A Rose That Grows from Stone
Once, when the road between the mortal world and Faerie was closed, and the Faerie King was gone, there was a house. It was a cottage, built on the bones of a manor house. The building was constructed of stone pulled from the old foundations, new wood, and a touch of magic.
The cottage was composed of halves. It was half home, half clinic. A half-Irish woman lived there with her Faerie husband, who himself was only about half good. The woman loved him with her whole heart, despite his wickedness. And he loved her, in spite of her goodness.
The woman’s brother lived there, too. Half the time, he resided in the present, able to remember his past and talk about the future. The other half, he was somewhere else. Somewhere dark and full of violence. Bombs and mud and gas.
Perhaps, eventually, love might cure what magic could not. Then again, there is no erasing the past. But half is better than nothing.
At any given moment, one might find a creature on the grounds, half dog, half dragon.
Or a couple, composed of equal portions religion and magic.
Or a child, with a shock of curly white-blond hair, a pretentious smile, and glinting eyes.
It was whispered in the nearby village that the cottage sat on the line between the mortal world and Faerie.
The gardens always bloomed beautifully, even during years when the weather was bad.
Those returning from a visit would leave feeling lighter, kinder, and warmer, although they could not say why.
When asked what made the cottage so restorative and beautiful, the woman merely smiled.
“It is a family secret,” she’d reply. But which family, she did not say.