while, but when I neared 150,000, he relented again. He pinged a handwritten invitation to my inbox. Uh. Immediate summons? No prior warning? Yeah right. I wrote him back to tell him I had plans on the stated evening.

What plans?

Idona and I are going out to dinner.

Mates are unnecessary. Marriage is pointless. I thought you broke up with her when you were 30,000.

We were never officially together, but we share a lot of classes and I owed her a favor. We signed a contract. I'm taking her to a dance next week. We're meeting up to smooth things out between us before we go.

I'd rather you didn't make contracts outside of Pixie World without running them by me first, but I'll let this one slide. Just ask yourself this: would you rather keep a wisp damsel in your life, or your job?

That depends, sir. Are you going to bail on me again when we start? If I'll actually get to complete my deep preen, of course I'll meet with you tonight.

You have it in writing that we'll complete the ceremony.

Since I had it in writing, I rescheduled dinner with Idona. Contacting her was always easy, which is why she had a habit of sending me flirty messages at work. As the will o' the wisp ambassador in training, she had her own inbox in her own private office. I had the coordinates, so I sent her the cancelation. She returned it with an animated drawing of herself, frowning, but with a thumbs up. And because she knew I would appreciate it, she wrote a reply using words to go along with it instead of relying on the symbolism alone. Idona was good that way.

On the assigned day, I dressed in soft clothing and met with H.P. to discuss the preening plans. Without Luis. To his credit (and my mild surprise), the boss didn't prevent me from getting close. While he lay on the pallet, I sat on the chair beside him and made a mental map of his neck. He smelled of cinnamon and oranges, as he always did. H.P. watched me, his wings twitching beneath him. Hilarious, really. I don't think he was scared of me, but he certainly didn't enjoy lying still while I had full range of movement around him. And looking back on it with what I know now, he's always hated lying on his back. He prefers to be dipped while preening occurs, though it takes a lot of wing strength. I didn't have that strength back then. At least he didn't try to cover his unease with talking. Anti-Cosmo is a talker during preening. Totally un-rad. But he always smells like chocolate, which almost makes up for it.

I brushed my tongue along his neck until my work was done. My rough licks opened his pores. I wasn't in the right position for painting complex symbols along his neck, so I pulled back my tongue and adjusted the way I sat. That way, I could balance on the pallet at a much better angle.

"Not yet," he cut in, pushing me off my chair. My leg banged against it. I fell on one wing and looked at him in bewilderment. H.P.'s face stayed stoic, but I tasted a frazzled twitch in his upper energy signals. His fingers curled at their very tips, bitten nails grazing the tight padding of the pallet. His eyes locked onto a single point of the ceiling.

"H.P.?"

"Draw those first licks out a little longer before we go there."

I didn't move. Two finger snaps broke the silence. So I sat up, holding eye contact. That, at least, forced him to look at me. "Sir… that part of the energy field has loosened. You're too relaxed for the early-phase licks to be effective. I should move to a different tension point."

"I asked for more licks, Sanderson. When I say I'm ready, then we'll do our ah'kas. You'll get your dominance licks at the end. Also, you didn't even ask before you tried that."

Luis had only briefly gone over the ah'kas with me. H.P. hadn't let him explain the whole thing within his earshot. The words were ceremonial Gaideliac and that's all I really knew about it. But okay. Reluctantly, I took my position again. H.P. watched me with only one eye open, his hands folded over his stomach. I brought my tongue near his neck… then pulled back. "I don't know about this, boss. My instincts say no."

"Sanderson." Again he snapped his fingers.

"I can't, sir. It doesn't make sense. Everything made sense until now. Going against my instincts is weird."

"There's nothing weird about preening and I order it."

"Your pheromones disagree, boss. It's an inefficient use of time and energy to comb over this spot again when your tension has already been soothed. Let me progress to the next step."

He stared at me in clear irritation. "Even you, Sanderson? You're refusing me?"

"I can't do it. Your pheromones say no. So the answer's no."

"It's just a few more minutes. Maybe twenty. Fight the instinct, Sanderson. I'll be so proud."

"I cannot do that, sir." My patience was starting to run thin. "I finished that part. May I please continue the session?"

H.P.'s stare grew as narrow as a needle. He folded his arms. "No."

One of my lines fritzed above my head. All was silent. I tried again. "May I please continue the session, H.P.?"

"I asked for more of those early licks. Until I get them, we go no further."

"Oh," I said. Neither of us moved. Our eyes locked together, grasping us both in challenge. After several minutes, I blinked. It was always me who blinked in the end.

"Fine," I spat, just tired of it all. Again I knelt beside him as before. His neck had turned red from the scratching bristles on my tongue. It couldn't take much more of this or it would start to peel. It needed soft underside-tongue licks and flicks with the very tip. Not this roughness. Not much longer. Even fae had their limits. I frowned. "H.P.…"

He flashed his hand behind my back, grabbed my wing joints, and cranked them to the side. I sunk my fingers in his shirt. Mumbling, I lowered my head and started licking again. My rasping tongue sliced along a random path.

"That's not right," he said a moment later, fidgeting beneath me.

"I know," was my irritable response. "It's not going to be right, because it's going to be wrong. There's nothing on the magical plane for me to lock my tongue into. I'm directly licking skin instead of engaging with your energy." I may as well have been a nymph banging plastic rainbow keys against a combination lock.

H.P. took the back of my head and brought my face to a lower place on his neck. "Try there."

Suppressing a roll of my eyes, I did as he asked. After a minute, he again took my head and moved it sideways.

"It's still not working. Try there."

I braced my hands against the pallet and pushed myself partly up. "Sir, your internal magic lines are no longer agitated. I soothed them into straight stripes with my licks. That's as far as they go. There's nothing else I can do."

That got a reaction. He grabbed my tie, jerking me down. When he separated his lips to show his teeth, a cobweb of saliva went with them. "Ennet, if it weren't illegal, I'd use your face like a paintbrush. Continue the licks. You'll get your reward later."

I locked my eyes on his, staring coldly back. "Do you want me to mess your lines back up, sir? Because at this point, that's the only thing that can happen here."

I'll be the first to admit that was snarky. H.P. did not miss it. He pushed a foot in my stomach and flopped me over.

"Go to your cabin."

"What?"

"Obviously you aren't ready for deep preening yet. We'll try this again when you're older."

I lay there, staring with my uncovered eyes, huffing softly through my teeth. H.P. watched, unmoving. Unblinking. I ran my eyes down his neck, charting a silent course for what I'd do if I were to proceed to the next stage of the preening experience.

"No," he said, shoving back. So I withdrew. The room's decorations were really very tacky, though I didn't say that out loud. I just watched him silently, hands at my sides.

"Go to your cabin."

I did nothing.

"Sanderson, you are dismissed."

I hesitated, drifting closer. This time, H.P. grabbed my arm, yanked me towards him, and shook me back and forth.

"No," he said again, quite forcefully for him. He repeated his order for me to leave in Milesian, and finally I did. I waved my wand and pinged out of there, sour enough to turn every head in my tháir the moment I materialized again.

"What happened?" Longwood asked, focusing on me instantly. I steadied my annoyance back to neutrality and said nothing. The other pixies understood what that meant and gave me a wide berth, but Longwood sat beside me. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Oh, I always wanted to talk. I resisted for a minute, but slowly met his gaze. Longwood's eyes glinted in thoughtful concern, his brows at risk for vanishing in his hair.

"I'm never good enough for him." Because I never was.

Exactly 2,000 years later, on the same day of the week and everything, H.P. called me up to the preening room. I think he was expecting me to grovel for his forgiveness, but I glowered at him instead. After finishing retinue duties, I floated towards the door to leave.

"Come back, Sanderson."

