Amthy liked a party. It gave her an opportunity to disguise her apprehension and safe guard the fragile bloom of hope that grew within her heart. She had ransacked her room at Helston House to make sure the party was a fete to remember, even if Rick would probably prefer not to. In the end, she?d made it to Chryrie?s new home with a smart, hard-sided train case and her second-to-smallest valise. The Fairy had made it especially easy for the directionally impaired nymph-y pix. All she?d had to do was crush a little bauble to appear in a magical puff on the threshold.

It was especially nifty neato. Amthy was very impressed.

For being a creature composed almost entirely of magic, she was a decidedly un-magical creature. Magic took focus. It was a commodity that Amthy was frequently short of. Focus and patience. Focus, patience, and diligence?and probably a whole lot of other things that did not fit well with her airy, flighty disposition. That did not, however, prevent her from trying to use magic. There were some things that came to her easily. Her emotion bubbles took no effort, and neither did her shifting glamour. But to be fair, she had no control over the glamour. It was as much a part of her as her hair was green.

While Chryrie worked, Amthy tried very hard to stay out of the woman?s hair. This was fairly easy to do with Rick?s hair just begging to be meddled with. It was no accident that she had also packed her mani-pedi kit. Even though she was able to blithely bother Chryrie?s boyfriend, the lingering notes of burnt cinnamon, musky soil, and oakmoss belied the emotions that ran just beneath the surface?even if they were overwhelmed at times with playful bursts of cherry and ginger.

?Rick?? Amthy called as she wandered around the house. ?Rr-ick?? She popped her head into a room or two, lengths of curling cloths hanging from her newly manicured nails. Bright, shiny ovals of opal violet shimmered on her nail beds. While she searched for her ?host?, she heard Chryrie call for her. Anxious, the scent of burnt cinnamon renewed as she stepped into her wife?s work space. ?I canno? find Rick,? she lamented to Chryrie. ?I tol?im to wet his hair for the curling,? she lifted up her handful of muslin strips. ?I think spirals would look very poetic on?im.? She paused, the nymph?s mouth running dry. Her tongue rubbed against the gritty inside of her mouth. ?Did you need me for sommat? I?I did think I heard you call? If no? I can?.? She made a gesture back toward the door. No such luck. Chryrie did need her for something. She gulped. It was audible.

Blood. Chryrie needed her blood, or what passed for the stuff that ran inside her shell. Amthy was not good with blood. She was even less happy with pain, but that more due to the suspense. She looked at the needle shining ominously on the work bench. Amthy changed her mind. She didn?t like pain because it hurt. Unblinking tsavorite-hued eyes tracked Chryrie as she moved from a bottle to another and then away, and moved instead to talk about her hair. She wasn?t quite sure what Chryrie was collecting, but she didn?t wonder for long. Why would she when the topic moved to her? The nymph didn?t need much persuasion to embrace the topic.

Amthy puffed and preened at the pretty compliments. A dove-like coo escaped her when the Fae came closer and touched the gradient green tussle. The proximity was soothing. They talked about trivial things?what shampoo she used, if she needed conditioner, and whether or not she bothered with hot irons to get the ends to turn just so. Amthy gleefully relayed her beauty secrets. As far as she was concerned, everyone could benefit from her advice. It roused her not-so-teeny ego, and the beast rattled around in the rickety cage that held it. It took some coaxing, but Chryrie had buttered her up so nicely (and reminded her of the whole reason why the nymph-pix was there to begin with!); Amthy surrendered three strands of her hair. Pluck! Pluck! Pluck! She fancied she felt the root ball of each shaft pop free of her scalp. In reality, it was nothing more than a gentle tug.

Melodramatically, she rubbed her scalp and sniffled. It wasn?t a grievous injury but a little coddling was always nice, except Chryrie wasn?t paying her any attention. Ginger warmed the air, and Amthy moved in closer to watch Chryrie plant what appeared to be a seed. She could feel the flow of magic. It danced at the edge of her awareness and made the nape of her neck feel all tingly. She forgot to be wounded. Instead, she moved closer and watched with breathless anticipation. The song of green, growing things mingled with her Wind Sib?s chattering. It was elegant and wonderful.

