Does an opportunistic fairy count?

She’d only been so old when her family lost their standing. What luck it was that she had been of age.

At least that's what her father thought, as he held the papers of a contract in his hand.

There was fine artifice of wealth in the chapel, courtesy of a more affluent uncle.

For a soft and foreign moment the world smelled of rosewater.

Whether he was a fine man or not, was not her family’s concern. 

As the dowry had been paid. 

So in her husband’s house she was set adrift, a mite too new in a villa more castle then home.

With a husband more a spoiled youth than willing tradesman. 

She couldn’t much mind who he was though, with his apparent inattention. She was lucky to have married him, he never failed to treat her as such.

So while she, like any good lady, she kept his house, and tallied their resources, he would attend to himself only, with the luxuries of his class. 

Their marriage a duty to his father, and to his inheritance.

As while she was quite willing to prepare for him what he liked, to live as he would like her to, he was too disinterested to see it.

This was how she felt when she wished for it, a way out. So that she might be without his disdain for her.

There would be moments when she would blame this for all that would transpire.

She would be married for little more than a year before meeting the Fairy, it wasn’t planned in the least, as it happened while she was lunching in the courtyard. 

She really didn’t understand what she was seeing at first, as the high noon sun glinted off the slick white of the strange far off gracile forms.

What was an even worse shock to her eyes was the Calabash, or at least a carriage that was shaped like a Calabash.

She notices as they come closer that the spokes of the carriage wheels are inlaid gold and precious gems.

The carriage deigned to stop in front of her now deferential abode, and an opulently dressed woman debarked the Calabash.

“Hello dear, I am in need of assistance.”

She really couldn’t imagine such an entourage would need anything more, but she did as was asked.

And she sent for some help regarding a linchpin for the wheel of all things.

They talked in the interim, “so how far back did the pin snap?”

“Only a little while back, there's only so much that can be done while to and fro.”

“Of course,”

“Do you have anything to spare for my Hinds?”, the woman asked, “even a block without a linchpin deserves a reward.”

“Their Hinds?”

“Yes. what did you think they were? Cats?”

“I suppose fish would be more noticeable,” she said, It's not as if my husband will care either way, “I’ll tell you how much to spare.”

And so she sent her maids for salt, grain and some other things, there was much fun to be had treating the poor Deers.

The woman would visit her often after that, riding in with her shining Hinds and her glittering Calabash, and when she did she would bring all kinds of things, literal and figurative. It was quite hard to be lonely when she visited.

But the woman wasn’t always there, and her occasional presence would only serve a contrast to her husband’s behavior. A man who only seemed ignorant, seemed cruel, with the option of a friend.

The carriage would sometimes have followers in the summer months, yearlings keeping step with mother’s who had long since weaned them. Playing like coach dogs, around the Calabash on the safest route.

“Silence foul thing,” the fine Lady chided the yearling Stag, which was odd as it didn’t bleat.

“Forgive his language, he is very young and has quite a temper.”

Realizing that a Hart could apparently be talkative without the hassle of voice, “Ah of course, will you be here long?”

“I’m not sure, there’s only so much that can be done while a lady’s husband is away.”, she’d said making fun of their meetings.

“You needn’t bother, I could conquer the country before he’d take notice.”

“True, I could probably help.”

“You and what army?”

“Does Hart count?”

Rather than dying of laughter they went about their most important pursuit, gossip. Now for most who were listening it would seem a small minded and unladylike thing to do, but gossip is important, it helps ladies grow.

“I just think there are better ways of going about it!”

“Really?”

“Yes. It just seems to me that we breed disaster with such false contention.”

“Right, right, that’s really odd. Isn’t it?”

“Yes. it’s a mess.”

Sometimes, really more than sometimes, the subject would slip. When tea would turn to wine and she would admit to feelings that she would rather keep on her person.

“There are times when I wish he would love me.”, she said frazzled, dry.

“Well why would that change him? He doesn’t respect you as his wife, what makes you think he’d respect his lover?” the fairy said, she always knew the woman was a Fairy. But it was always clearer like this.

“Seems a better place to be.”

“It isn’t,” she said without dispute.

“I wish it was.”

It would be morning, in a lonely summer when she woke up. 

She felt it, strong as tea and wine, wishes, wishes she’d made over the years. What she’d voiced to her friend, desperate and lonely.

Her friend hadn’t gone home that night, neither had her husband.

They would talk only after breakfast, when her friend went to leave her.

Her friend before leaving handed her something, it was small, padded by a thick cloth tied round it.

She immediately untied it.

A small glass bottle, filled with a fine, clear liquid. It was beautiful. It was poison.

“Why would you offer this?”, she’d asked the Fairy.

“It’s just a spell really,” she dismissed, “but I’ll need you to promise me something.” 

“I’m not poisoning my husband.”

“Do you really think that’s the only way out, dear?”

She was well quieted by that, stifled by how trapped she’d been. 

“Is it not that kind of poison?”, she asked carefully.

“Of course not, this potion won’t kill him.”

“But he, he won’t be how he was?”

“No. of course not.”

She stopped for a moment, held the thought for a time, along with the small glass bottle in her hand. 

“What’s the price?”

“Nothing less than you’ve promised to that husband already. Your firstborn.”

“But it would be his.”, she said at first.

“And it’s the world’s, but you’ll still be paid the dowry.”

“And if I don’t use it?”

“Then it will go unused. I wouldn’t have a claim after that,” she said plainly. “Good luck dear, I’ll know what you chose.”

And her friend left. She did choose to use the potion, once in his wine. Twice in his tea. And he became kind, kinder than any dead man could be. 

They finally conceived after years of avoidance bent by longing, she was beautiful, her world was beautiful.

But he died anyway, and for a soft and familiar moment the world smelled of rosewater.