by faerie-gumdrops

Every year or so, for the past few centuries, Grey Man has recruited girls and boys to chase rainbows. There's gold at the end of those things. Life-changing amounts. Some say Grey Man was born obscenely rich, like a boring old sod who makes the poor folk dance for kicks. I am nice, and don't judge him; his game is full of shiny gold prizes, and I like gold more than mockery.

I received Grey Man's yellow letter in the post last week – opened it up with shaking fingers and got showered with a silver spark spray. Being fae, I just about kept my pee out of my knickers, but the sparky bastards nearly burnt off my damn eyebrows.


The sparks pranced innocently, seemingly oblivious to my near baldy-face, scarring the air with smoke-words.

Come to Anywhere on the 6th, they said. You have been selected.

"Oh joy," I breathed, wiping my hand through the air, dissipating letters.

So now I am in the Anywhere hotel; a cone-shaped building hung up in the clouds, somewhere between Dreamland and Make-believe. Grey Man is here too, sitting opposite me with a professional little smile on his old man face.

"Do you know the rules?" he asks.

There are three rules: get the rainbow's end, get the gold, and don't get caught.

I nod twice. Then once more.

"Three chances," he says, holding up three fingers.

Three rules. Three chances. Three rainbows.

"Three," I agree. "And your obsession with that number is not weird at all."

Grey Man's professional smile turns into something just a little bit warmer. Seems like he's proud of me for knowing so much – as if fae-babies all over the world don't grow up hearing stories about his games. As if non-fae whelps don't have their adaptations too – their end-of-the-rainbow pots of gold, and the little Irish men who guard them.

I am not a little Irish man. Silly man-pups.

He passes me a map with some place circled in red on a jutting pig's head of land, just on the edge of the sea. For a split second, I hope for white sands, cocktails and sweet boys with sweetly forgotten t-shirts and…I embarrassingly appreciate speedos. And – la! I am about to dance when I notice that this is no pretty tropical island at all.

"Wales?" My voice is a dead girl's voice.

He nods. "Wales."

My face is a dead girl's face, but I force a cocky smile. "Don't suppose there're any last minute rainbows in, like…the Bahamas?"

"Other girls and boys chase other rainbows." A smart little look, and he passes me a pack of clothes. "Yours is in Wales. Here's your uniform."

I take it, inspect it, curl my lip a little.

"It's very green."

"Well yes," says Grey Man with a smirk, thumbing his Adam's apple, rubbing at ashy stubble. "They do tend to be."

I catch a plane, a train, a taxi. Walk my way down to a dead seaside – grey sea, grey sand.

With it being winter, the place is almost deserted. Note almost; there is a dot on the dunes, surrounded by splodges of red and yellow.

It's not raining yet, and the air is still fresh. So, with nothing more constructive to do, I make my way over to the dot, curving my bare feet over rocks and sand.

After five minutes, the dot becomes a person and the splodges are still splodges. After ten, the dot puts on a man-suit, and the splodges are…bumblebees? Butterflies? Rockets? Birds?

"Kites," I realise.

Kites. Yes. In all sorts of interesting shapes. Bumblebees and butterflies and rockets and birds, indeed.

And he sits there, making them, building those shapes with his hands as the wind whips lines into his face. He works the canvas and wood. Paint and glue line the crevices of his fingers, colour the creases of his prints. His nails are battered and short, his eyes hooded, tired.

He is definitely not fae; his features are far too gentle, and no self-respecting fairy would ever flatter a bird with a kite (feathered evil, they are).

I sit beside him. He scoots, makes room. Smells like the earth, not the sea.

"Hi, boy. It's going to rain, you know."

"It's always going to rain."

He has a soft voice, something slow and steady and warm, and I am so used to little biting things that I'm surprised to meet a quiet one. I shall make up for it by talking more.

"You come here often?"

"I work here," he says.

"Work? You mean you sell these funny things?"

I maybe sound more surprised than I am because he raises his eyebrows. "You don't like them?"

"No, it's just… Who buys kites in December? Bloody unsociable time of the year, if you ask me."

"Yeah," he mutters. "It's a problem."

"I can see that. So do you?"

"Do I what?"

I roll my eyes. Silly human brain of his (always so slow). "Do you come here often, boy?"

"Ah. Why do you ask that, girl?"

I think, for a second, that he may be mocking me. But – ho – he is a quiet little thing, and would surely never have to gall to rile a strange green-dress girl with no shoes or socks on in December.

