Page 6 of The Fae’s Treasure

“Don’t you worry, Rory,” I whisper, rebundling him. Remembering some clip I saw about babies needing to be swaddled so they don’t startle themselves, I tuck him in gently, wrapping the blanket around him like a burrito. “I saw this thing,” I whisper, “about how babies in the womb are contained. And they feel safe, because when they move, they always have a boundary. So swaddling makes you feel cozy. Not as good as your in-utero spa, but at least you don’t feel the whole big world so much. Adults could use swaddling, too, Rory. Rory...” I smile down at him as he stops scrunching and seems to visibly ease. His pale skin and shock of red hair make him look... well, look a lot like me when I was a baby.

At least until his eyes open and someone discovers his wings.

“They’re so little. I hope I’m not smushing them. I don’t know how wings work. Or babies, for that matter. But I used to babysit a lot, and I used to teach. I can wing this. Ha. No pun intended.”

I sink back, eyes wide.

This is crazy, Dee. You are derailing your whole life. You might lose the new job you just got. You need your savings. You realize you’re going to have to rush-deliver a car seat, a crib, a ‘Raising Babies for Idiots’ book, blankets, clothes, one of those tiny bathtubs... When will you have childcare?

Just call the police. The fire department. Call your mother, for God’s sake.

I stay still. Rory is asleep in my arms.

This is crazy.

But for the first time in my very organized, precise life, I like crazy.

Pastor Ignatius Fortnum at Pine Ridge Nondenominational is portly and gray-haired, with a voice that has a bit of Southern twang. I don’t know how or why, since he’s up in the mountains of New York State. Maybe he was raised in Kentucky. I don’t know, but it invokes two conflicting, instantaneous feelings.

Southern charm. Friendliness. Down home hospitality.

Judgment. Fear. Bible-thumping Baptist, hellfire sermons, and narrow-mindedness.

I’m in my good tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches, my sharply creased linen pants, ankle boots, and coordinating faux silk blouse. Hair up. Fingers limber. Leather satchel full of music at the ready.

And a baby carrier with a sleeping Rory carried in my wedding ring-less hand.

“Hello, Miss Deanna! What an absolute pleasure to meet you—and I didn’t know you had an assistant!” Pastor Fortnum drops his voice to a coo and looks at the baby with a soft, dreamy expression. “Why, isn’t he a little prince!” he whispers.

“I think so,” I whisper back, and gently set the carrier down. “I’m going to be frank, Pastor Fortnum—”

“Please, call me Ignatius. Just not Iggy. Can’t stand that. Makes me feel like some sort of lizard.”

I swallow away a smile. I like this person. I liked him during our phone call and video interview a month ago. I want to keep liking him, but what happens next is going to make or break that emotion.

“I... Circumstances have changed. This is my son. I am a single mother. Unmarried.” I could claim adoption. I could claim he’s my nephew, and I’m just watching him. During my long, sleepless night, I decided all of those things risk legal ramifications or have an expected end date. What’s the simplest way to ensure Rory stays with me until such time as his real parents step forward or I get carted off to the loony bin for suddenly believing in fairies or pixies or whatever a winged, red-eyed baby is? To pretend I’m his biological mother.

“I can tell he’s a newborn, Miss Deanna, but if you wanted maternity time, I really think you should have disclosed that to—”

“I don’t need maternity leave,” I say quickly. “I still want this job.”

Jobs for organists are few and far between. They’re usually part-time, and organists juggle several services each Sunday, maybe try to get some side-gigs, maybe teach piano and organ lessons, and work a full-time Monday-Friday job, too. In three years of searching, Pine Ridge Non-Denominational Church was the only position that I had ever seen that offered a full-time (low, but liveable) salary for an organist. It was worth moving for, especially since it would make my lifelong dream of actually earning a living doing what I love a possibility. That, and Aaron was moving to Milwaukee, and I wasn’t going to move back to Vermont.

“Well, you still have it. What’s the issue?” Pastor Fortnum lifts shaggy gray eyebrows at me.

“I’m a single mother. This is a baby born out of the confines of marriage,” I say with a swallow.

“Oh, is that what you’re worried about? Goodness, Mary herself was a single mother. We love babies, and we love women. We love all God’s people in this church and this town. We have a nursery for you during services on Sunday and holidays, so that’s childcare sorted out there. For Thursday night choir practice and the two weeks before Christmas and Easter, you’re going to have to find a sitter from 6:30-8:00 at night, but there are a lot of young mothers in our church, and I’m sure they’ll help you find someone. In a pinch, Mrs. Fortnum and I can pitch in. What’s his name?”

“Rory.”

“Ah, I thought he looked like a Rory,” Pastor Fortnum smiles. “Let me show you around the church and give you a key to the building so you can come in and practice whenever you like. Oh, and you can put your lunch and any milk for Rory in the church kitchen.”

I follow along in a daze. No judgment was an understatement. I pinch myself, and it hurts. I’m not dreaming.

“When Kelly McGinley used to be our organist—goodness, that was back in ‘93, and she’s a grandmother now, terrible arthritis—but she used to put her boys’ portable play pen right here behind the organ so she could practice. How about I hold him for a little bit while you play? Get the feel of this organ? I can tell you for a fact that I can’t tell a pipe organ from a piccolo, but all the organists say every instrument is just a little different.”

“You’re right,” I say, setting the carrier down when we make our way to the organ. I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that if it sucks, it sucks. For a liveable wage in a town with low property taxes, I’ll play it no matter how it sounds.