I stopped without turning around, crossly hovering. When a minute passed and I didn't return, H.P. walked over and smacked me on the back of the head. It didn't hurt, but left my wings prickling. Then he walked back to the couch without saying anything. So, without saying anything either, I followed. We began again. Just as before, I finished with the first set of licks and tried to advance the ceremony. H.P. gripped my shoulders and forced me back.

"No."

"Sir, maybe I'm not old enough to do this for you. This treatment doesn't sit right with me."

He sent me away again, but within three months he demanded my return. This time he changed tactics. As soon as I offered my hand to initiate preening, he shoved me back and showered my face with furious licks. I couldn't get a word in edgewise even if I'd wanted to. Legally a gyne couldn't change our position, though I knew he was tempted, so he just kept me flat against the wall while he worked, one hand clenching my tie and the other pinned to my chest. After foreplay licks, he progressed to dominance signals, all of them dancing and weaving across my head until I was blinking rapid blinks. That session went on until my wings went stiff. H.P. requested we continue preening once he'd finished with me, so I did. And again he blocked me from going further! I looked at him incredulously, but he only retorted, "I did a good job with you. Now it's my turn."

"H.P.…"

Look, I gave it a good effort. But I still went home early that night. The boss simply refused to accept his own pheromone cues. Gynes. They're so stubborn. And he tells me I'm the one who feels things.

The cycle continued every few months, with H.P. more and more desperate to break me while I grew snappier and snappier and left the room nursing twisted wings more often than I didn't. Finally, Longwood had enough. One night he pounded his fist on the door to H.P.'s bedroom, where H.P. gnawed on a wood carving and I gave Rice a bath in the boss's tub. Yeah, I was that mad.

"What?" he harumphed when the knock came.

"It's Longwood, sir. I'm leaving and Sanderson's coming with me. You don't deserve him."

I was so taken aback that I almost squirted soap in Rice's eyes. H.P. abandoned his carving and floated over to open the door, where I sensed Longwood bobbing with his arms crossed. I heard him huff through gritted teeth. H.P. stared down at him for a few seconds. Then he raised an eyebrow.

"Uhhh," Longwood said, bravado quailing. He lifted a shaky finger. "Yeah, I'll just see myself back outside, sir." He pinged away without another word.

"What a pointless waste of energy," H.P. muttered, shutting the door again.

Not to me, I thought, working the suds into Rice's fur.

I confronted Longwood about it later when I found him pacing around the archives. "Here," I said, tossing him my good chewing paper. "You're stressed."

"Thanks," he sighed, catching it in one hand. "I have no idea what came over me. I just get so mad, you know?" And for emphasis, he kicked a chair. I didn't scold him for this show of emotion, merely scrutinized him thoughtfully.

"Did you mean what you said about wanting to take me away?"

"You heard that? I don't know. I just think it's not fair that H.P. expects more of you than anyone just because you were born first. He shouldn't drag you upstairs to yell at or punish you. I don't like it."

"It's preening troubles. He's a gyne. You know how they get."

Longwood stopped pacing. "What does that have to do with him getting on your case?"

"Forget it… If you don't already know then he'll tell you when you're older. Anyway, it's not a big deal. I won't get my drive for pheromones until I come into my adult wings, so until then, it's just practice that doesn't mean anything. It's just licks."

"What do you two do up there?" he asked in genuine curiosity.

I adjusted my shades, not saying anything for a minute. Then, "You know how H.P. spars with other drakes at Fairy Con? It's like that, only with our minds." And it was.

The following week, after dinner in the pavilion as usual, H.P. floated along the bench and tapped Keefe on the head. "I want to see you upstairs when you finish eating."

I froze. "Sir?"

"This doesn't concern you, Sanderson."

Maybe not, but I still didn't like it. Not one whit. I stayed out after curfew that night, sitting on a bench where I could see the lantern light in the preening room window. I'd brought my notebook so I could finish one of my songs, but just knowing the boss was up there, giving my licks to Keefe, made it impossible to concentrate. Finally, I surrendered. I threw the notebook across the town square and slouched over, covering my face for a long time.

A few days later when H.P. passed me on the street and casually suggested I come upstairs after lunch, I poured everything I had into my glare.

"I hate you."

"You too?" he asked, not turning around. But he had stopped floating forward.

"Those were rightfully my licks. I'm your alpha drone."

"You're not doing a good job as alpha drone."

"Then maybe I should find a new gyne who likes the way I preen."

"Don't do that, Sanderson… I was going to tell you this up there, but if this is how you're going to act then I'll just do it now: I only wanted to test a theory. You know Keefe has dysolfactya."

"So he ignored your signals and gave you a long session of those licks you wanted."

"He did. Very well, in fact."

"So you want him to be alpha drone instead of me."

"No. I wanted to experiment, but now that I'm satisfied I'll content myself with training you." His fingers grazed my chin, lifting it until I had to look him in the eye. "You're my chéad grá. Your loyalty to me is assured and I like that in my retinue circle. I needed this just once, just to see what would happen, but I give you my word that I'll never favor another drone before you again while you remain in my service. As long as you want to be my alpha, you can be my alpha."

"So I get to keep my job, sir?" Now I was just confused. Someone else had given him what he'd wanted during preening. Not me. Why wasn't I being replaced? "I thought you liked Keefe better."

"Keefe did an excellent job with his licks, and he'll certainly be the first one called any night you don't want to offer licks when I ask for them, but I chose you. And he's not you." He ruffled my hair and floated off again. Just like that. So I stared after his spinning wings, hugging my notebook to my chest. Oh, I dearly hated the conflicting signals and evasive compliments the boss teased our minds with… but I couldn't leave him for the world.

I pulled an all-nighter in the library that evening, drinking every piece of information known to pixiekind that had to do with massages. I knew H.P. loved massages more than even coffee, and if he was going to give me another chance then I wanted to satisfy him. Massages were complicated, it turned out, but that wouldn't be a problem. I'd start with the simple shoulder kind and work my way up. As long as I had a head start, I could easily become the best.

I had an empty space in my calendar Wednesday evening. Unfortunately, I couldn't play my hand when I wanted to. H.P. sent me and Longwood on a particularly long string of errands that day. We'd lucked out, however, and stumbled across Idona and her mother in our shopping town. Their assistance shaved at least forty minutes off our plan. Idona's mother even bought us a cake. Longwood and I thanked them and went home with our things. While he took the groceries to the kitchen, I brought the cake to H.P. personally. He'd be in his office at this time of day. I opened the door without thinking, without knocking, and froze.

H.P. wasn't sitting at his desk. He'd stretched himself out on the L-shaped couch he kept in the office corner for young, cranky pixies who need a nap and couldn't be left unsupervised. A tan, well-muscled drake leaned over him, carefully rubbing his shoulders. And it wasn't even Luis. Juandissimo? And I'd never sensed H.P.'s energy lie any more relaxed than this.

Uh. What? I think my every line snapped connection with the energy field then and there. I'll never favor another before you again…

H.P.'s wings jolted at that burst in the field, eyes flying open. "Sanderson?"

"Blitz you," I snapped, dropping the cake top-down to the floor. Frosting gooshed against the flimsy lid. I slammed the door to his office shut and flew off down the hall.

"Sanderson?"

Dear dust, was he going to follow me? I picked up speed, shoving my way past Ambrosine and Palomar at the base of the stairs. I broke outside and kicked up speed. Cold wind stung my face harder than usual.

"Sanderson!"

Faster. Faster. I pushed myself faster with desperate snapping beats. Poof! went a cloud of dust in front of me. Ambrosine materialized, swinging a butterfly net, and I barely dodged. H.P. called my name again, flying after me, and I imagined his fingers closing around my ankle only too well. Had to shake him, had to shake him.

Too late did I realize I'd been flying towards a corner of the pheromone fence. I pulled up short, jerking my head left and right, searching for some way past it. But everything smelled like him.

