THE FAIRY'S TALE BONUS CONTENT
Scroll down this page for the following unpublished material.
THAIANA
Thaiana, the characters’ home, is a world divided into five pieces. Exactly how this has come about doesn’t need to be recounted here, but I expected you can guess anyway. War, as usual, played its part, but also the growth of the new steam power has helped separate the world into the two roles so loved by civilisation, the haves and the have-nots.
The Five Kingdoms of Thaiana have little in common, bar the fact that the whole of Thaiana is, at the point that our story is being told, undergoing something of a revolution.
The discovery of the steam engine, and with it the mass manufacture of clothing and goods, and the ability to travel and trade with distant lands, is having the same polarising effect that the discovery of farming had many hundreds of years before.
Classes are changing. Power is evolving. History is being written, and it certainly seems that Cerne Bralksteld is going to be the victor...
The Five Kingdoms of Thaiana:
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Ota’ari, The First Kingdom
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Penqioa, The Second Kingdom
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Ehinenden, The Third Kingdom
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Cairranbia, The Fourth Kingdom
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Voriias, The Fifth Kingdom
Ota'ari
Ota’ari has fallen on difficult times. Once a major empire, its fortunes have been greatly affected by its own stubborn refusal to centralise, and its tempestuous relationship with the Second Kingdom, Penqioa, whose borders encircle the majority of the near landlocked Ota’ari.
To date, this relationship has remained stable. Ota’ari fears the loss of their trade routes, and Penqioa the loss of the much-needed advances that come from the universities of Ota'ari. How long this delicate balance will last if (or, more likely, when) Ehinenden overtake Ota’ari in terms of steam development remains to be seen.
Luckily for Ota’ari, although now fallen on hard times, it still carries with it the cultural capital it garnered as a result of its universities and, in the last century, the discovery of steam and clockwork powered machinery.
Penqioa
Very little is known about Penqioa, and most of what is known is more fable than fact.
It is said that dragons still exist there. It is said that the capital city, Meng-quxio, is made of gold and jade and that the elders have the secret of eternal youth. It is said that they have weapons that could level any of the cities of the other Four Kingdoms if they ever choose to do so.
No one has yet managed to say why, if they have so much wealth and power, they choose to hide away from the world.
Either way, what is certain is that Penqioa is a private place. It is a secretive land that refuses all but the most cursory dealings with the other Kingdoms, though they do enjoy a slightly less frosty relationship with Ota’ari, built mainly on proximity rather than shared respect.
In and of itself, this tendency to ignore the rest of the world shouldn’t necessarily cause any problems, but Penqioa controls most of the coasts in the east, and Ota’ari, therefore, is reliant on the royal family of Penqioa to allow them to trade via the seas. Sea travel is not the only method of trade, to be sure, but it is certainly the easiest, even before the steamer ships took control of the oceans.
Every few decades a member of the Penqi royal family is sent out in envoy to the other Kingdoms, where he or she may stay a year or two in each ruler’s court, bargaining trade deals, sharing in medical, cultural or technological discoveries (of which Penqioa has shamingly few) and then return to their homeland, never to be seen again by the outside world.
Ehinenden
The river Ehi, for which the Kingdom is named, runs from the oceans of the northern shore in a thick line through the country to the Edge of The Known World, known locally as the Edge. It branches off in thin, intricate fern-leaves, feeding the whole country and ensuring that more years than not the crops are good and the animals watered. As a result, even before the steam technology reached their shores, Ehinenden had grown to both rely on and worship the water.
It is possibly for this reason that steam-power was not discovered here, and also why so many elder Ehinens distrust it. After all, the steam engines are powered by the torture of the water: one only has to listen to the pipes and funnels scream to know that.