"I want to know where the rainbows hang. Do you know?"


He runs his hand through his hair – not-short, not-long, dark brown and with a little curl to it. There is a small sigh, and he returns to work, whittling at wood.

And look at his dear-heart holy cardigan, and the ragged t-shirt beneath it.

How does he put up with it?

"Aren't you more than slightly bloody freezing?"

Blue eyes turn to me, and a little smile grows around his teeth. "Aren't you?"

"No, I'm –"

I run my hands down my green uniform-dress. Sleeveless, and just below the knee. I'm not cold; my body appreciates the warm, but cares very little about anything else. So I search for a word that isn't 'fae' (a most bountiful source of disbelief and awkwardness).

"I'm green," I finish. "Very green."


"I'm Sidney," he replies.

I nod. "Faye."

Smooth and hilarious. Aren't I a catch?


"It's not my real name."


Weird kite boy has no questions, but I kindly provide him with suitable answers anyway.

"My real name is a bit…unpronounceable."


I try him, spit out the seven syllables that make up me.

The kite he's making drops down to his lap. His poor little mind must be blown.


"But you can call me Faye."

"I'm still just Sidney." He holds out his current half-bumblebee creation, raises his eyebrows a little. "You want a kite? Ten pounds?"

"Do kites even work in the rain? They don't just…plop?"

"Sure," he says, leaves it at that, goes back to working.

"Chatty little ape, aren't you?"

He chuckles once. I smile, pat him on the back, and rise.

The hardness in the air makes way for softness as I walk and gulp it, swinging my arms. There is no direction to take in particular; the sky is grey all over. I choose West, because it feels nice.

And I sing. Kick my feet up with each step and sing.

"Jingle bells! Jingle bells!"

Because December is Christmas, right? But…I only know two words of this song; I don't exactly celebrate Christmas, what with me being supposedly soulless and all. Awkward, that.

But…screw it.

"Jingle bells! Jingle bells! Jingle jingle bells!"

When the rain sets in an hour later, it's more of a thick mist than anything else – some seeping cloud that creeps into my ears and tries its best to bite and blind me. To be fair to the bugger, even I have a little tiny shiver, and my fingers do stiffen.

And I find myself in a little grey-curve world, with no distinct sky, and no distinct sea. Darkened air-water exhales and prods at my whitening toes, beckoning dangerous come-hithers.

Tide's coming in then.

I keep walking.

It's not the rain that's missing now. I curl in the sand and look up at the sky, waiting for the sun.

The sea creeps in, covers me to the neck.

"Thanks for the hug, old one."

Nothing. The sun goes down, the world grows dark.


He's still there when I trudge back, making his little kites in the dark, silly thing.

"Hey, Sidney-boy."

Sidney-boy looks up, peers at me. "Um."

"Seen any rainbows?"

"Oh. Yeah." He points.

I tilt my head back and try not to swear. I stomp over to the spot. "Right here?"

"Yes." He takes a breath, builds up his words. "I didn't think rainbows had ends."

Momentous. I bend down on my knees, start digging. But nothing, nothing, more nothing.


I mean, I'm not expecting a stash of leftover gold or anything – more likely, Grey Man has a magic spell that activates once you're at the rainbow's end – but I dig and dig and dig. Just in case.

Sidney comes over, his bumblebee kite under his arm, a stash of the other ones loaded on his back.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," I say evenly.

He puts a hand on my head. Pats it once.

"I'm not a dog, Sidney."

"Night," he says, and walks off.

I kind of sort of maybe follow him home. It's not weird; I am simply investigating.

I mean, he found my rainbow, so maybe he also found my gold. Sure, he doesn't look fae, but what if he's done some sort of cunning spell and disguised his face? What if he's a hunter just like me? Has Grey Man ever put two on the same patch before?

Don't think so, but I simply cannot let this go unchecked. Sensible (not weird). And nothing to do with his weird little pat-of-the-head at all (no).

He twists his way across fields and up hills and down them again. The night grows thick around us, bats swoop and chatter. I see the shakes in his arms and wish he had a coat and a hat and a scarf on.

So he sort of unknowingly takes me to this dark little stone cottage at the bottom of some field. He goes in, and the place stays dark and little and stony.

When I check four hours later, the door isn't even locked. Not that I plan on sneaking in there with him or anything. Although I kind of end up doing that. To be fair, our people are known for stealing babies. I may now be a (not quite) stalker, but I can honestly say that I've never stolen a baby. So that's good.