"Sanderson!"

Behind me now. I whirled around, flinging up my wand. "Let me go. If you don't care about me, just let me go."

H.P. stopped a dozen wingspans away. I thought I'd seen him broken in the Eros Nest, or maybe that period between Kris Kringle and Palomar, but I'd never seen him. like. this. His hands shoved through his hair, gasps glinting in his eyes, wingbeats so unsteady I don't know how he didn't fall over. Sharp flickers of lavender lightning zinged up and down across his skin, barely suppressed as rare emotions seized control. His hat had fallen off somewhere far back, but I didn't care. It would be a long time before he broke this much again, Smith hurling him to the ground at a funeral while I watched without regret, pregnant and dizzy, blood dripping from his mouth into a quivering hand, Emery screaming, Longwood on the run…

"Sanderson," he whispered, "there's no wall there. You can go."

I fought to steady my magic, choking as it spluttered in my veins. It raced around my core in a whirlwind, bouncing inside my head like pinballs, and I could sense Anti-Sanderson and Dame Sandy absolutely on edge. He hunkered beneath his wings and she clung to a stable bit of wall, crying prayers to deities who couldn't hear. Forget H.P. breaking apart- my counterparts had never sensed me this mad before. Several flickers across my brain hinted Anti-Sanderson was trying to meld our minds and figure out what was up with me, but I launched his scrap of soul aside. Anti-Fairies can keep their special mind-melds to themselves. This was none of his business.

"Let me go," I said, more steadily this time.

"You can leave," he said quietly then. "But it was a one-time thing, on my dusty lines. Magnifico's massage business is testing new promotion methods and he was offering free product samples. It meant nothing else and won't be a regular thing."

"Lower the fence, sir. I want to go."

"Where?"

"To Idona's burrow."

"Don't do that."

"I don't care."

"Okay. But only for a week."

"I'm not coming back."

"If you want to, you can." He pointed his wand at the fence. Ping went the pheromone line, evaporating instantly. "Travel safe. Don't be dumb."

I hesitated then, realizing I had only a little errand money left and no food. It was Wednesday. Late. The shops would be closing any minute and wouldn't open again until Friday afternoon.

I pinged off without a particular destination in mind. For a moment my particles hovered above the village, where Ambrosine had just come up behind H.P., before they defaulted to my favorite singing room in the rec hall. I reformed there, hair streaked with sweat, hands braced against the door. It would be a while before H.P. realized I hadn't left the village. Someone would wander past and taste my signals soon enough, and I wasn't in the right state of mind to shield the room from people pinging in. Holding the door shut was pointless. But I did it anyway. At least until I slid to the ground, hunkering on the floor with my fingers biting the back of my neck.

Ambrosine was the one who found me a few hours later, my face in my arms and my arms crossed around my knees. He knocked, but when I didn't answer, he asserted his parental authority by poofing in anyway. He arrived in a shimmer. Blitz him.

"You didn't leave the village," he said. "That's good. We worried you'd get lost."

"Leave me alone," I muttered. He didn't. He sat across from me by the music stand, folding his legs.

"Your father didn't mean to offend you. You two had a misunderstanding; he only meant to experiment with a free massage sample. He didn't realize that would hurt you if you found out."

He used that word, 'father,' thinking it would make me feel better. It didn't. I twitched with pain. "I think he did, though. He gave me extra long errands today. He didn't want me around to witness that. He reacted rapidly when he realized I was there. He knew it would insult me."

Ambrosine sighed, running his hand along his chin. "He's fretting over you, Sanderson. He's paging through his contact list, asking everyone to keep their eyes out. You're so young and he hates to imagine you out there on your own."

"Aw, the boss doesn't trust me," I said without enthusiasm. I made a mental note to avoid anyone I knew if I ever tried to run off for real.

"It scared him when you tried to get past the fence. He thought you might fall off the drop. I know he suppresses his feelings, but he worried today. Worried for you. He's worried now. He loves you so much."

"He replaced me."

"If you were hurt while running away, he'd never forgive himself as long as he lives. He's breaking apart, Sanderson. Please talk to him."

"Why should I apologize when he's the one who jerked up?" I still hadn't uncurled, wings just drooping. "Just because he's a gyne, it doesn't mean he's always right."

Ambrosine leaned back on his hands. "I never said you have to apologize. And I never said he wasn't in the wrong."

"That's because you're talking to me. I bet you told him I was wrong and he believed it."

Silence.

"Blitz you too."

"Sandy-"

"It's Sanderson. Dame Sandy is my refract."

"-I'm trying to help you both. I know my son has his own forceful way of doing things, but he's only fierce because he wants to protect you. He cares for you so much… even when he doesn't show it in ways that are clear to you."

I lifted my head from my knees. "This is your fault. You raised him to raise me like this."

"Um-"

"I'm Fergus Whimsifinado too. We're genetically identical. Why doesn't he understand me?"

H.P. never apologized to me for that. Not directly. Still, he tried to find a solution that suited us both. He paid me a little more attention and stopped being quite as snippy with his preening demands. He stopped pushing me to draw out the first phase. I guess he figured out he was going to get what he would get, and if he didn't like me as his alpha drone, he could either train up Keefe or challenge another gyne. He wouldn't dare. And I appreciate that, because I'm being totally serious. I was his firstborn. Essentially the Pixie prince. If he denied me my inheritance, we would have had words.

When we met the first time after I tried to run away, H.P. actually let me take the lead in ceremony. He really did. He didn't fight back. When it came time to give me my licks, he didn't withhold them. He rasped his tongue across my cheeks and forehead until my wings shivered and I nearly melted. He noticed that, slowed, and stopped only when he was certain I'd been appropriately doused with them. He held me very still, his hands gripping my shoulders where we floated beside the pallet. We hadn't lain down. I didn't think I could without feeling queasy. I kept my eyes on my shoes as he held me, my legs folded slightly back. I hadn't changed into comfy clothing, either. I don't know. I just wanted to see him, even if I wore my nicer suit. We both hovered like humming sprites in the silence. I felt H.P.'s half-lidded eyes trail across my face.

"That's… That's how it goes, Sanderson… It's supposed to be peaceable. Preening is an expression of dominance, but the respect involved shouldn't be taken by force. By its very nature, it's a friendship ceremony. We're meant to meet each other halfway."

I said nothing. But slowly, I did lift my eyes to his. H.P. stared down at me, his expression unreadable. We're pixies. He showed no trace of emotion, no fleck of guilt. He only eyeballed me in a cold and critical way.

"I'll be better," he told me, though. It wasn't a binding geis. It wasn't an apology or even a promise. But I nodded slightly in reply. He brushed his hands higher up my shoulders then, moving them to my cheeks, and rasped a few more careful licks across my nose and forehead. I let him spread his pheromones, staring at the deep brown freckles along his neck, and continued saying nothing. Eventually, when H.P. let go of me and floated back, he coughed into his fist and gave one long, single tug on his tie.

"There. My understanding is that heavy dosage of pheromones should keep you satisfied for a few weeks. We'll pick this up again after that."

I met his eyes again and squared my shoulders. "Yes, sir."

Except… the dosage didn't last as long as he thought it would. I got antsy sooner and told him so. He laughed, thinking it was a dry joke. I didn't know how to tell him it wasn't. Is it… because he was an older gyne? Not that old… Either way, I wasn't sure. Was it shameful if I brought it up? Would he be offended if I said it wasn't enough?

I slunk back to work, sheepish and burning. I skipped lunch, then dinner, and waited several cold weeks for my licks to come. They did every now and then, each session more enticing than the one before as I became more familiar with H.P.'s repetitive ways, but they never lasted long. After a few months of up and down cycles, I noticed he responded to my deprivation faster when I made my fidgets more visible. I kept that in mind.