Ehinenden is a country shaped like a bean, with a wide, rounded back and an inverted, slender front, facing towards the Shared Sea. From this, the country is divided into three counties, Caer Marllyn in the north-west, Marlais in the centre, and Sausendorf in the south-east. Each county, although staunchly loyal to the concept of Ehinenden as one country, is fiercely independent of its neighbours. The result of this is something of a kaleidoscopic culture. The image is whole, certainly, but made up of thousands of individual fragments. All it would take is one good shake to break the whole thing apart.
Caer Marllyn, in which The Fairy’s Tale is set, is a large county made up of smaller, semi-independent kingdoms and fiefdoms. The largest of these is Cerne Bralksteld, which occupies the land at the top of the country, north-west, near the landbridge to Voriias.
Cerne Bralksteld is an ever-growing city, having embraced the advent of steam power: the Baron of Cerne Bralksteld was, of all the ruling families in Ehinenden, the only one to truly see the possibilities presentment by steam, and as such created huge, underground manufactories. This expansion has turned Cerne Bralksteld into the largest and wealthiest of the Ehinen cities, and is powered not only by the Baron’s foresight but also (and it should be noted, mostly) by slavery.
Indeed, most materials are now produced in Cerne Bralksteld, from metalwork and textiles to the engines for the steamships, most of which are then sold via the treasury to the Ota’ari and Penqioa Steamer Company (commonly referred to as the O&P).
The second fiefdom of note in Caer Marllyn is Llanotterly. One of the oldest kingdoms in Ehinenden, it has now fallen on hard times, mostly as a result of its reckless and irresponsible royal family. Its new ruler, King John, is said to be something an uneducated wimp, having not been afforded the expensive Ota’ari education most rulers in the region enjoy.
Cairranbia
Cairranbia is a Kingdom made up of a series of small islands, situated in the south of Thaiana, between the coasts of Ehinenden and Penqioa. Once a vibrant and lively country, now very little of the local culture remains.
Tua Alvistes, the central island, is an exciting, dangerous place where, it is said, pirates are made. Marisanto, the second island of note, is the rainbow of Thaiana, both in terms of flora and fauna, and also in the clothing and brightly painted plaster that adorns the wide, veranda’d houses.
Cairranbia has not fared so well in the race towards mechanisation. As a result of this, the language, Cairi, and the culture are dying out as more of its citizens look outwards for their livelihoods. Still, something of the original spirit of the islands can still be found, especially on the smaller twin islands of Sal Dorma and Sao Dorno. It is here that many of the wealthier families travel on their annual tours, hoping to take the waters and sample – in dilute and seemingly without irony – the local history and culture.
Voriias
There are two major cities in Voriias, both situated on the coast, called Skjnelia and Bjonvikon. Voriias is a dangerous, depressing land, beaten firstly by the cold, bitter climate and secondly by the hard, inhospitable ruling family, who still hold strong to the belief that all Voriians are equal and thus should all pay an equally large amount of their earnings to them.
Ostensibly these tithes would then be divvied up amongst the country as a whole, but, as you have probably guessed, the reality is very different.
The people of Voriias are a thick-skinned, cynical race, and a great advertisement for how the human spirit, no matter in which reality it finds itself, can find the bitter humour in any situation.
BONUS CHAPTER
The Queen's Choice
The highest room in the tower was circular, unwelcoming and dismal.
It had been decorated with geometric precision and was a testament to just how much a lack of imagination could actually achieve. No fire burned in the grate, but the tower was nevertheless lit by the orangey-white, flickering light of flames. Outside, the park was burning. The resulting shadows twisted and turned as they danced across the walls.
The Queen stood by one of the windows, staring at the park as it burned. They were too high up to smell the smoke, but somehow the air in the tower still managed to feel thick and heavy, as if every breath were not so much a necessity of life but a bringer of slow death. She would miss the trees, and wondered if any would ever grow again inside the city. Or, if it came to that, whether she would be alive long enough to see them.
She grudgingly acknowledged that things had got out of hand, but she had never expected to be so turned upon, to be betrayed in such a way.
