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Fae!Whitley Drabble

The invitation

“Take my hand,” the fae, (Whitley, he told her, in a quiet hushed whisper against her ear) said. He held out a pale, slender hand towards Penny. He seemed utterly warm in the cold around them, wearing fine silks and a chiffon scarf despite the biting chill of the wind and the wetness of the ground which didn’t muddy his shining boots. 

“Sorry but I have to go to back to my Papa,” Penny says, pointing back to the small cottage, always littered with gears and blueprints, on the edge of a simple, provincial town. 

Whitley takes a single step forwards but it sends him gliding through the air, hovering to a stop in front of her. “It will only be for a while, Penny,” Whitley promises. 

And Penny hesitates, her hand coming up to her chest, and almost, almost, reaching out. 

Penny was an inventor’s daughter, a daughter raised on rule and fact. And Whitley was a fae, a strange creature she found tangled in a stranger trap, a creature born of magic and nature and all things unexplainable. 

The sheer impossibility of Whitley made Penny’s gear turn in confusion. Instead of denial and suspicion, wonder and curiosity filled her. She wanted to know why, how. Whitley told her all  manners of things, like the bone of his cutlery, the stories of his ancestors in a song and dance or the magic that ran through his veins, for a price, which Penny paid with tales of her own life. 

Their friendship should have been an impossible one. But here they were.

Penny’s hands close around Whitley’s finger delicately, fixing her eyes on his bright, blue eyes. 

“I have to be back before dark,” Penny says. “I need to make Papa’s dinner.”

“Of course,” Whitley replies, still holding her hand and leading Penny away. 

Guess who just overthrew their dad and became king of the Winter Fairy Court?