Page 5 of The Fae’s Treasure

“Oh, no. No, no, no, kiddo, what’s wrong? Where’s mommy? Where’s your mommy?” I ask, and then I decide that such a question is probably insensitive, not that he or she knows it.

Mommy ran, huh? Mommy left you here—why, I don’t know, but... Oh my gosh.

Maybe this was her ex’s house? I know this was new construction, and I got my mortgage directly from Silverman First Fiduciary, and they were the sellers. But maybe they rented it to someone first? Maybe they rented to a guy, and he’s the dad of this mystery woman’s baby?

But he’s gone, and I’m here, and I’m calling the...

Who do you call for an abandoned baby? Probably 9-1-1. They’re like the hub for all the emergencies, and this is probably urgent and multi-departmental.

I hold the baby to my chest, and I’m relieved when he or she stops crying—but less relieved when the blanket falls, and my hands touch delicate little growths on the baby’s back.

I swivel in the low light of my kitchen, and when I crane my neck to see what I’m touching, I gasp.

Wings. Red eyes. Wings. Pretty, iridescent wings that are shaped like a dragonfly, but much bigger, each one about the size of my finger.

I can’t curse in front of a baby, but in my head, I’m going wild with the f-bombs.

I can’t call 9-1-1 now. This is no ordinary baby. And I’m possibly going insane.

“Think, Deanna, think. You have to be good at this. You’re a single, mature, gainfully employed homeowner. You wanted to be a wife and mother by now. You wanted to be Diane Keaton at the end of Baby Boom. You can handle this. Right?”

“Weh. Mm. Weeehhh.”

Little noises from the bundle hugged into my neck turn panic into a deadly kind of calm.

This baby is helpless. Left here. With me.

This is going to be my baby. I am not going to give it to strangers who will find out that it’s different. A mutant. A... I don’t know what, but I know how to do something. I know that at least I’m not going to exploit him, or dissect him, or experiment on him. I can’t say that about strangers.

Baby in arm.

Phone in hand.

DirectCart. Enter town or ZIP code.

Pine Ridge, NY.

One store comes up. Just one. Fresh Mart. Closing soon.

Newborn diapers. Newborn formula. Bottles. Wipes. Bottle cleaners. Bottle nipples. Bottle brushes. Whatever it shows me, I click. Onesie three packs. Baby washclothes. Baby bubbles. Shampoo.

Chocolate-covered espresso beans. Those are for me.

Delivery by nine?

Yes, please.

I sink back on my couch and look at my neat, pristine, perfectly set up minimalist townhouse. First home of my own, my very own. So perfect. So organized.

And then I look at the tiny bundle of disruption that I just wholeheartedly pulled in and decided to protect.

“Do you have a name, baby?” I ask.

Big red eyes—they’re actually more like violet in certain lights, and I think they’re pretty—stare up at me.

“Well, I’m going to give you one.” I tentatively stroke the little head as I work out how to hold it—actually, how I hold him. The blanket shifts and unwraps around a tiny, naked body, and it makes me so mad I could spit.

I don’t know what was going on, but to put this little boy down on a cold, hard porch with only a blanket, not even a bottle, or a diaper, or a note...