Shuddering, she turned to her husband, who sat slumped in one of the three wooden chairs which had been placed in front of the desk, itself situated at the top arc of the circular room. Each chair was exactly sixteen inches in front of the desk, another sixteen inches away from its neighbour. A large, tatty cushion sat on the floor behind the desk, the only thing in the room that didn't conform to the all-encompassing precision. The Queen didn't notice any of this, however. Her imagination too busy torturing her with visions of her future.
There is, of course, much to be said for being precise. Indeed, in some situations it is an admirable quality: A surgeon who approximates is not the person one wants removing an appendix. It is, however, a troubling thing when beads of sweat begin to break out over the angle of a book on a coffee table. This is not to say that a desire for order is a harbinger of bloody, violent and above all neat death, but still... It takes a certain type of mind to measure out equal distances between pieces of furniture.
The Queen moved away from the window, stepping out of the pool of light and into the gloom.
"Wherefore are we brung low? Forget our sin!
This tomb of death the Teller brings his wrath
of which no kin afore us within hath been interr’ed- "
"For gods' sake, Ti, drop the act. We're in deep shit,” the King snapped, his voice echoing against the stone. "This little piss-pot is trying to take it all away from us."
Titania was not and never had been given to sentiment or regret. To rise above the rank and file one needed mettle, and the self-styled Queen certainly had more than a nail's worth in her black blood. But it was impossible, at that moment, in that meticulously organised room, not to feel afraid. And so she found herself suddenly in need of comfort and reassurance.
Titania walked softly to her husband and, bending down, wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She dropped a kiss on his head, her hair falling across her face. "I know," she whispered into his hair. He reached up and rubbed her neck with his large, strong hand. She breathed in the smell of him, and for a moment everything calmed. They were together.
She held herself to her husband as tightly as a child, her slender body pressed against his. She wished, for a moment, that she could just close her eyes and let everything end. It was dawning on her that they should have listened to the whispered warnings. But they had been having so much fun – their story was the story, it was their time, their Chapter.
Yet now she was here in this barren place, and all the power and fame she had amassed seemed like so many snowflakes: beautiful, yes, but easily destroyed. She tried to remember anything she’d heard about the Teller. The only thing she could recall now, the one thing that itched in her mind like a splinter, was that he had no mercy and he could do worse than kill you.
People spoke of a power he had, a power no other fae had ever possessed. They said that he had a way to erase you so that you might as well have never been. They said he was mad.
...But they also said he knew how to save the Mirrors. That he had a way to bring the characters back to them.
The Teller.
She turned the sound of the word over in her mind. Names were important, the Queen knew that as surely as she knew that day follows night. Look at Rumpelstiltskin - the imp had built an entire Chapter on the power of a name. The Teller had started out as nothing more than a wild rumour, and she had disregarded him as someone minor, an upstart vying for a story of his own. But if the sudden appearance of the tall, white tower in the centre of Ænathlin was an indication of his power, then it was clear he was neither a rumour nor was he minor.
Turning her head, her cheek resting against Oberon's thick, brown hair, she stared at the window, the flickering light of the fire reflecting on the glass. Somewhere down there was a statue of her, along with ones of Oberon and Robin. She wondered if anyone would try to save her statue, or if it would be destroyed, along with the park.
Why was he burning the park? Why had he rounded up all her servants, her court? Of course stories had to end, every Chapter made way for the next. Hells, hers and Oberon’s Chapter was the seventh, it wasn’t like this had never happened before. But not like this, not with fire and death and fear…
This was no simple coup, no attempt to overthrown herself and the King and take what remained. What the Teller was doing was not taking over - it was rewriting.
Perhaps it was true that she and her husband had lost track of their story recently. They had involved themselves too much, especially when they stole the boy. But to burn half the city to the ground? To gather up all their loyal subjects and herd them into cells to have the mortal gods know what done to them? Had she done something so bad, really? It had all ended well: the arrogant had been brought low, the meek raised up. Did it really make so much of a difference how one travelled, as long as the destination was reached?
But even as these arguments ran through her head, Titania knew they had lost.
