The gypsy wraps herself in cheap gauzy skirts tucked up just so in order to display her fine toffee legs. This is a trick--she is only drawing attention away from her chipped tooth and ragged fingernails. She believes the tiny bells around her ankle charm all that hear their uneven jingling. In truth, they simply announce her whereabouts and delineate the throes of her dance. Her colors dazzle and swirl, but in the end, her only true power is in her hair. Be gentle with her.
The warlock's toes are gnarled and his face is creased from sun and salt, although you will not see these things. His skin is rough and pocked, but turns as luxuriant as a lion's pelt when you nuzzle against him. Deep in the night, the warlock will suckle and knead you. He will transform you into butter (summerling) or velvet (winterling). Warlocks are short.
The rogue lounges in the jumbled limbs of the live oak as if he were stretched out on a silk bolster, one leg thrown upon the other and his head cradled in the hook of his elbow. When you walk beneath him, he may or may not coo. If he doesn't, you will pass unaware. If he does, you will stop mid-step, drop your basket and arch an eyebrow. He will eat every bit of your cheese and empty your skin.
The enchantress tastes of ginger. She is fair with clear blue eyes, but dark of heart. She secretly fears the dawn. If you reach for the curve of her waist, she may level her gaze at you and part her lips, or she will dissolve into sobs and tears. The outcome of either spell is the same and you will not leave her for three days.
The chemist knows everything about you, but is oddly indifferent towards your mysteries--a fact he tries to cloak with carefully timed smiles or a brow knitted with false concern. Amid the bottles and vials and scales of his shop, he is a mighty king. Without his props, however, he is wholly unremarkable. Breathe deeply of his vapors whenever he offers them and leave a proper gratuity.
The jack of hearts comes whenever you beckon as long as you don't beckon too often. He never wears shoes. He will grip your arms and swing you round and round and round until the laughter hurts your lungs. The essence of grass will linger in his wake for as long as it takes to mend your sleeves.
You don't need your
fairy godmother until you need your fairy godmother. By then your tangled quandary will infuriate her. She may or may not abide your needs, for she is fickle and peevish on even the fairest of days. If your fairy godmother one day trades her wand for a snake (which is just as likely as not), it is not your fault. You'll carry a spiked burden from then on just the same.
The Horseman smells of the earth and bears thick calluses on his hands. He conserves his words. If he invites you to ride, he will do so quietly and with a crooked grin. Nonetheless, you have achieved the highest honor. Accept his offer immediately. Bear the soreness of your loins upon his jolting saddle without complaint and ride for as long as he will have you. If your grasp pleases him, this glory will last until the gloaming falls.
An homage to the captivating Bridget Callahan.
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