H.P. and I spent years preening this way. Mostly standing, often with him gripping my shoulders to hold me in place or else clutching my cheeks like I'd been born a porcelain doll. Sticking to the absolute basics. Usually leaving me unfulfilled. But it was with him, and I held status, so it was okay. Eventually, H.P. taught me words to say to actually ask consent at each step of the process instead of blindly following my instincts. Each phrase had a meaning related to the three parts of the soul. The first time I asked permission to intertwine our cores and he gave his confirmation, it stole my speech away.

"Can I, sir?" I repeated in disbelief (using the Gaideliac phrase, of course- Ah'ne ah'ne ah'ka, awa ri'apa cara). He'd backed me up near the mhaisci door, holding me firmly with his palm on my chest while awaiting my reply. He'd fleetingly offered me his mountain tonight (body; the touch of his hand) and barely his lines (an attempt to ease his anxious breathing). We'd sort of skipped that bit. H.P. just doesn't like being touched, even in ceremony, and I think he considered himself a slave to the script inside his head. Honestly, he's ridiculous. He fumbled the steps. He didn't want to do it right; he just needed to know what would happen next. He needed answers. He wanted spoilers. I don't think he's like me at all sometimes.

"Kalra kalra keiko ri'apa cara," he said, utterly patient. If you will have me, you have my core.

"I… only know how to share magic mouth to mouth, via SHAMPAX. I don't know how to do it in ceremony."

"We lower our mental shields," he told me, knitting his fingers so I would have a visual. "If both of us have our shields down at the same time, our magic will overlap. You'll feel it when it happens. It will be like I reached out and touched your arm. Many Fairies have an instinct to jerk away, but I'm aldra mór and you're chéad grá." His mouth twitched slightly at one end. "I trust you won't smack me."

"Okay…"

"I give you my core if you will give me yours." He blinked then and, just for a moment, I thought I sensed trepidation in those knitted fingers. "It's instinctive. I won't cut you short this time. This is it. Just… do whatever comes naturally."

I stared down at my chest, where his hand had been a moment before. Although he'd removed it, I still felt the imprint of it against my shirt. I flexed my fingers open and shut against my pant legs. See, I felt tiny and weak against the wall. Soft, like a child. I guess I still was a child back then. H.P. studied me with something I might almost call curiosity, and I knew why. Few things - no things - were more intimate than the first chance to share magic with a long-term partner. Neither of us knew how tonight would go, and this could define our relationship for the rest of our lives.

Slowly, very slowly, he stepped away. He bequeathed the next move to me, like a game of silent snapjik. And I waited for "whatever" to come naturally.

The energy field hovered around me, dense and drinkable. After a moment's thought, silent and lost in my own little world, I walked over to the preening pallet. I walked right by him. H.P. followed me with his eyes. He said later that no drone had ever passed him like that during preening before. Most held hands, I guess, or knelt at his feet, or twirled him in a dance. I was just trying to follow my instincts, and I guess we all have different ones. Or maybe he could learn to do better with the ceremony.

I sat on the pallet's end and braced myself with my hands. H.P. waited, watching me, until I patted the space beside me and invited him to sit. He did. His wings rustled. Our fingertips nearly brushed, so I placed my hands in my lap and stared at the cold gray ceiling. What came naturally to me?

I waited there, thinking through every tension point of my body, and willed my muscles to relax. I didn't… force it. I just… became very calm, very patient. Drinking the same air he drank. H.P. twitched his wings, awaiting another instruction, but I didn't give it. Not yet. We held each other's gazes in absolute silence. Unblinking silence. The tug of his magic, the thrill of his pheromones - both constant presences in my head - wrapped around me like a song. I could feel my own signals weaving through my fingers. I parsed them out in my brain with nothing more than my tongue, keeping my palms flat against the cushion.

He's offered me his core. Both of us have put our mental shields down around each other, completely, for the very first time. If I probe his mind with magic… there will be no resistance.

Logically, I knew that. But taking that step - that plunge - was more difficult than I'd expected. I could have stayed like that for years, tasting the way his signals probed the edge of mine, but the field had other ideas. It craved intimacy. And when the field is hungry, you obey. While I sat there, tentatively pressing against H.P.'s energy signals with my own, goosebumps prickling down my skin, the energy field grasped me by the neck. It pressed above and around and within me from the inside out. It pierced my soul and popped it upside-down in the same moment. I squeezed my eyes shut. Everything went black but white, hot but cold, shrieking but silent, flipping me on my head.

And I became energy.

I awoke like a firecracker in the world within. Whoa. I was no longer sitting on the preening pallet in the mhaisci room. I floated, suspended, above a thin, stripey gray carpet I felt like I'd known all my life. Comfy yale leather sofas. Brown brick walls. A shaggy gray rug in the center of the room. A bonsai tree sat on a desk in the corner, and natural light filtered in through a window. I'd never seen an apartment like this in my life, but it felt familiar anyway.

But… was that wingless purple figure floating beside me… H.P.? He had no distinguishing features here. No square wings. A cookie-cutter shape. No face. No hair. No hat. His undressed skin looked smooth, unfreckled… completely purple. I looked at my body, but it didn't match the image of myself that had long been ingrained in my mind. I wore no clothes in this world. My entire being looked like it were made of clay. Bright, weirdly shiny clay flecked with sparkles, like someone had taken a ball of their art supplies and rolled it across the clouds to make it pick up dust. Baffled, I rotated my hand from palm to knuckles and back again.

"What color am I?"

"Pink," he said without hesitation. That was definitely H.P.'s tone of voice, even in this world between souls. I glanced up.

"Are you sure, sir? I think I'm purple-"

"Pink with purple layers. You have layers because you're my firstborn and inherited those from me. And if anyone asks, always tell them pink. That's important. Do you understand? There can be no question about it."

"Understood, sir." I lifted my head and drank in our surroundings again. The leather sofas. The brick walls. A crystal ball on a low glass table. Gray carpet… Then it clicked. "Oh. Is this my core chamber?" While I'd never seen the room before, it looked exactly the way I imagined I might set up my first private apartment.

"Yes. When our energy mingled, you were more willing to welcome me in full. So we ended up here." He looked about, tapping his chin. "That's the problem with lowering mental walls. If you lower them too far, you might inadvertently give a person access this deep into your soul, and that's not a smart thing to do. I'll train you to keep those walls low enough to share magic, but high enough that you maintain your privacy. Most adults do that so we form at the crossroads between our chambers instead of directly inside one. You don't want anyone forcing their way here if you're not ready. Strangers like to break things."

"Oh. Can we visit your chamber, H.P.?"

"Maybe when you're older." He smoothed down my hair, or he would have if my soul-self had any hair at all. His palm ran across my sleek pink skin. "I'm very protective of mine. Besides, it's better to use yours. We won't be interrupted."

"Interrupted, sir?"

H.P. took increased interest in my head, picking and rubbing at it with his fingers in that way he really liked to do when he really didn't want to say stuff. "I almost had a twin. I think. Ambrosine insists I didn't, but he doesn't know anything. The freckled face haunts my dreams. I'm certain I had a twin, who must have died in Ambrosine's womb. His soul merged into mine. That would make me a genetic chimera. He never really existed, but a shadow of him remains and he can't progress to Plane 23 until I go. So… he lingers in my core chamber. I don't want you in there."

… Ha ha… I remember back when that sounded so silly to me. How strange it would be to have another soul trapped inside your head. I mean, we all know who he really confused with that twin he thought he had, but at the time he sounded both certain and insane. My core chamber is stronger now, more physical now. I've paid visits to H.P.'s mental chamber many times and I've seen the shiny black door dividing his half of the space from the half that belongs to memories he won't acknowledge. They don't belong to a false twin, but he pushes his emotions there so he can tell himself he's fine.

