***
I went to the Elves because Elves always have a surplus of children: changeling children. Birth is so rare among them that the more impatient turn to other sources when they crave something to rear. They do not see it as theft: they leave one of their fey creatures in place of the child they’ve taken, and the parents are none the wiser for the exchange (or so the Elves tell themselves: since becoming a parent, myself, I now find myself skeptical of such statements). But mortal boys and girls age slowly in the Elfin lands, and Elves are by nature fickle and easily bored; quite often the Elf who “rescued” the child from “a wretched mortal existence” tires of the experience long before the child in question achieves maturity. There are three fates for such a child: sometimes, rarely, the Elf will return them to wherever they were stolen from, nevermind that decades- sometimes centuries- have passed; more often the Elf simply neglects the child, which typically leads to death. Rarest of all is the neglected child that manages to survive and reach adulthood while still in the Elfin lands. These become strange, not-quite-humans who can never again interact with the mortal world as one of them.
Knowing this, I thought surely it would be easy enough to procure one such child for my own; they’d already been stolen from their human family, who were in all likelihood dust by the time the Elves tired of them. I would, in fact, be the child’s last, best hope for a return to some semblance of normalcy.
***
In time the bowl on the kitchen table morphed itself into an entire indoor garden for my daughter, and eventually I was even persuaded to create a few “safe” routes for her to go out into the actual garden. I say “persuaded”, but what I mean is that Elisa, sweet-tempered as she was, showed herself perfectly willing to find any hazardous route into fresh air, regardless of my horror, and I decided that if she was going to be sweetly headstrong, she should at least be headstrong in a somewhat sensible manner. Thus I installed various pulleys and ropes and slides and stairs and rope bridges about, around, and out of the house, so that she could have some measure of independence.
Elisa loved to be outside- loved it as certain flowers love it, always turning their faces to the sun- so really I shouldn’t have been at all surprised by her determination to be out of the house whenever possible. If she wasn’t “sailing” on her indoor lake, she was sure to be found somewhere amongst my various herbs and vegetables. I made it a rule that she must never walk on the paths, for that is where I would walk, and I never wanted to accidently crush her. For my part, I did not venture off the paths unless I had my eye firmly upon her. I also encouraged her to create weapons from needles and spines and bones, so that she could discourage the predators of the world, but the truth is that she rarely needed them; my charms kept most harmful pests away, and she was too strange for most creatures to feel comfortable approaching- too human in appearance, regardless of her stature.
It was quite an endeavor for her to get out of the house and into the garden, but she did it every sunny day- and she always, always came home at night. On that rule I would not waver; I was happy to sit with her in the garden to watch the fireflies dance and the stars come out, to track the moon’s progress or listen to the distant wolves’ songs, but when it was time for bed we went together. I knew what sorts of things crept about in the darkness, and while they would think twice before bothering a witch, they’d have no such compunction about harassing a girl the size of a flower. But really, this rule didn’t require much enforcing on my part; generally speaking, Elisa naturally began to fade as the sun did, preferring to sleep when it was dark.
I would watch her sometimes as she slept, my heart so full I was afraid the smallest movement on my part might shatter it within my breast. My entire life, until so recently, had been spent in service to others, and I’d thought that I understood the desire to defend, to shelter. It was cold as ashes, however, when compared to the love and protective fire I felt towards my daughter. Looking at her tiny chest rise and fall with her smooth, soft breathing, I knew I’d made the right choice in coming to this quiet corner of the world, so far from the human-made dangers I’d spent my life combating. Quiet. Solitary. Safe. Happy.
Until the day I woke, and found my daughter missing.
***
Elisa was an early riser, at least in the summertime. In the wintertime she might lie abed a few more hours, but only because she rose with the sun, always. I also rose with the wun in the summertime, but long habit had me up well before it during the darker months.
It was not a darker month, however, but early July when I woke to silence.
I wish I could say that I knew, there and then, that something was amiss. I should have. Elisa almost always sang in the mornings, her voice blending beautifully with the birdsong, but that morning I thought nothing of its absence, assuming she was already outside in the gardens.
I made breakfast as I always did- three eggs to divide between the two of us, and a little bowl full of heavy, sweet strawberries- and carried it out to the garden where I had a small table that we often supped at.
“Elisa?” I called out, as I arranged our food. There was no answering call, however, no rustling of vegetation. “Come dear, it’s time for breakfast!”
Thinking perhaps she was caught deep in thought or observation, I laughed and called again, but still there was no answer. I frowned, and turned back inside.
“Elisa? Thomelisa, are you sick, my love?”
More silence, and at last a tendril of dread began to uncurl in my belly. Had a bird gotten her? I tried to shake the thought from my head. No. Surely not. My Elisa was too careful for that, wasn’t she? Probably she’d only wandered out of earshot.
I went to the tabletop garden, hoping that perhaps she’s simply been swimming underwater each time I’d called. But no- the water was still and clear, no tiny form darting about beneath the surface. I glanced over to her “room”, a large shell we’d arranged to shelter her bed, and it was then I realized that something was very, very wrong indeed.
A girl might accidentally wander out of hearing range, or even do so deliberately if she was feeling a need to express her independence. But a girl would not take her bed with her. Bedclothes, perhaps, but not the entire bed; it would be too heavy for her to carry very far, and certainly too awkward.
Which meant someone else had taken the bed. Probably with my daughter still sleeping in it.
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