While she was thusly engrossed, Chryrie used the opportunity to pierce her finger. The woman was magical in more ways than one?she hadn?t even seen her get the needle. Amthy yelped in surprise, and gave a small jump. Chryrie kept her hand held secure and rolled her fingertip to coax a fat bead of garnet to the surface. She held Amthy?s finger above the magicked sapling. The droplet grew heavy and fell upon its tender bark. It was followed by two more.

?Oh, tha? hurt,? Amthy whimpered. Her lower lip pushed forward and trembled delicately, but she did not cry. Chryrie chased the pout away with an indulgent kiss to the top of her head. Kisses really did make things better. Amthy pushed her finger into her mouth and suckled childlike at the miniscule puncture.

But at least it was over.

"I dunno." The green haired nymph's voice seemed distant to the moredhel fae. She watched as Amthy tested one of the magical strands that bound her to the tulip tree. Chryrie lifted a finger and opened her mouth to speak a word of warning about testing such the strength of a newly formed bond, but it was too late. The strand broke and Amthy collapsed at her feet.

"Amthy!" She dived to catch the smaller woman before her head smacked into the marble tiles. There was a cry of pain as elbows cracked into the floor, but she had saved her friend from having possible head trauma. If she had been thinking, she would've used the shadows to save her friend. But she had just performed a bonding spell, so she was reacting on instinct, not logical thought. Of course she realized all this a bit late.

She shifted herself and Amthy's limp form around until she had the nymph carefully cradled like a child. The olivine hair spilled out over the moredhel fae's shoulder as she gently checked over her dear friend. She was breathing. Good.

Chryrie splayed her hand out toward the tulip tree. With a single barely breathed word, the strands of the bonding lit up brightly so she could clearly see what had happened. Her thin eyebrows pinched together in concentration. The bond had not been completely broken, but it had been damaged. Thankfully, it was damage that could be repaired. However, it could take days for the nymph to recover even after it had been fixed.

"Oh my dear wife, you just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" She murmurs softly to the woman in her arms. She then carefully plucked one more hair from Amthy?s head. Might as well fix it now while the girl was too unconscious to notice the pain. One more drop of blood. And then she was singing the song to repair the damaged bond. By the time she was done, Chryrie's eyelids were feeling a bit heavier than usual.

She sighed and called upon her elemental servants to help her. Physically, Chryrie was not particularly strong. It was the trade-off for her having such great magical power. She summoned forth two earth elementals, one air, and one water. She then pointed to one of the earth cousins that was closest to her and then the air.

?You and you. Place her within one of the guest rooms. The one nearest to my own, please. Make sure she is comfortable. ? She carefully instructed them. There was the sound of stone grinding against stone as the earth elemental solemnly nodded to Chryrie. There was the faintest whisper as the air elemental swirled and fretted over the nymphy-pix as she was carried away.

?And you two.? She pointed to the other earth elemental and the water. ?Find a pot that is large enough to keep this tree in temporarily. Place it on the balcony of her room and ensure it is well tended until she wakes. If you see any sign of distress, you are to let me know immediately.?

She watched them hurry off to tend to their assignments before rising to her feet. She followed the first pair of elementals to the room she had asked them to place Amthy in. Amthy was a creature of magic, not normal flesh and blood. Therefore, it really wouldn?t make any sense to hook her up to an IV when the laws of normal medical science did not apply. But who knew how long she would be unconscious?

Once her servants had finished making Amthy comfortable, Chryrie wrapped the fingers of one hand about a post of the canopy bed. She considered at length how to best tend to her. She finally decided if the woman had not woken within a day, she would enchant the canopy to gently sprinkle life sustaining magic onto the pixie. With that in mind, she turned and pointed to the air elemental that was still there.

?You will notify me the moment she wakes.?

Candy is sweet/
Ice cream is too/
But the most delicious treat/
Isn't something that you chew/

For it comes when you sleep/
While the moon gently beams/
What a pleasure to keep sweet dreams.


