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The cream always disappeared from the saucer in the garden before it curdled. On Midsummer’s Eve, Luna fell asleep under the hawthorn tree, hoping against hope. She awoke in a glade that felt like a dream and smelled of daylilies.
“Not many leave offerings these days. What favor would you ask of the fair folk?” The faerie did not look as Luna had expected: petite and blonde, yes, with a slightly dreamy expression. But resigned, too, and lonely.
“Well, I’d like to know your name, first of all.”
Luna could tell from her expression that she had never been asked this before. “Ariana.”
“And I’m Luna. Aren’t you going to offer me food?”
“Surely you know the trick of faerie food?”
“You don’t have to trick me. I want to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
A table laden with food appeared between them: bread, cream, strawberries. “Are you sure…?”
A faerie with a conscience? Luna wondered if Ariana had been tricked herself. There would be time to ask later, all the time in the world. Luna ate readily, devouring, desiring to be devoured. When she kissed Ariana, she tasted strawberries and cream, their offerings to one another, their promises.