These days, I have a door just like that in my own chamber. When I get visitors who I think are special enough, and when they ask the inevitable question 'What could be behind that door when your actual core is shamelessly out here on the table, on display?' then I walk over and open it… and there's nothing on the other side. Only black void where a stylus sharpener used to be.

"That's where I kept my old core," I told Anti-Cosmo, because he was the first one to ask me. At the time, we'd lingered in this "between" space long enough to slowly take on the colors we wore in the outside world, though his eyes were still glassy like a doll's. Anti-Cosmo stood there, holding both hands over his mouth. He looked as though he'd suddenly fallen ill.

"I'm sorry," he whispered through his clumpy clay fingers. "I forgot."

I shrugged. We didn't speak any more of it. Anti-Cosmo is the only one I've deep preened with who never treated me differently after my transplant than he did before. He simply asked what he should call me, and I said "Sanderson," and so I remained Sanderson in his mind. I wasn't open about it for thousands of years, but here and there, I did reveal the truth to those I felt deserved it. I don't know why; it never went over well. You always get sideways looks when people realize there's black magic ticking inside your soul.

"You're not the real Sanderson…?"

"For all intents and purposes, I am the real Sanderson. This is still Sanderson's body with Sanderson's same instincts and memories. Mother Nature rebuilt it for me. You're just face to face with a donor soul. The first one is gone. I'm sorry, but it couldn't be saved and it isn't coming back. It's just me now. Can I get you some tea?"

They don't ask more questions after that. They don't know how to deal with me. They don't want to talk to me. Even H.P. gets flustered preening at the core level these days, never sure whether he's supposed to call me "Sanderson" or the name my father gave me. I tell him to use Sanderson, but he mumbles and won't. He has nothing to define me as, no name to whisper when our magic blends. Smoof, I hate the way he fidgets; he can't see me as Sanderson, but he wants to see me as Sanderson, but in his eyes I will never be "the real Sanderson," and he can't focus because I'm just a blank-eyed reminder that dustless deaths are real and not all Fairykind go to Plane 23. And I hate it, I hate it… Past me was sooo good, sooo pure, sooo amazingly perfect and loyal to the company that I gave up my existence for it, and current me is paying the price. I don't know how it happened because Father Time returned my memories with that part deliberately cut, and H.P. shuts me down any time I bring it up, but I'm sure it was super glorious and noble. And my reward? Eternal rejection. Anti-Cosmo's the only one who doesn't seem to judge me.

In the boss's eyes, I will never be as good as the "original Sanderson." He holds my cheeks and they're synthetic. He touches my hands and I can tell it disgusts him that they aren't the same hands that once probed inside his pouch when I was small. He recoils at my tongue because he remembers how it delighted him before, and guilt screams at him to fight the pleasure now. I am not real anymore.

It doesn't bother me when I'm in the core chamber with only my own thoughts for company, but it bothers me when it's over and reality sets in again. H.P. won't accept me as Sanderson, even though Mother Nature rebuilt my body flawlessly identical - right down to the limp in my leg - and I have all the memories, all the same quirks and fidgets, and every part of me could undeniably pass as a genetic copy of Sanderson. But he won't look at me like he used to. He doesn't want me. I'm a bad aftertaste in his mouth, just a thing to him. A shell that moves like the original and thinks like the original but isn't the original. He pushes me away. He thinks he's 'cheating' on the original, or disgracing my memory, by enjoying what I can offer, and he blocks it and blocks it and leaves me on my knees whimpering like a mouse.

And it's worse inside. Not that he allows me in much anymore. If he pushes me off when we're in the core chamber and I really am separate from the body, I scream how I wasn't even given a choice if I wanted to be the donor soul. No one asked.

I had dreams. I had a toy truck. I read longer, tougher books every day. I had a life with a dad who adored me and a mom who gave me the biggest hugs. I was painting, that final morning in my old body. Painting grass and clouds with chubby thumbs. I had a life once upon a time. It wasn't this.

I can't preen now like I could back then. Like the original did, I guess I should clarify, though that sounds wrong because they're my memories now just as much as they were before. The current me preens better on a technical level because I've had additional millennia to practice, but the original… Smoof, I could preen like the stars themselves guided every stroke of tongue. I didn't feel judged, I compared myself to no one. I miss that raw and honest preening. It's so awkward these days. Longwood's the only one who doesn't get disturbed, the only one besides Anti-Cosmo who can core-preen without a hint of hesitation, even if he hesitates to use my new name, and he hugs me and caresses my face and whispers in my ears…

Problem is, it's hard to get in the mindset to lower the mental walls and let him close when the body's impulse is to whine and shove him across the room. I don't want him near me. It's wrong. No, Longwood can't love me the way he wants to, because the jealous waking brain despises him. It's a mess for both of us, a mess we'll never untangle.

But when he calls me 'Aspen'… I can't breathe.

I don't know what H.P.'s said about my donor soul in his manuscript so far. Probably nothing, knowing him. He'll get to it later. He always gets to it later. Watch him praise the old Sanderson the way he never did when the old soul was alive, and watch him fling the new Sanderson aside or forget to mention me at all. He'll skip right over the transplant entirely. It's not important to him. Just watch.

I can't… articulate what that first time sharing magic with H.P. was like as well as the original soul could have, because inner-soul memories are fuzzier than outside ones and they were never really mine to begin with. I don't even know for certain what the original soul's core chamber looked like. H.P. always says it was an apartment, and he drops subtle jabs here and there to remind me mine looks different. I hope this all sounds poetic enough, like something I would have said when I still had my old core. I know it's traditional to describe a core-preen in beautiful detail, but I don't think I have it in me. Take this for what it is. I'm really sorry. I just can't.

After the preening between the core versions of ourselves, I woke with cautious blinks. Confused, I'll admit, not to find a crick in my neck. When I came to myself, I realized H.P. and I were no longer sitting side by side. Rather, we'd shifted to the corner of the preening pallet where it had its little back: me curled in H.P.'s lap like a child. Definitely not where we'd started. Our position wasn't quite a hug. To me it sort of was, though. His knees supported me. We had our bare feet firmly planted on the cushions. I wiggled my toes.

"How did we move over here?" I asked, unfolding my arms. We were on our knees, last I recalled.

"Our souls desired us to," H.P. murmured back. "We took our minds away and our bodies spoke for us absolutely, unquestioningly, with no thoughts of hesitation holding them back."

I tried to drink in the feel of his hands on mine, even if I couldn't call it a hug. Our bodies had never brushed so close before. He'd never held me like this before, even in my blurry baby memories. I tugged my shirt collar. Should I untangle myself from his arms? Sitting in his lap was far from professional workplace behavior. H.P. tipped his head.

"It isn't weird unless you make yourself believe it's weird. Preening is a biological behavior. There's no emotion behind it." He paused then, sliding his eyes away. His knees began to slide down, exposing me to the harshness of the waking world again. "But… there are multiple reasons you might share magic. If you ever intend to mate in the core state, be sure you removed your physical clothes before you share magic. Your body doesn't have a natural instinct to undress. It's a total mood killer to zone back into the waking world and fix that when you were all relaxed."

"I'll remember, sir." I pressed down on one foot with the other. My skin felt cold. Exposed. But fresh. I breathed in the scent of a freshly cleaned office. "I enjoyed being there, in my core."

"Core chambers are zones of logic. There are no instincts, only active thought. It's a perfect world for pixies."

"I liked it. Can I enter the core chamber by myself? Is that a thing?"

A pause, physically uncomfortable in my mouth. I looked up to see the boss scratching his cheek, and the chewed fingernails were real again with a delightful scritch, not pointy claws like the energy world.