?Would you like more tea?? Amthy asked pleasantly, white gloved hands pressed to the handle of a large rose-patterned tea pot. She sat at a round table. To her right and left were chairs. There was a feeling that the right was occupied. The left was not. She had this understanding without bothering to look in either direction to verify it.

The moment she voiced her question a line of teacups grew out of the lacy table cloth. Amthy lifted the teapot. ?m a little teapot short an? stout. The children?s ditty rolled around in her airy head. The pot in her hand became smaller, fatter, and began to shout.

?Tip me over already!? The rose-patterned teapot complained. Steam rolled from the spout, and whistled through the seam between the lid and body.

?You?re awful demandin? for a teapot,? Amthy observed.

?You got a problem with that?? In a gradient flow, the teapot turned pink and red. The bottom a fiery splash that faded to pink and back to white at the tip of the spout and lid handle.

?Not exactly,? The green-haired nymph admitted. ?But you dunn sound like I expected.? Not that she had ever expected the teapot to start talking. It just had.

?Oh, so now I?m not good enough for you?? The teapot steamed.

?I jus? thought you?d talk a bit more like?this,? Amthy answered. Her lilting voice took on a cultured, sophisticated air. The stilted tone registered heavily on the final word. ?You should try?t. ?s easy.?

?I?m not here to amuse you,? the teapot whistled.

?I think you might be,? the nymph replied apologetically. ??m sorry.? The teapot was becoming heavy. She tipped it over and filled one of the cups. The teapot began to scream. It was a high-pitched siren wail.

When she picked the cup up to set it on a saucer, another teacup grew up out of the table cloth to take its place. And since this was perfectly natural, Amthy filled another cup. And another, and another, and so on until the small table top was full of filled teacups. They clustered together on every free surface, and teetered precariously on the edge of the table. With no room for the teapot, she put the thing on her lap.

It wriggled in her hands. Arms and legs sprouted from the body. Huge cartoonish eyes opened on either side of the spout. ?Would you like any sugar?? She asked her tea time companion. Her voice was strained.

Amthy struggled to keep the teapot on her lap. The vessel squirmed and bounced until she was forced to release it. The teapot clambered onto the table. Teacups fell, tea spilled, and glass broke. With long spidery digits the teapot shoved petite fours into its newly acquired mouth. Crumbs and fondant rained onto the puddles of tea. It made a soggy, soupy mess. It crouched simian-like in the center of the table. A tail unwound from the plump body and hair sprouted from the smooth porcelain sides.

?I dunn think this is turnin? out like ?s s?posed to,? Amthy lamented to her companion, finally turned toward the right. The chair was empty, and she puzzled over the absence. Dark green brows furrowed and she swiveled toward the left. Empty.

?Things rarely do, lovely.?

She heard the humor and apology in the voice. Her head tipped back to touch the top of her chair. Warmth unwound inside her, and the nymph smiled. Lifting up her hand, she reached first for the body behind her. A brief touch of the back of her hand and then to the feathers that came forward to the sides of her. Like cloud stuff, they dissolved through the comb of her fingers.

?Please, dunn go,? she pleaded. Amthy pulled the wisps toward herself. They stretched and pulled and became nothing at all.

((song: Sweet Dreams from Strawberry Shortcake))

There was music. It floated through the barren landscape. Nondescript, but hauntingly familiar, Amthy found she could not name it. The green-haired nymph drifted through the emptiness. It stretched endlessly before her, behind her, and to either side of her. With nowhere to go, she followed the melody.

The blank scenery darkened. The gloom became a wall. She suddenly became aware of a window. A moth drawn to a flame in the chill of night, the nymphy-pix flitted closer to the opening within her mind. Ever inquisitive, Amthy ran her hands over the newly constructed barrier. The wall was made of stone. She could see lines between each piece. The music seeped out between the cracks.

There once was a little piece of string/
All alone and with nothing to do/
Each night it would wish more than anything/
For a someone to tie itself to.

Amthy pressed up against the pane and scrunched her face, trying to see more clearly. She could just make out some shapes beyond the wavy glass. There was a chair and a book. She rubbed at her eyes. There was a bed. There was someone in the bed. There was also someone sitting in the chair.

