the Fairy Queen, feeling an odd pang of jealousy.
Soheila gave me a long, level stare before replying. “Some say the queen stole him as a young man from the mortals and enchanted him, and that when he seduces a human woman he is trying to make himself human again by drinking her spirit, but always before he can become human he drains his lover dry.”
“Oh,” I said, “that’s … sad.” And then, trying to assume an air of scholarly detachment: “I’ve heard stories about young men kidnapped by the fairies, of course …” I faltered, reminding myself that this was the kind of story my fairytale prince had told me. “But never a version in which the young man becomes a demon lover.” I turned back to the painting. “Where are they going?”
“Back to Faerie,” Soheila said. “Legend has it that once all the fairies and demons lived with mortals, coming and going between the world of mortals and the world of Faerie freely. But then the mortal world grew more crowded and mortals lost belief in the old gods. The doors between the worlds began to close. The fairies and demons had to choose between worlds. Most went back to Faerie, but some who had fallen in love with humanity remained. The doors closed and then even the doors themselves began to disappear. Only one door remained, and it was carefully hidden and most dangerous to pass through. Deep thickets grew up over the last door,” Soheila continued, “barring the way between the worlds. They grow thicker every year. Few try to pass anymore, and those who do are often lost between the worlds … caught in a bodiless limbo of pain. That is why the doors of the triptych are closed. We open it only four times a year, on the solstices and equinoxes, which are the times that tradition tells us the doors between the worlds may open …”
As she faltered to a stop I heard the pain in Soheila’s voice. Startled, I turned away from the painting to look at her. Tears shone in her almond-shaped eyes—and not just in hers. Her story had drawn a small circle. Alice Hubbard and Joan Ryan stood with their arms around each other, dabbing their eyes with cloth hankies. Fiona Eldritch, her face rigid with pain, stood beside Elizabeth Book, who was patting the hand of a tiny Asian woman. The three Russian studies professors hovered at the edge of the group looking uncomfortable but riveted to the painting. I wondered why this fairy story spoke so strongly to them. Were they all, like Mara Marinca and Soheila Lilly, exiles from war-torn countries?
The somber mood was broken by a familiar voice.
“What are y’all looking at?”
It was Phoenix, in an attention-getting slinky red dress and four-inch-high stilettos. She was hanging on the arm of Frank Delmarco, who looked as if he wasn’t quite sure how he had acquired this particular piece of arm candy. The circle quickly dispersed, the Russian studies professors, especially, seeming to melt into the far shadows of the room, although I saw one of them glancing back over his shoulder at Phoenix.
“Soheila was telling me the story of this painting,” I answered. Frank struck up a conversation with Casper about baseball, using it as an excuse to detach himself from Phoenix. Soheila, who looked exhausted and chilled from her recounting of the fairy story, excused herself to go look for a cup of hot tea.
“I thought y’all were having some kind of séance when I came in, the mood was so gloomy. I’m very empathic, you know.”
“It was kind of odd ,” I said, lowering my voice. I recounted the story of the painting and everyone’s reaction to it.
“Huh,” Phoenix said, squinting up at the dark man on horseback. “If he came into my dreams I don’t think I’d ever want to wake up.”
I nodded, turning away to hide my blush. There had to be an explanation for why he looked like the moonlight lover of my dreams. The painter of the triptych must have also designed the pediment over the door of
Soheila gave me a long, level stare before replying. “Some say the queen stole him as a young man from the mortals and enchanted him, and that when he seduces a human woman he is trying to make himself human again by drinking her spirit, but always before he can become human he drains his lover dry.”
“Oh,” I said, “that’s … sad.” And then, trying to assume an air of scholarly detachment: “I’ve heard stories about young men kidnapped by the fairies, of course …” I faltered, reminding myself that this was the kind of story my fairytale prince had told me. “But never a version in which the young man becomes a demon lover.” I turned back to the painting. “Where are they going?”
“Back to Faerie,” Soheila said. “Legend has it that once all the fairies and demons lived with mortals, coming and going between the world of mortals and the world of Faerie freely. But then the mortal world grew more crowded and mortals lost belief in the old gods. The doors between the worlds began to close. The fairies and demons had to choose between worlds. Most went back to Faerie, but some who had fallen in love with humanity remained. The doors closed and then even the doors themselves began to disappear. Only one door remained, and it was carefully hidden and most dangerous to pass through. Deep thickets grew up over the last door,” Soheila continued, “barring the way between the worlds. They grow thicker every year. Few try to pass anymore, and those who do are often lost between the worlds … caught in a bodiless limbo of pain. That is why the doors of the triptych are closed. We open it only four times a year, on the solstices and equinoxes, which are the times that tradition tells us the doors between the worlds may open …”
As she faltered to a stop I heard the pain in Soheila’s voice. Startled, I turned away from the painting to look at her. Tears shone in her almond-shaped eyes—and not just in hers. Her story had drawn a small circle. Alice Hubbard and Joan Ryan stood with their arms around each other, dabbing their eyes with cloth hankies. Fiona Eldritch, her face rigid with pain, stood beside Elizabeth Book, who was patting the hand of a tiny Asian woman. The three Russian studies professors hovered at the edge of the group looking uncomfortable but riveted to the painting. I wondered why this fairy story spoke so strongly to them. Were they all, like Mara Marinca and Soheila Lilly, exiles from war-torn countries?
The somber mood was broken by a familiar voice.
“What are y’all looking at?”
It was Phoenix, in an attention-getting slinky red dress and four-inch-high stilettos. She was hanging on the arm of Frank Delmarco, who looked as if he wasn’t quite sure how he had acquired this particular piece of arm candy. The circle quickly dispersed, the Russian studies professors, especially, seeming to melt into the far shadows of the room, although I saw one of them glancing back over his shoulder at Phoenix.
“Soheila was telling me the story of this painting,” I answered. Frank struck up a conversation with Casper about baseball, using it as an excuse to detach himself from Phoenix. Soheila, who looked exhausted and chilled from her recounting of the fairy story, excused herself to go look for a cup of hot tea.
“I thought y’all were having some kind of séance when I came in, the mood was so gloomy. I’m very empathic, you know.”
“It was kind of odd ,” I said, lowering my voice. I recounted the story of the painting and everyone’s reaction to it.
“Huh,” Phoenix said, squinting up at the dark man on horseback. “If he came into my dreams I don’t think I’d ever want to wake up.”
I nodded, turning away to hide my blush. There had to be an explanation for why he looked like the moonlight lover of my dreams. The painter of the triptych must have also designed the pediment over the door of
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