This is how I justify things to myself as I watch him sleep. He's fully clothed, bless him, and mumbling to himself. His bed is a mattress on the floor, surrounded by canvas and paint and wood and wrapping paper. A half-eaten advent calendar lies on the floor beside him. Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve.

"Poor boy thing," I mutter, picking my way through his room, which is the only room in this place; there's not even a proper toilet. "Why the hell do you live like this?"

He stirs. I run out.

I wake up under the sunrise. Seems he wakes early too; I get the joys of hiding in the bushes while he hoses the grass with his morning wee.

And then I get the extra joys of watching him strip and rub himself down with hot water boiled over a camping stove. All of this outside. All of this in December.

Sucks to be him.

But not so much to be me; he is a nice, lithe thing.

I am nearly almost certain that I really do not have a soul, and that I am also a bit of a pervert. I at least owe this pretty thing breakfast or something.

I make myself appear. Well, I stand up. I am the Queen of subtle.

"Oh," he says, pulling on the same grotty clothes from yesterday. Underwear first. Probably wise.

"I was on a morning stroll," I say grandly. "What a darling little cottage. Do you live here?"

"Oh," he says again. "Faye."

"I'm not weird," I tell him. "I'm strolling."

I do stroll-arms, march on the spot.

He bites his lip. "Faye," he says after a while. "Do you have nowhere to go? Nothing warm to wear?"

"Oh, I'm honestly fine," I tell him.

"Do you have a home?" he asks me. "You didn't just sleep in the field, did you?"

Pish posh. Did not sleep in fox poo at all.

"Why would you think that?"

"You have twigs in your hair."

He comes over, delicately removes them. I remember the body beneath those clothes and feel…squiggly.

"You know," he says, very close. "If you ran away from somewhere…" But he shakes his head, decides against speaking. Can't help but wonder what he was trying to say. "Uh. Would you like breakfast?"

"Sort of," I say slowly. "But can we have it out here?"

"Why?" he says. "It's going to rain."

"I love the rain," I tell him as it starts to fall – steady little drops, today – none of the crappy spit-mist of yesterday. "And you're all wet already, aren't you?"

He looks a little confused, a little disappointed, but he gives me an odd little smile, and shuffles off into his horrible cottage again.

I sit cross-legged on the grass, keep my eyes on the sneaky sky.

Five minutes later, and Sidney returns. He delicately places a bowl of cornflakes on my lap. He has one too, but his is dry.

"Don't you want to be big and strong?"

"No fridge," he says, shrugging. "Milk goes off pretty quick. So I never have much."

"You didn't steal it from a cow, did you?"

He smirks. "Why?"

"Tuberculosis, mainly."

"What cow?"

I look around the field. Nothing here but rabbits and birds.

"You didn't milk a bunny, did you?"


"Eww." But I still eat the brekkie. "Did I tell you I liked your house?"

"Yes. No." He shakes his head. "It's not mine. It doesn't belong to anyone. I thought that was kind of interesting."

"But…no running water? No electricity?"

He narrows his eyes a little.

"I suspect," I add. "Old place like that."

"It's a home."

"But why do you live here?"

Sidney wipes the rain out of his eyes. "Maybe I ran away from someplace too."

"Oh," I say.

"But…it's fine. I just… I make things now."


"Yes. I make kites for a living." He clearly doesn't quite believe it himself, and he laughs.

"I have no job," I tell him.

"Then how do you eat?"

"I don't need to eat."

He smiles. "You're eating now."

"You invited me to. I try not to turn down invitations; it's social." I hand him my empty bowl. "And as a soulless, untameable thing, some may say that I need all the social interaction I can get. Even with chatty people like you."

His eyebrows rise. "Soulless?"

"I believe you heard me, Sidney."

His face does twists and turns before it sets on something comfortable. It's a nice kind of look. Maybe even a kind one. "Tomorrow's Christmas," he says slowly. "It's not good to be alone on Christmas. You won't be, will you?"

Ooh – the detective skills say that this look is pity. Pity. And wow he does it pretty. It's a little bit difficult to be suitably offended; I can't get naked Sidney out of my head (ah, his cute little snail trail…). Bit distracting.

And, like a wonderful idea, a rainbow appears behind his head. Something bright and pretty and colourful, behind something bright and pretty and pink-and-brown.