Then one day a fiddler came wandering by/
And this plain little string quickly caught its eye/
The fiddler said, ?Just come with me/
I can?t tell you how happy you?ll be.?

And there was singing. The singing?for all that it was enthusiastic and heartfelt?was not superbly executed. The singer?s tempo and pitch varied within the piece, and she breathed at inopportune moments. She recognized the song.

It was her singing. It was her sitting in the chair.

Then one day a fiddler came wandering by/
And this plain little string quickly caught its eye/
The fiddler said, ?Just come with me/
I can?t tell you how happy you?ll be.?

The more she tried to identify the person in the bed, the less distinct it became. Amthy continued to watch the unfolding scene. The cogs in her airy head turned, searching to find the tattered memory inside the much abused archive of her mind. She worried her fingers against the wall. A small nub lifted up from between the stones.

I have a broken string on my fiddle/
I cannot play a thing on my fiddle/
And musically speaking/
You`re just what I?m seeking/
With you I?ll be able to play!?

She caught the remembrance by its fuzzy tail. Nimbly, she spun the fluffy stuff. Over and around, she twisted it in a growing ball inside her hands. The stones unraveled. The wall dissolved line by line like a sweater. Amthy no longer watched the pair inside the room-that-was-not-a-room. She looked at the cottony wad that was once a memory. When Amthy looked up, she was no longer standing at the edges. She sat in the chair beside the bed. Glittering gold threads hung off of her body. Her lips moved, and her voice warbled with the song. The words grated inside her throat and broke.

?You?ve made a mistake,? said the little string/
I have never made music before.?/
The fiddler said, ?I?ll teach you how to sing/
And you won?t be alone anymore.?

Amthy slid off the chair and dug her fingers into the bed cover. The shimmering filaments followed her. The mattress sagged under her weight. She wondered if it was because she thought it should or if she had substance. With her curiosity still unsated Amthy crawled along the unidentified form. It nagged at her. She had to look upon its face.

And still she sang (poorly).

He played on the string at fancy dress ball/
And the sound thrilled the dancers and filled the hall/
So sometimes a plain little piece of string/
Makes the prettiest music of all.

Elsewhere, in the waking world, the nymph stirred inside her borrowed bed. Dried petals rustled. Long unused limbs twitched. Her shoulders rolled and she sighed. Dark green lashes trembled against her cheeks.

Reed thin a single whispered word left her lips. ?Kitty,? Amthy said.

((lyrics: The Tale of the String by Jan A.P. Kaczmarek))

In her dreams, Amthy was coated in gold. It wasn?t a solid gild, but a shimmering spray of sparkles not unlike her dust. The particles clung together and gave substance to the filaments that trailed from her body. Magic?it was everywhere. The thought whispered through her mind and sent ripples across the dreamscape. Transformed, the golden motes turned to fireflies and the floor of the room-that-was-not blossomed into a cushiony landscape of dandelions. The bed she rested upon became an island.

The moment she fancied it an island, it began to sink. The field of flowers melted into a rainbow sea. The watercolor waters rose and fell. Cresting pastel waves tumbled over the edge of the mattress. ?No,? she squeaked as the bed tipped and the foot dipped beneath the surface. Amthy scrambled up to the head of the bed. Kitty-who-was-a-dream slid down the covers. Frantic, the nymph clawed Kitty free. ?Nonono,? breathed Amthy.

The dream had perverted her memory. The foot board disappeared completely and the level of the restless sea continued to rise. Amthy dug her heels into the soft, soggy material and tangled her fingers into Kitty?s clothing. The harder she tried to hold on, the more it seemed like the other slipped away. ?Stop!? Amthy yelled, and in her dream she began to cry. She did not want to lose Kitty to the water.

With a sickening slurp, Amthy?s tightening fingers speared into her friend. Shocked and repulsed Amthy snatched her hands back. Muscle and skin clung to her hands. Kitty-that-was-a-dream crumbled and tumbled; decayed. Bits of her fell off the bed. Her skull caught on a wadded section of sheet. Everything else that was left sank into the deep.