"Yesssss," H.P. admitted. "But that's an Anti-Fairy thing. We Fairies don't do it. If your coworkers ever brag they've figured out how, be sure word gets back to me. It's not appropriate for pixies. That world is for the Anti-Fairies, because their cores are different and they can't die. I don't want you messing around in your chamber by yourself. You might break something, tamper with your own breathing, or get trapped or hurt."

"Can… we visit my core again soon?"

"If you're on your best behavior," he said before dumping me fully off his lap to the floor.

Oh, my best behavior shot through the roof. H.P. wanted every drone to have a chance to deep preen, so he'd teach someone new every Thursday as they slowly grew older. I noticed he never forbade me from deep preening with the other pixies, so when H.P. was busy with a new drone, I'd pull last week's student into the alpha's preening room and run the motions with them instead. I think it worked great. Repetition is key to memory and they could ask me questions they were shy about or hadn't thought of their first time with the boss. Preening lower drones isn't as satisfying as preening with a gyne, but as long as I'd been smeared with H.P.'s pheromones recently, my students enjoyed their time with me. It was good practice for everyone, and they each taught me new techniques. I mastered all of them. I don't let myself get confined to exact patterns. When H.P. agrees to preen with me, he never knows exactly what kind of session he'll get. Only that it will satisfy.

H.P. treated me so well. Those were the almost 60,000 years of "nothing happens" when our lives consisted of growing up in Pixie Village, then Pixie Town, and H.P. was sort-of trying to court Iris and I had my music and we could legally take nymphs to be baptized in Faeheim and there was plenty of cash rolling in every day. There wasn't yet a war. There wasn't feud or hate. The Fairies loved us and the Anti-Fairies did too. Even at home, things were going swell. Longwood and Smith tolerated one another curtly even though they didn't enjoy hanging out, and they mostly left Cresswell and Chidlow alone. I for one didn't fret in the years after I turned 148,000 and Spicer showed freckles after moulting from his baby skin. We older drones knew the drill. We kept him changed and fed, firmly away from the other gynes, and you never would have guessed they were any threat at all.

Staying on good terms with the Fairies and Anti-Fairies both turned out to be a blast. We blossomed as a neutral party without boundaries or bias. It was us. It was me and H.P. and frequent visits outside of Pixie Town to see old business partners and make new ones. H.P. could call both King Northiae and Anti-Bryndin over for snacks and game night (sometimes with Prince Anti-Phillip and Prince Eastkal tagging behind them), and they didn't despise each other and would all just laugh and play and wrestle and preen and drink together, and you'd never seen the boss so happy. I probably won't again. And I was content to ping in when called to fetch whatever would make their evening more enjoyable. Anti-Phillip taught me how to play his violin, which was a little bit different than the springcase I grew up with, and I taught him cursive and calligraphy and we became good friends. I'm glad he still comes to see me sometimes even after Anti-Cosmo overthrew his butt. I'd miss him if he ever left for good.

I miss those 60,000 golden years. I rarely saw Idona as she struggled through a heavy workload of ambassador duties, but we kept in touch with letters here and there, until we didn't for a while. Pixie Village expanded. We phased out the cabins and Hawkins and I got our own apartment, which we didn't have to share with any of the irritating younger pixies- especially Bayard and his nightlight. Longwood stayed bossy, but we tolerated each other okay. Most nights, H.P. would call me to the mhaisci, practically purring. He'd press his lips to the center of my forehead and scratch his chin bristles across my cheek. He insisted I stay well-groomed and flaunted me to his rivals like a pet, but at that time in my life it's exactly where I wanted to be. Life was so innocent and pure.

I was alpha drone. H.P. deep preened with me more than anyone else - and I mean really deep preened - and there was patient wanting in his eyes. And when he held my face, rubbing his gentle thumb against my skin to smear the pheromones in a little further, I knew he loved me like a son. It wasn't a question, a hesitation, a conflict, a suffering. It wasn't weird to curl up beside him, lay my head against him for a yawn and a nap… I wasn't this back then.

Those days were the best.

"Sanderson," he murmured once, three nights before I moulted into my adult wings. He shook me awake. It wasn't my apartment. I lay across the fluffy white cushion of the preening pallet, and it was my home. "It's morning."

"Can't be," I mumbled. My fingers scraped his chest, searching for a shirt to pull to my eyes and block the light, and brushed only bare skin. Lightly sweaty. Lightly freckled. I blinked myself awake. H.P. sat beside me, holding a coffee mug in one hand.

"We have work." Apologetic. Serious, warning… but amused.

"What?" I sat up, legs folded out like wisp wings, and gazed around the preening room in wonder. The blue-gray drapes had been pulled back with a heavy golden cord. I could see pixies in the road, along with a few fairy employees. The starlight glimmered off the windows out there. The central fountain splurted water in the air, much to the delight of some of the younger pixies who didn't have real jobs beyond picking litter off the ground. I twisted around and found the boss watching me. Glasses off, holding the steaming coffee mug to his lips.

"Is it really tomorrow, H.P.?"

"It's today, but yes."

"And… did you sleep next to me?"

"I did. I'll have to get a firmer pallet. This one's too soft on my back." Casual, suggesting he enjoyed the experience too and implying a repeat in the future without ever confirming any sense of pleasure, because only H.P. could wrap his sentences quite as eloquently as that.

"I can tell you stayed," I said, softly. I brought my hand to my chest. "Your scent is sweet, sir. I didn't wake up stressed. I'm refreshed. At peace. It's good. This… was pleasant."

"Did you like the mhalaith-chéad?"

"The what, sir?"

He gestured to my silky silver clothing. "Your pajamas. Your 'good suit' is the translation from Gaideliac, technically. You know, there are a few special licking patterns that help to lull comfortable drones to sleep. I used to use them when you were a baby. But you enjoyed it?"

I leaned back on my hands, embracing the weight of the soft pallet beneath me. The squish of the cushion, the misty curtain of pheromones in the air and on my tongue. "Yes, sir."

H.P. nodded, short. "You won't get to sleep next to me often, but if I permit you to wear your mhalaith-chéad, consider it a possibility. Assuming you do impress me. Silver silk pajamas are an alpha drone indicator and a privilege. If you like it, I'll be sure we do this again sometime. Not often. But sometimes. Now, go get dressed."

"A few licks first, sir?"

"Mm… I suppose you deserve just a few since you've been good. Come here."

"A few" made us late for work. Very late. I don't know why he allowed that. I suppose good moods pick their moments. It was hard not to show a smile that day. No matter how old or independent pixies get, there's always a special intimacy when the boss personally tucks you into bed.

My wings came in three days after that event. I was just under 160,000 years old. How strange to be a young drake looking at himself in the mirror, adjusting the collar and sleeves of his pressed white shirt… tying his black tie… How strange to think that in Anti-Fairy World, Anti-Sanderson had been considered a legal adult for nearly 9,500 years already. Anti-Hawkins and Anti-Wilcox, too, with Anti-Longwood just a sliver away. I hadn't spoken to my counterpart in ages. Maybe I should. I wondered what he was doing now.

It's tradition in the cloudlands to throw a party when your adult wings come in. The boss had taken charge of it. The other pixies were in a scramble to make the proper arrangements, largely bossed around by Dame Sandy herself, who'd descended from on high to dance with me again the way she had for my baptism long ago at the Faeheim shrine. I didn't expect anything hip or modern, but he'd at least promised a bit of music in the evening. Hopefully something to my tastes.

I'd need new suits tailored for my adult body, but H.P. had commissioned a transition suit in advance when we thought we knew my measurements. We'd guessed a little big. Well. It would do; I could put up with it for a few days. I finished with my shirt, gave myself one more look in my bedroom mirror, and turned around.

"How do I look, sir?" Good enough for a party, at least. I felt sure of that.