I point at the lovely thing vaguely. I need to catch it.

He turns his head.

"Hold on a second," he says, getting up. "I'll be right back."

And he wanders inside, and I sprint as soon as he does it, heading back to the beach. The rainbow. My rainbow. Shit! How can I run faster?

Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain. Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain. Richard of York Gave…

I realise after a while that Sidney is following me; he shouts something the rain eats up on the way to my ear-holes.

I run faster. Silly boy should just go home and sleep.

And there will be a big old mansion in the countryside. There will be pretty dresses and a pretty horse and pretty shoes. There will be a fully stocked wine cellar for me to work away at, and there will be rich neighbours with equally good wine for me to sort of steal.

I shall drape myself in finery, I shall purchase a crown, I shall furnish my house with velvet and gold and antlers. There shall be painted portraits and there shall be woody walks with brown Labradors.

The rainbow gets closer and there – there – it ends, falling down to earth among rockpools, the chalk-powder colours dusting rocks and water and seaweed.

And there shall be monocles, because there are always monocles.

The sand becomes rocks, and I pick my way a little more delicately, trying not to slip on the rain-blackened stones, avoiding limpets and ouchie barnacles. But my feet start to bleed, and a couple of times I trip, cutting my knees and hands and watching crabs scatter. It's okay; I shall have silk bandages with gems on.

I make the rest of my way on my hands and knees. The closer I get, the more it pulls. And as I move my hand forward one last time to touch it, my fingers quiver.

Oh darling.

My fingertips seep into innocence and purity and wonder. Little virgin rainbow, painting my nails with red-to-violet. I move them back and forth slowly, watching the light dance.

Good feelings: sex and drunk and dancing.

Best feelings: rainbow.

Who'd've thought I'd like such simple goodness? Who knew I could have happiness without dirt?

"Oh gracious," I sigh.

And until the gold ring appears on my finger, I forget about Grey Man's prize entirely. My heart feels so full, but so light.


The rainbow dies quietly, just a pretty dog with a heart full of pentobarbital.

Aw crap.

"What are you doing?"

Sidney, Sidney, silly quiet Sidney, standing all sad and soppy. Look at the umbrella in his little right hand, and the wellington boots in his left.

Does this count as being caught? Does this mean…

The ring on my finger starts growing warm.

I get up, stomp over to him, feel the damn ring on my finger burning. Find the gold at the end of the rainbow, you keep it. Get caught, you give it away. Damn.

"You did not catch me doing anything," I say carefully, but the ring is hurting now.

He holds out the umbrella and the wellies, and he looks so impossibly sweet that I find all my anger just drifting away.

But I still do my best scowl as I slip the ring off and hold it in my palm.

Suppose there's one more rainbow. And better for Sidney to catch me with so little, than to see the third, which will surely drown me in the golden goodness I'm owed.

"I got you these," he says. "But you ran away and I got worried, I suppose."

"Worried?" I ask, slipping my feet into the boots. "Why worried?"

He shrugs. "I suppose I don't really know what you're like."

"I'm wild," I tell him. "And I'm much older than you. And I should be the one worrying about you, not the other way around."

But he's being very sweet, so I march up to him and kiss him on the mouth.

Feels nice to do it. Nice, like, warm. He tastes like the earth he smells of, and reminds me of the rainbow.

"Oh," he says.

"Will you hold out your hand?"

He does, and I drop the gold ring into it. He flinches as the metal burns, but he closes his fist around it.


"It's yours. Sell it. Should be worth a couple of hundred."

"Like…charity?" He steps away, looking a little offended.

How little time I have for other people's pride.

"Silly Sid," I mutter. "I wouldn't give it to you if I didn't have to, but it's a rule I can't break – you saw me touching rainbows."

His mouth opens, closes, opens again. Finally, he nods. "I'll head off," he says. "But you will come to the cottage tomorrow, won't you? Or tonight, even? Do you have anywhere to stay?"

"Of course I do," I say stiffly, nodding.

But that night (and no more rainbows later), I sneak into his place, and he scoots up on his mattress to make room for me, despite the fact that I'm soaking.

It is the first time I've slept with someone in years. His breath is an exploding dandelion clock. Smells like Spring.

Next morning and his arms are around me, his right hand resting on the groove of my hip.

"Merry Christmas," I whisper, before kissing him lightly.

