Stolen: The Confessions of Philip Ripton

The Lure

Lark proved more difficult to convince than I had planned.

I tugged and tussled at her blonde locks as she slept, leaving messages knotted in a secret language. She was too dim-witted to grasp them.

I tickled her imagination and sprinkled pollen on her nose, but she only smiled her clueless smile and stayed clear of the daisies.

I hid her keys. I stole her purse. I bloomed summer lilies outside her window. The stupid girl just couldn't take a hint.

Finally, I realized that she was too ignorant to recognize the signs. I'd have to lead her more overtly into my grasp.

The forest was bright that night. The first moon of the harvest hung high and full among the clear August sky. Its silver light reflected from little pools near the roots of the hawthorns.

It also illuminated the various coins taken from Lark's purse that I'd strewn along the path. I waited for three hours after sunset before she finally wandered into the circle of trees.

The white nightgown she wore fluttered in the soft breeze, and the gold of her hair seemed almost black in the contrast. As she bent to gather the remainder of her coins, I made myself known.

I fluttered into her hair, playfully tugging at the strings to gather her attention. When at last she saw me, her jaw slackened and her breath caught.

I laughed to confirm what she would have trouble accepting, but what she knew was true.

"Yes," I flitted. "I am a faerie."

Lark's lax jaw slowly rose as her mouth formed a disbelieving smile. She reached out carefully to touch me, and I sat human-like on her fingers.

"I have spied you for years," I tevealed. "In that time, I have learned much. Most of all, I have learned of your perfection."

I had never spoken to a human before, and I marveled at how easily I had taken to the convention of lying. Her eyes sparked with belief and empathy. I nearly felt heartless for taking advantage of her naivety.

Nearly.

"I have lived hundreds of your lifetimes," I divulged."In that time, I have never known love, save the days when I look upon your smile."

Lark Ripton was putty in my hands. She clung to every word, knowing she'd likely never hear them again.

"Twenty-six years you've lived," I reminded her, driving in the knife. "Twenty-six years you've decayed in the shadow of your darling brother." The light in her eyes darkened into some memory of envy.

"Twenty-six years you've lived with no man to claim you. But I know why. You were never meant for man."

Sorrow and confusion dampened her cheeks as she gazed longingly toward the town of Skibbereen that she called home. I fluttered up from her hand to embrace her index finger with my arms.

"You were meant for me."