H.P. glanced up from his papers. Nonchalant… for about half a wingbeat. With a burst of tangy flavor, a major spike shot through the energy field. It tasted like a question and spluttered expletive rolled into one. His eyebrows shot off his head. His gaze snapped up and down, drinking me in. I hesitated.

"Sir? Am I correct in assuming I clean up nice?"

He mumbled approval, rubbing his mouth, and excused himself from the room. Oh. A little puzzled, I settled on my bed to await his return. I never could predict his reactions, even after all these years. Had I seriously screwed up that bad? Why couldn't I just get an enthusiastic answer? Or at least a genuine one.

My senses picked up movement and smell outside the door. H.P. setting up a pheromone barrier by marking my room with a large X. Oh. Uh… Guess I was staying here for awhile, then. I unsheathed my wand and clutched it in my lap, staring at my reflection in the wand screen. If I needed to talk to someone, Hawkins was just a shake away. Still didn't change the fact the boss had left me alone.

Maybe he hadn't noticed. Maybe he'd do something else and forget he put me here. Maybe it was his plan to leave me here long-term. I felt my core start to beat, my wings start to shift, a literal breath slipping down my throat…

When H.P. came back, I was sprinkling food in my grayfish tank. He pinged right behind me and pointedly coughed in his fist. "Hello, boss," I said, screwing the lid back on. I put the canister aside. "Am I in trouble?"

"No, it's legal. I went and checked."

My brain flatlined with an ellipses. I turned around. "I don't follow, sir."

"The suit," he said. His voice stayed level as ever, but his eyes were softer now. "You should start wearing it when we deep preen. It fits your form nicely. Really."

"Thank you."

Pause. H.P. waited like he always did when he expected a further response: hands clasped before his waist, thumbs pointing up, eyes locked on mine. He didn't move. But something was up. I pinched my brows together.

"Boss, I'm not sure I recognize the full context of your behavior. Can you clarify?"

"We do have free time before I need to start preparing you for your adulthood ceremony."

"I don't understand." My slowness to grasp these clues made me feel stupid, and I hoped he didn't find my struggled replies offensive. If he did, he gave no sign. He snatched my wrist and lifted his wand. It crackled at the tip, raring to go.

"Deep preening would be appropriate, I think. Assuming you're interested."

"Oh," I said. His wand was up, waiting for a signal, but permission to accept or revoke the offer rested squarely in my hands. Something about the way H.P. studied me was… odd. Respectful, but impatient. A shiver to his wings. The slip of his tongue against his inside cheek. He'd changed his shirt, I realized then. It was the same color, the same style, but… he'd changed it. It smelled a little cleaner. He'd shoved a wet comb through his hair, because it dripped. In the end, he blinked. He actually blinked at me first, which I'd never seen him do before.

"Well?"

He wanted to preen with me. Deep preen. Right now. Did I have that right? "Are you…" I had to struggle to find the phrase. "… turned on, sir?"

"It'll be your first adult preen," he said, dodging the question with a smart smack of words. I think he was. Turned on in the preening sense of the word, I mean. His pheromones were spinning.

"Are you?" The boss, so careful with his emotions, did not make a habit of expressing desire in our preening. He tended to play a character, often tired, putting on a show as though the entire process was something he had to sit through for my schooling, my benefit. How strange to see him out of sorts this way.

His eyes crashed against mine. Hungry. And powerful. "You wear the suit nicely."

I frowned. Imperceptibly, I like to think, but he probably noticed anyway. The boss always did. Maybe now that I'd come into my adult wings, I'd started producing some sort of majorly submissive pheromones that he couldn't ignore if he tried. Was that a thing? Not likely. According to Canterbury v. Oakwing, you're not allowed to out a drone without consent, and drones today no longer have to wear special required clothing and wristbands to indicate who they were or where they belonged. Why would that law have come into play if you could recognize a drone by their pheromones anyway? I looked down at my hands. Was there something else about my adult form that had set him off? H.P. had always been evasive when it came to discussing shedding cycles. Maybe the several inches I'd gained and the soft, newborn skin of my next phase were just a combination too admirable to handle.

Or maybe he simply admired the way I looked in my temporary new suit. I didn't like where that was going. My competitors for his attention were phenotypically identical. If he didn't like Sanderson for Sanderson, that was going to be a problem.

But I wanted licks and he desperately wanted to offer them, so I went along with his request. We started our preen that morning with a massage, because he kept fidgeting and I could tell he wanted one. It's a good way to spread pheromones in the air, too. My skills need no lengthy descriptions to sing their praises; I always had the boss squirming on the table beneath me in minutes. He stretched one hand as far out as it could go, crushing the heel of the other to his mouth: "Mmf! Dust, Sanderson. You've perfected this."

"I try, sir," I said, feigning boredom. H.P. had never loosened up so much around me before that day, and I wasn't going to draw attention to it in case he changed his mind. I pulled my circling hands lower down his back, running them just beneath his wings. My thumbs dug in below. My knuckles caressed the membranes above.

"Oh yeah… Little to the left."

I complied and slowed my strokes. His wings purred, trying to overlap and chirp despite my arms blocking the way.

"That's it, Sanderson…" The words got mixed and muffled in his arm. The stretched hand clenched into a fist and flared the fingers out again. "You're getting promoted."

That pricked my attention. "To what, sir?" Did adult pixies get new job opportunities? At this point, I'd take absolutely anything over the complaints department. Ever since the dawn of Pixies Inc., I'd been working that miserable desk job. If he threw me in the mail room or even laundry, I wouldn't care. New stimulation. That's all I wanted.

"To Head Pixie's favorite retinue drone."

Of course.

"Don't stop. That's a good spot there. Oh yeah… Dust- blitz- right there. Yes… Okay, I'm promoting you out of that last title."

"To what?" I asked flatly.

"Head Pixie's super favorite retinue drone."

I kept my focus on my work, trying not to sulk. One of these days, I really needed to talk to him about the retinue glass ceiling in the workplace.

I got in touch with Idona again after I came into my adult wings. She'd gotten hers a little earlier, as wisps usually did. Suddenly it grew weird to eat lunch and study together if we weren't courting, even though we'd been doing it all our lives. Pixies are creatures of habit, so I let it happen. I was no longer attending all seven years of school during the zodiac cycle - only the basic Love Year courses, nothing deeper - so I barely saw her. But when I did, I let her take the lead. We held hands in the halls and made a goal to kiss under every archway. We exchanged presents every appropriate holiday and devised a secret code for writing messages. I used to leave her little notes on the bulletin boards when I passed on my way to morning classes, and every afternoon on my way back there would be a reply waiting for me. Hawkins knew, because I tell him everything. Wilcox knew, but he'd never squeal even if you paid him. Longwood knew, and he blushed redder than his freckles whenever he saw us talking. I wasn't a very good flirt and I knew that. But Idona respected me anyway. And as long as I had Idona's attention, Longwood didn't. I was alpha drone. The others didn't dare touch her. She was mine.

"Why doesn't it bother you that I'm a pixie?" I asked her one day, carrying all our books as we floated towards the library. We had an Alien Geography project that couldn't wait another weekend; we were doing Planet Snobulac, and Dip wasn't with us because he'd gone to get a bread loaf for snacks.

Idona threw a glance over her shoulder, almost whipping my arm with her golden braid. "Why would that bother me?"

"Because mates are unnecessary, marriage is pointless." I craned my neck around the stack of books. Idona had stopped in front of the library door. Which was still closed. Oh. Maybe I should have waited to speak until we'd gotten to our table. Then I could have put down these books. The wisp twisted on her heel, chin high.

"Don't you agree that parents who don't have kids can still love each other?"

"No," I said. "If they don't have kids, they're not really parents."

Her wings drooped with hurt. She tugged at her soft hat, one foot tapping in the air. "If you wanted to marry me, I wouldn't care if we never had a nymph."