I put on his wellies, expand his umbrella, and tiptoe out into the dark to watch the sun rise.

As I go – "Please come for lunch."

"Yeah, yeah," I mumble.

"I'd like it."

"Silly boy."

I walk on the beach as the sun spills over the sea. The sky is a mess of burning villages, people on pyres. My thumb and index finger close around the memory of the rainbow's innocence.

And coming up is my last chance to catch it, my last chance to be a rich little leprechaun. Grey Man never picks the same hunters twice.

A thought, then.

"Are you watching me now, old fairy?"

The sun sweats words into the sea. Orange flames spell Always, fake-Faye.

"You were very cheeky, you know, making me give the boy a gold ring. He didn't know he'd caught me, but you still made me give him everything."

No I didn't.

"You heated it up until it burnt me. Seemed pretty clear what you wanted me to do."

But you didn't mind.

"It was only one ring," I mutter. "And I like the boy. I just want you to know that I think you're cheeky."

You like the boy?

I start to feel a bit funny, and Jingle Bells lodges itself in my head, all annoyingly.

"I do," I say quietly. "Because he's kind and quiet and just a little bit sad."

And loving him would technically be bestiality. Which is exciting, somehow.

The sun quivers a little, and the sky lights up proper. Bright blue, today, with little grey clouds – a pretty little comic book sky. I lie back in the sand and hold my legs up, walking my green rubber feet, tiptoeing from grey cloud to grey cloud.

Wish I could fly.

And my big old future-mansion feels a little lonely, and my portraits seem shallow and my wine cellar is just a place to cope with the world by escaping from it.

Turns out pretty boys are poisonous. Kiss one and you get infected, fall asleep with one and you get diseased.

I hold my chest, and feel something squirming.

He sits outside his cottage, dressed in a thick coat and a red hat and red scarf. It is maybe the most lovely thing I've ever seen.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "You look a little sick. You're not getting a cold?"

No. I am simply choked. "Look at you," I say, jerking a hand at him. "You're all warm."

He shrugs it off, and I realise that he's…excited. Damn – he's actually bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Come inside! Come see!"

He takes my hand. The grey clouds are gathering and the rainbow pulls, but Sid pulls harder.

His cottage is transformed. The sad, dark place I know has been filled with orange candles that flicker. A radio in the corner plays Christmas songs, and the place is full of the smells of cinnamon and chicken and gravy.

The mattress has been moved to the side of the room; in its place, there are paper plates and dishes and knives and forks and napkins. He has those round cylinder things you pull – crackers – and he has two presents wrapped in spotty paper. He points at these repeatedly.

"For you," he says. "Go on!"

"Oh," I say, picking one up and peering at it. "I kind of don't celebrate Christmas."

He is not in the least bit put out. "Belated birthday celebration," he announces. "Or…are you Jewish or something? Do you have any of your own holidays?"

"I'm… I don't have a soul, Sidney. I'm actually liable to burst into flames as soon as I touch any of this stuff."

He raises his eyebrows doubtfully. To be honest, I'm pretty doubtful too, and I unwrap the first present with more than a little glee, and I do not burst into flames.

A hat and a scarf and a coat, just like his. Only -

"What a lovely shade of green," I say sardonically. "How thoughtful."

He has himself a little snigger. I smack him, but I put everything on and wear it with happy.

The second present is more of an awkward shape.

"You gotta be careful with that one."

So I am. I move my fingers delicately over the paper, pulling at it, peeling.

But I know what it is before I've even started. There are long, thin wings, strings and wood, silver and white and pink and green.

A kite, of course. A fairy kite. And I feel accepted somehow. There is no judgement from him – I am whatever I am, and that's okay.

"I didn't get you anything," I say a little meekly.

"What about that ring?"

"Hmm," I say. "I suppose. But that wasn't really a gift." I hold the kite above my head and smile. "We should fly it."

"Food first."

I stare at him. "You cooked for me?"

He gestures at the floor, then pointedly inhales the obvious food-smell in the air. And he looks at me – a very 'what do you think?' kind of look.

"But I don't need to eat."

"I know," he says. "But it's nice to do, right?"

"Yes, but you shouldn't have bothered," I say quickly. "You should've spent all that money on yourself. You should've…"

Sidney has a quiet laugh as he lays out various trays of food in front of me.

"Shut up and eat," he says, scooping out potatoes.

"You don't even have an oven," I whisper. "You did this over a camp stove? That's too much effort!"