Of course it mattered how things were done, how things were done was the story. No one really cares about the ending, as long as everyone gets what they deserve. But without the journey, without the triumphs and the disasters, there was no story. And she and Oberon...
Titania swallowed.
She and Oberon had corrupted the story they had charged themselves with delivering.
The sound of hinges creaking. The Queen and King both looked up sharply. A door opened slowly, obeying the oldest traditions of suspense. She felt Oberon’s shoulders tense under her arms, and realised he was afraid as well. They peered into the shadows, each dreading and needing to finally see the shape of the person who would come to influence their lives and the lives of everyone in Ænathlin.
What padded softly through the door was not, could not, be the Teller. But the fact that the creature was here, in this room and at this time, confirmed every fear she had been nurturing.
She had never seen the Beast before, but it was everything she had been taught to fear.
The three-headed monstrosity loped casually through the door, it’s dark brown eyes watching them as it stepped further into the room. Her eyes dragged over it’s tall, long body, its thick, light brown fur splattered and stained black by drying blood, to stare at it’s heads, each moving independently of its neighbour: one sniffing the air casually while the other two kept their focus on the King and Queen.
So it was true that the Beast had aligned itself with the Teller. She wondered briefly if she could run. But of course that was madness. If you ran from the Beast it was because you lacked only the confidence to end your life yourself.
As if reading her thoughts, the Beast stepped towards them, moving with unexpected grace for a creature so wicked. It turned it’s nearest head to the Queen, staring at her. She had the unnerving feeling that it was committing her features to memory.
Suddenly she was angry. The cloying taste of burnt wood in her throat, the smell of smoke, and the audacity of this monster to look at her, the Queen, fuelled something inside her that wouldn’t be quelled. Titania swept her hair over her shoulder and stood straight-backed behind her husband, the pearls in her crown glittering as they caught the light from the fire.
She met the Beast’s gaze and held it.
The Beast turned another head on her, four pairs of brown eyes watching her with something akin to curiosity. It’s nearest head tilted, sniffing the air. Titania could feel her heart beating in her chest. She made sure she breathed slowly and deeply, keeping her beautiful face still under its scrutiny.
A little white-haired man, no bigger than a dwarf appeared from behind the Beast. He wore a woollen cardigan over a slightly portly frame, and shuffled towards them in slippered feet. His face was decorated with thin lines that crinkled around his eyes and mouth, giving him the impression of a slightly rumpled bedsheet – old and familiar, and possibly in need of replacement. He must be lost. How could such a harmless man be all the way up here, in this desolate and unforgiving place?
And then he reached forward and gently patted the nearest head of the Beast, rubbing its forehead with his knuckles as if it were no more than a large, lolling family pet – the kind of slobbering dog that spends its days stealing slices of meat from the kitchen and its evenings asleep in front of a warm fire. Titania’s state of mind did not improve when the Beast nuzzled one of its heads against the little man’s hand, a low whine of affection escaping from all three of its throats.
The little man smiled happily at the royal couple over the top of the Beast’s three heads, and gave the helpless shrug of dog owners everywhere when their normally well-behaved pet growls and bares its teeth.
Pottering over to the large desk, he carefully placed the files he had been carrying on the leather surface, straightening their edges so they aligned with the edge of the wood. Once he was satisfied that the folders were positioned in an orderly manner, he set about the task of taking his seat. He was only small, and he had to scramble to sit on the wooden chair.
Titania wondered whether it would be rude to offer to help him or ruder not to, and then she remembered where she was, and what was happening.
Thankfully he managed to settle himself in the chair and, once he had shuffled himself into a more comfortable position, he rested his elbows on the desk and gave them another warm smile.
“Good evening, your Majesties.” His voice was warm and slightly anxious, like a man who a lot of his plate and had just been lumbered with another task, one which he had been too polite to refuse. “Thank you for coming here at such a late hour. As you can see, we are a little busy.” He waved vaguely towards the windows and the burning park. “So your co-operation is greatly appreciated.”