"It's illegal to marry a wisp," I pointed out. "You're a red flag race."

"It's not illegal, it's just…" She struggled to find the right words. "… not legal. A marriage to a wisp isn't legally upheld by the cherubs, but it's legal for you to join my harem. Right now, if you wanted to."

"No thanks. I like the clouds. I like school."

"You'll have baby pixies someday," she said, very matter-of-fact. That's what I liked about Idona: she was all about facts. She always knew what she wanted and didn't ask a lot of questions. She said, "You'll be just like H.P. with all your little copy Sandersons."

"We don't know for sure. Pixies Incorporated and the Eros Nest are investigating the possibility, but until I'm older, it's impossible to confirm or deny." The thought made me grimace. I'd told the Triplet of the Evening, Drk. Ludell, in no uncertain terms that I had no interest in letting him take samples of my eggs. Not now. I needed time to adjust to adulthood before I made any big decisions. I might spend six years of the zodiac cycle in the workplace these days, but I still felt like a kid in an oversized body. No way was I ready to let him play around with my eggs and try to figure out how to make baby pixies out of them. I needed more time. I mean, I was still having a silent crisis over the fact that I hadn't yet caught myself expressing the usual fluttery courtship behaviors around Idona, so that was the bigger concern on my mind. That pull of attraction seemed to come easily to all my drake peers, but not to me. I didn't even know how to process that.

"Is it possible to stop the cycle after you have two or three nymphs?"

"I don't know. Probably not. H.P. didn't even want one."

"Sandy, are you courting me?"

I shrugged, holding her gaze. Idona considered this, then opened the door.

"Maybe you aren't. Maybe you don't love me. But I don't care, because I'm happy to pretend for now. So unless you go and marry a different damsel, I'll just act like you're courting me. It doesn't bother me, even if you never, ever want to take this any further. We can still hold hands while you're at school. I'll just enjoy it while it lasts."

"Okay." I didn't have a problem with that. Idona nodded, very pleased with herself, and we started working on our project. She wasn't easily bothered and never shouted at me, even when we used to argue in our younger years. Like I said, Idona always knew exactly what she wanted. If you didn't give it to her, she was content to daydream about a universe where you had. She didn't always work hard, but smoof if she wasn't dazzled at coming up with radical ideas. Idona wasn't popular because of her race, but most everyone wanted to work with her on projects because she always brought innovative thoughts to the table and gave the best presentations. Everyone fell eagerly silent when she raised her hand to speak. Those were the days I stared at her, biting on the back of my pen. She's mine, I thought, and as far as we were concerned, she was. If mates weren't unnecessary and she wasn't a wisp, maybe I would have married her. Then we could have held hands in Pixie World too, not only at school.

"Sir," I said one day when H.P. and I were up in the orchard tree branches harvesting nightplums. "I've been seeing someone."

"Fairywinkle?" he asked, fast and harsh. "Waterberry? Abdul?"

I sat there in the tree, speechless, before twisting around. "I didn't mean another gyne."

"Where have you been interviewing? You never requested a letter of recommendation."

"Smoof, boss. I'm not taking a different job. It's just this damsel."

"Oh," H.P. said, losing interest. He ate one of the plums instead of tucking it in the basket floating nearby. "Sanderson, my policy is clear. Longwood and Smith are forbidden from chasing vices, but since you're not a gyne, I don't care if you have flings off the clock. Just don't be blatant or gross."

"I don't know how to have a fling, sir. You never gave me instructions about the wands and the wings."

"That's unfortunate."

I waited. After a moment, he glanced at me through the spiky nightplum branches.

"That's awkward," he rephrased himself. "I expected you to know by now."

"I don't."

Silence.

"Well, that's super awkward."

"Are you going to inform me about the process, sir?"

He slurped the plum juice from his fingers, eyes rolling thoughtfully away. "It's not difficult. You initiate coupling like you initiate preening. Dress nicely, brush your teeth, say hello, ask her for her preferences, and do whatever she says to make her happy. You may or may not enjoy it, but if you want to research, I won't stop you.""

"That's it? Does it work?"

"It should. A fling is when you do all that, but with a damsel you aren't courting. One you might not see again, or at least not for a long time."

Oh. This was a puzzling explanation indeed. I hadn't realized we couldn't be courting at the time. So, I broke up with Idona when I saw her again the following month. Being more emotional than logical, she poofed away before I could ask about her fling preferences. Although H.P. had asked us not to share details of our romantic pursuits with him, I told him that much when I came home and found him in the orchard for the second day of harvest. He stared at me for thirty seconds straight. Then he grabbed my face and pulled me in close, chuckling dryly into my hair.

"Never change, Sanderson… Never change."

He went away humming, leaving me floating between the trees, still confused about many things. Everything about H.P. always left me a little confused, and sometimes more. I was a drone who loved his gyne, not one who understood him, and it wasn't really my place to repeat questions he didn't want to answer. I did at least prefer this reaction more than when Longwood and I were younger and asked how kissing worked. H.P. had grabbed our hands and pinged us to some park by a saucerbee field, then shoved us out there with a bored instruction to "Go figure it out."

So that was Idona. It was three weeks before I got her alone long enough to explain the situation. We were kneeling under the chesberry trees in the courtyard with our lunch, watching two young gynes wrestle in the grass nearby. She wiped her eyes with the end of her braid when I came up to her, but told me I could sit beside her and Dip if I wanted to. So I did. Silently, I handed her a note I'd written in advance, which ended with In summary, I don't know how to request a fling. Idona read the note twice, then sputtered with laughter.

"Don't change," she told me too. Quite fondly if I wasn't mistaken.

"I think I should change," I said, pressing my brows together. "You and H.P. both laughed at me. The implication is that I'm lacking common yet vital information and ought to adapt."

Idona creased my letter and poofed it away somewhere. "Do you really want to know how a fling works?"

"If you're willing to educate me," I said, sliding out my wand. Idona pushed it back in its sheath with a knowing smirk and leaned in. I faltered. "We can't… have one out here. Right? It's not a public thing. We'd have to leave."

She cupped her hand around my ear and started to whisper. She whispered and whispered for a long time, and when she was done I said "Oh," and may have turned an off color that didn't befit a pixie. I lay down in the grass just to think, and Idona laughed beside me and scratched my hair until it was time for classes. She didn't pull me away to a hidden place and try to teach me by example, but told me all I needed to know before we left the area, and she didn't force anything on me when I decided this all sounded so much more complicated than what I was ready for. She squeezed my hand anyway and ran her fingers through my hair. And, well… Maybe that's how pixies have flings.

---

A/N - Text to Show: You might have caught it above, but Cosmo and Wanda both paid visits to Pixie Village for unrelated reasons. I like to think they glimpsed each other several times - enough for Cosmo to be well aware of Juandissimo and for Juandissimo to uneasily wonder if Cosmo was a threat - but they never spoke or interacted more than a shy wave or awkward smile. The Season 9 episode "Cosmonopoly" is canon in this story and I use that as the episode where Cosmo and Wanda officially met and started interacting.

I mention this because one of the locations on Cosmo's handmade board game is a laundromat next to a place called Pixie Woods, and it's implied he did his laundry there the day he met Wanda. He hangs out, and Sanderson mentioning that he "became familiar with Cosmo" is a nod to the episode "Pixies Inc." where Cosmo seems vaguely familiar with Sanderson (i.e. Cosmo said "If you don't recognize me, it's probably the hat," which either implies that Cosmo has met Sanderson before or Cosmo just has a widely known face, both of which are quite possible).

Also if you weren't aware that there are "outtakes" for "School's Out! The Musical" and that Sanderson was NOT happy when H.P. enjoyed a massage from Juandissimo, then boy do I have a search recommendation for you.