He kisses me. "Shut up and eat," he says again.

So I shut up and eat, but I'm choking up again by the time I start on my chicken.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Do you have a family?" I ask him. "Do you have anyone?"

He scoops up gravy and sucks on his fork. He doesn't look sad – more thoughtful.

"Sort of," he says finally. "Do you?"

"No; I hatched from an egg," I admit. "You should be with yours."

He shakes his head. "Nah. I mean, sometimes I miss them, but most of the time, being away from them is what keeps me going. It's been so long now, and I'm a different person. I doubt we'd even recognise each other."

His answer is something cold and sticky and complicated. I hit it back with something maybe a little too simple.

"Please visit your family."

He offers me a cracker. I pull, I win. Inside the cardboard cylinder are little prizes. With a start, I realise that these cracker things must be homemade – mine is full of shells from the beach, and a braided seaweed crown, that I drape over my new green bobble hat. Super stylish.

"If it makes you happy," he says.

It does, and I seize his hand with mine, holding it tight. But he's still so cold.

"Will you come with me?" he asks.


"Because I'd like you to…come with me."

It doesn't exactly clear things up, but I look at the empty plates in front of us, and I nod. "Yes."

We eat the rest of the food in silence – not because we have nothing to talk about, more because I get the impression that Sid is bloody hungry. When we're done, he sits back, leaning against the wall and smiling sleepily.

"I think this is the sweetest day of my life," he says.

"Me too," I agree. "And I'm one hundred and seventy five."

And I know a lady should never give away her age, but he doesn't seem to mind the older woman; his arm is around me, and my head is somehow on his shoulder, and it feels like it wants to build a fort there.

"Will you come with me to chase rainbows now?" I ask. "I owe you a proper present."

"I don't need a present."

"I know," I tell him. "But I want to give you one anyway, you silly thing."

And he has to understand that sentiment.

We go out, but the sky is a perfect, rich blue, and the wind blows cold.

The grass is sodden; we've missed the rain and there's no sign of more. No more rainbows. But it's Christmas, and I'm happy, and there is a nice, pretty boy to be happy with.

We go back into the cottage and grab my new kite. He teaches me how to angle it in the air, how to scoop up whipped wind.

"There's gold under those rainbows. We might have been millionaires."

"Oh," he says.

"Do you mind?"


"Me neither."

I am half-lying, I suppose, and he must know that. I don't mind not being a millionaire, but I don't want him to be cold. I want him to leave that grotty cottage and find a life that will be kinder to him.

And I still really want a nice horse.

"I never heard it rain," I say. "But it must've done. That was my last chance."

And the more I say it, the truer it becomes. His arms tighten around me. The fairy in the sky dives and crashes.

"Everything will be okay," he says. And he sounds so damn sure about it that I'm inclined to believe him.

"Silly boy," I mutter, shaking my head.

"Silly girl," he replies, raising an eyebrow.

And he kisses my neck, this strange young runaway boy.

"Bestiality," I choke.

He laughs and for that I let the dirty young runaway boy push me into the sand. I clamber over him and sit on his chest. Position of power.

"Weren't we…doing something?" he asks.

He gazes up at me, looking like the luckiest boy in the whole damn world. It is the first time I've ever seen any face like that, and I do not deserve it, but like it very much.

When I dip my face down to his something dangles between us. It doesn't matter; we ignore it and toss and kiss and cuddle and kiss and feel and kiss some more. And then we fall into each other and smile and pant. His heart is fast and the sand is dirty.

I curl on his chest, dangle the dangly thing between my fingers and swing it back and forth. Makes such a sweet and shiny little pendulum.

"Diamonds," I say. "Grey Man said he didn't make me give you everything, and he was telling the truth."

I wonder how I never noticed the sparkly necklace before. Hell – who knows how Grey Man plays his games? Maybe he only just sent the thing here now. Maybe he's a massive pervert or something, and we are his happy little performers. I shall forgive him (because diamonds) and Sidney shall be sweetly naive.

"What do you think we could get for it?"

Sidney wraps his arm around me. "Heating," he says finally.

And that makes me a very happy little fae-girl indeed.

Author's Note. Apologies for the title, I could not resist :p. So this was originally posted on The-Write-Away about...a year ago? Challenge was to do something fluffy and rags to riches. Not the sort of thing I normally write, so had fun trying! Main thing is WHY IS IT CHRISTMAS? FGx