“When will we meet this so-called Teller?” Oberon demanded, his nervousness causing him to sound more aggressive than he was by nature.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I suppose I thought you knew,” the old man replied mildly. “I am he.”
Titania couldn’t have stopped the gasp of surprise if her life had depended on it. But the man just smiled a thin, slightly tired smile, and opened one of the larger files he had brought with him.
“Please sit, your Majesty,” he said to her, not looking up from the pages of the file. “We have a lot to cover, and I would hate you to be uncomfortable. Now, let me see, let me see… Where shall we begin?”
Oberon opened his mouth to speak, but Titania squeezed his shoulder, silencing him. She moved to sit on the chair next to her husband, and was just about to bring it closer to his when the Teller’s head snapped up. He said in a tone of voice that begged no disobedience, “Please don’t move the chair. I think you’ve done enough, don’t you? Sit down.”
Without any intervention from her brain, her body sat. And, like the slow dread of a shark’s fin cutting through the water’s surface, the realisation slide across her mind that this neat, tired little man was infinitely more terrifying and dangerous than the Beast. The Teller was polite, methodical, clearly annoyed and impossible to disobey. He walked through the world with the quiet confidence of someone who had never encountered a problem that they couldn’t solve, a person they couldn’t manage, or a puzzle they couldn’t unravel. This was not a man who was used to disappointment. Well, not for long anyway.
“Goodness me. Haven’t you two been busy? Deary me,” the Teller muttered as he flicked through the file. His tone wasn’t angry. And why should it be? He didn’t need to be angry. Anger was for those who were out of control. “You may not realise this, but in some ways I’m quite pleased. Things have been slipping recently. It’s not your fault, not really. You are simply a product of a faulty system – a broken string on a violin, if you will, ahaha.” He looked up to see if they would laugh but didn't seem surprised when they didn’t. “So, what have you got to say for yourselves?”
The King pulled his shoulders back and opened his mouth, and Titania knew before he spoke that he would say the wrong thing. He did not disappoint.
“Say for ourselves?” Oberon boomed, his body rigid and defensive. “We have nothing to ‘say for ourselves’. You burn our park and build this tower in our city, you pull us out of Thaiana and the story we were running, and you dare to speak to us as if we were some footnote character? I am your King!”
The Teller regarded Oberon over the top of his spectacles. It seemed to Titania that he was waiting politely to see if Oberon had finished speaking, though she couldn’t be sure. Either way, after a moment staring thoughtfully at her husband, he glanced back down at his files.
“Yes,” he said. "Of course I dare. I have your entire Chapter in front of me – the reign of the self-styled King of The Fairies. Eighty-eight years of your avarice and hubris. Eighty-eight years of your clumsy story-telling and incessant, endless bickering with this woman here. Do I dare to do these things? You Highness, I dare not do these things.”
Oberon slammed his fist on the table. The Beast let out a low growl, which echoed against the high walls and straight down Titania’s spine. It stood up, muscles moving along its lean body like rats in a barrel. The Teller shook his head and it stilled, but it kept all three pairs of its dark, intelligent eyes fixed on the King. Titania wanted to warn her husband not to say anything more, to make him realise that in the space of a few hours they had lost all their power, but when she tried to speak her throat was empty.
“I’ve heard about you,” Oberon said, angry and oblivious. “And all I’ve heard is that you’re just some jumped up little clotpole with grand ideas about taming the stories. Well, it can’t be done. You might as well try to tame life.”
“Would that I could, your Majesty. But as regards the stories... They have been remarkably easy to domesticate, in fact. Look around you, Sire. It has begun. The task is already half completed and only now are you noticing.” The Teller leaned forward. “You have been beaten, sir. You and all your kind, with your gross, vulgar little tales and pathetic dreams of power, your selfish, rash storytelling, your disregard for this city and its survival... It is the end. The end of your Chapter and the end of your time.”