The watercolor waters splashed against the bed-that-was-an-island. Rivulets of indigo and rose dribbled down her arm and slowly ate away at the gore coating her fingertips. Amthy huddled at the top of the bed. The skull stared at her. Amthy stared numbly back.

In the waking world, Kitty?the real Kitty?was close. She whispered into Amthy?s ear. The nymph-pix moved toward the sound. Tears wet her cheeks and beaded along the line of her dark green lashes. Her eye lids twitched and pulled.

?I?m right here.? Kitty said, and in the dream world, the partially bare skull with its bits of fur, rotting eyes and token patches of flesh, smiled.

The water continued to rise. It swallowed the skull. It swallowed the bed. A hungry beast, it swallowed up Amthy, too. The shifting rainbow sea blinded her. It went up her nose and wriggled like an eager worm down into her lungs. The water pulled her down and she began to drown.

In the waking world, pressed near to Kitty, Amthy held her breath. Fingers talon-hooked, she clawed frantic and unfocused. She kicked. Dried petals scattered. The air in the room became foreboding and heavy. Shuddering, she became a mess of limbs and murky green hair. A breeze pulled at the curtains and slapped an empty glass onto its side. The vessel rolled over the edge of the side table and broke upon the floor.

That's a scary dream/
But it's just a dream/
A story in your head/
So goodbye fear, you're safe right here/
In your house, in your room, in your bed

She sank like a stone. All the Air?did the Dreaming breathe? Amthy seemed to think so?was leaving her leaving the Earth behind. Bubbles; Amthy watched them push up through the watercolor sea. Big and small. No matter how she tried to catch them, they slipped away from her grasping fingers and danced toward the surface beyond her reach. Not a single one deigned to pull her up.

Her hair, green and lively, waved a kelp forest tinged with raspberry and mandarin hued waters. Indigo pushed against her eyes and she felt surprising warmth inside her mind. She felt the shift in her dreamscape like scattered dandelion down rippling across the water. Kitty?s hand closed around her. Her touch brought revelation. The shape of Kitty?s Will brought safety. Amthy greedily accepted it.

"It's alright, Pix. I'm here to protect you. Now what's a lovely girl like you doing dreaming such terrible things like this?"

?Kitty,? the Nymph-Pix exhaled in warm panting breath and gratitude. Despite her earlier visions of the woman?s grotesque deconstruction, Amthy embraced her Illicit Love?s return. She would not, could not, lose Kitty. Her mind, it seemed, agreed and supplied her with another one. A Kitty that was plush and curved and had its skin on.

The Fae was adrift in a shifting landscape that she had never quite conquered. Lucid dreaming was a touch-and-go talent. She was a black-out drunk with only brief moments of clarity. The rainbow waters receded. It pushed away from the bubble, splashing up newly imagined walls where it stuck firm to define a new room-that-was-not-a-room. The substance thickened, solidifying into thick swathes of velvet; rich and plush that puddled in cushioning ponds on the newly revealed floor. Candlelight flickered against the pile of the material giving it seductive warmth. Grippy grasping hands roved and a leg rubbed against Dream-Kitty?s.

This was a much better dream.

In the waking word, Amthy crooned and curled into a fetal ball. Her hands wedged beneath her cheek and a sleepy smile stretched her lips. The Wind died down to a summer zephyr. Her Wind Sibs buzzed from the head of the bed to the foot. Amthy had been sleeping for a long time, and they were becoming bored. Impishly, they tugged off the blanket. Little ephemeral bodies rolled the fabric down onto the ground. They tickled the pads of her feet. One industrious sylph wedged a jelly bean into Amthy?s nostril. A handful of others struggled to manipulate a pen, doodling random pictographs onto the nymph?s cheek.

On the balcony, the nymph-curved tulip tree grew. The bud bearing branches thickened. The nubs ripened. Most importantly, the invisible magical filaments that connected the newly bonded strengthened; mending the chaos Amthy had inadvertently created.

That's a scary dream/
But it's just a dream/
A story in your head/
So count some sheep/
Go back to sleep/
Have a sweet dream now, instead/
Have a sweet dream now, instead/
Have a sweet dream now, instead

((lyrics: Scary Dream from the Pajanimals))