No, Heather. You have been so good. Now is not the time to break your medically prescribed diet.
But then again, when I was first diagnosed with Hashimoto’s, I read a few blog posts about women who had awful reactions to gluten at home in the States but could magically eat all the pasta and bread they wanted when visiting Italy. It was a fantasy I didn’t allow myself to indulge in when I went overseas for an influencer trip with my mom. Back then, I was too concerned about looking puffyin photos…
I probably don’t want to be puffy for a grand ball either.
Gosh, just look at that golden crust. If there’s anywhere I can attempt to eat gluten, it’s a fantasy world, right?
Yes.
No.
Yes, no—
Crunch.
The first bite is crisp and buttery. If Moth was around to hear the moan that escaped my lips, he’d either laugh, or his lips would be locked on mine. It’s filled with some kind of spinach and olive blend; the latticework covering the top is so beautiful, I almost regret eating it.
Almost.
Next, I grab a moon-shaped bun with some kind of peachy filling. It is equally delicious and gone beforeI’d like.
I wait for a minute. I know it’s not like I’m going to burst into flames or anything. I’ll wait a little while to make sure my body doesn’t freak out, but if this doesn’t cause any pain? Hah, then maybe we should just stay. Moth can be with his family, and I can eat bread—a literal fairytale for all partiesinvolved.
It’s only when my plate is filled with crumbs, and Sprout paces around the room that my mind wanders to non-pastry-related topics. I hope everything is going well in the sibling bonding department.
I walk to the mirror, letting my light-green wings span behind me. I’m the same Heather that got overwhelmed by her online life and moved to the middle of the woods, the same silly burnt out influencer who dragged a literal cryptid into her house and fell in love with him. Still, I wonder if more than just my exterior has changed. My wings flutter as I continue to study myself. What was it those mean girls said? My wings have no “discernible pattern” … like I’m a shape that can’t quiet fit into a box here or in the mortal realm.
Like this fairytale I’ve been pulled into is something I was never supposed to be apart of and—nope! That’s enough deep contemplation for themorning.
Pulling on one of the frilly dressing gowns from the wardrobe, I snag my phone—which happened to be in my pocket when we arrived here and switch it to camera-mode.
One photo a day was the promise I made to myself. I don’t post most of them, and I’m sure as heck not going to post whatever I decide to take today. The bottom of the robe billows over the ornate rug—it’s backless, just like all the other clothing in the wardrobe, to accommodate my wings. I let my wings open, tracing the green veins and cheerful yellow spots; the sun shining through the window makes the thin skin look like the crinkly tissue paper at the bottom of agift bag.
Arranging myself in front of the tall mirror, I call Sprout over to sit beside me. The giant pile of floof happily plops himself at my side like an enthusiastic throw rug. The flowers strung high on the ceiling frame our reflection as if I’d spent hours arranging themjust so.Former me would have lost it at just how picture-perfect all ofthis is.
“Alright, Sprout, you ready for your first mirror selfie?”
He yawns in response, placing his giant furry head in my lap, which I think is a yes. I snap a few, ruffling his impossibly soft fur in between shots. I notice we have matching crumbs across our faces, and one stray hair keeps getting caught on my left antenna. It’s less than perfect, and I have to remind myself these photos are about memories. Plus, who am I kidding? We’readorable.
Sprout and I are low key and lazy for the rest of the morning hours. I run another bath, eat lunch in said bathtub, and snuggle with Sprout. I’m starting to realize why Rosie and Clara have been peer-pressuring me to get a dog. He’s an icon,even if he hogs the entire bed.It must have been lonely flopping around this castle for decades. I’m glad that he decided to stay cozy with me instead of tagging along with Moth and Holly, though. All this time alone is making me realize I don’t spend much time by myselfanymore.
Still, by mid-afternoon, I’m too antsy to stay in my room. Despite not knowing anything about this place, I dress in a white cotton bell-sleeved dress, pull my hair up in a braid crown, and show myself around.
It’s a long shot, but maybe I can find a phone signal somewhere. It would be nice to tell Rosie and Clara we didn’t mean to blow off our double-date and ask if they could water the plants and stuff while we’re gone.
“You’re where?” Rosie shrieks through the phone. “Heather, no—this istoo much.”
“I know, I know, it sounds impossible but—”
“Nothing sounds impossible coming from youanymore.”
“Thank you?”
Finding bars was difficult, but near the large bridge at the entrance of the castle where we landed, I do manage to find a weak signal. It’s not 5G but leads me to believe the connection between worlds is still open. Though Rosie’s stunned silence makes me question if she’s still onthe line.
“You there?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. It’s just—”