Titania could see that Oberon was at a loss. He was not a complex creature, and his story had risen to greatness because of his direct approach. If it caused trouble, kill it. If it was beautiful, take it. He didn’t have the resources to cope with the Teller and his subtle power and chilly logic. He couldn’t hear the unspoken threat any more than he could read the writing on the wall.
“Bullshit,” he said, causing the Teller to tut. “You, little man with your little dreams, are nothing more than another short tale that will be told and forgotten, and then never told again.”
The Teller shook his head. “I will give you a chance to save what little you have. You may submit to me and I will recast you. Or you may refuse, in which case I will Redact you. Take your time to consider, please.”
Oberon stood, his chair hitting the floor with a bang. “Submit to you? When you're nothing more than a reference note? Perhaps I will offer you a similar choice.”
Titania wanted to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come. From beside the Teller’s desk, the Beast bared its teeth at Oberon.
The Teller’s eyes narrowed. He turned to Titania.
“And do you share your husband’s views?”
Oberon turned to her, a smile appearing on his face. She knew what was he was thinking: that together there was nothing they couldn’t accomplish. They were the King and Queen of the Fairies, they had taken the Chapter eighty-eight years ago and held it ever since. Together they had created stories so beautiful they would last a thousand years, told and retold in all the Five Kingdoms of Thaiana. They had nothing to fear from the Teller, even with his mongrel Beast at his side.
He really didn’t understand what was happening.
Titania looked directly in the clear, intelligent eyes of the Teller, and did what she had always done:
She saved herself.
A PATHWAYS TREE SHORT STORY
Skipping Stones
Joan looked at the water suspiciously. It seemed very...
"Wet," she said. "And cold."
Delphine looked up from unpacking her bag. “Pardon?"
"Nothing," Joan called over her shoulder. It wasn't that she didn’t like the water. She just... well, she could think of things she ought to be doing, instead of being here. She should be at home, keeping the house in check while her dad was at work. And she had a Fairies United meeting, and she needed to get her banner finished, and–
Behind her, Delphine threw a blanket on the grass. “Here, we shall sit. And then we shall swim.”
Joan nodded but didn’t move away from the shore of the lake. Behind her, she heard Delphine huff in that singular way she had. It wasn’t annoyance, not exactly. But it wasn’t far off it.
Perhaps this had been a mistake, Joan thought. When she and Delphine had broken up all those years ago, Joan had sworn to herself she wouldn’t get entangled again. It wasn’t that she didn’t agree with love or happy ever afters, nothing like that. But the whole thing had just been so... tiring.
She knelt down by the water’s edge, picked up a stone, and threw it as far as she could. It landed with a heavy ‘plop’ and seemed to sit on the water’s surface for just a second, before sinking down, lost to the darkness.
A hand landed on her shoulder. She turned her face upwards.
“Joany, what is bothering you?”
Joan shrugged, smiled. “Nothing. I'm happy.”
Delphine’s normally wide eyes narrowed. Probably against the sun, Joan told herself.
“Ah so. Well then, if nothing’s wrong, let us swim now,” Delphine said, already pulling her dress over her shoulders.
The next few moments were a blur. Joan was certain she protested, but somehow she found herself naked and up to her chest in the water. It was, as she had suspected, cold.
Delphine bobbed in a circle around her, her thick brown hair softly feathering on the water. She smiled, her eyes alight.
“I know what is upsetting you, Joany.”
“Nothing’s wrong. I told you, I'm happy enough. I just... I can't stay long.”
Delphine bobbed another circle around her. Joan turned, trying to keep up with her.
“You know, water is a great friend to the adhene, my tribe. Before we were all called back to Land, before the Teller and his rules, we used to live here, in Thaiana. We fished, when we were not having our fun with the characters. The water, it is a wonderful thing. In the water, you have no weight. You have no boundaries. No responsibilities.”
“I don't feel like a story now, Delphine,” Joan began, but Delphine cut her off.
“This is not a story, Joany. It is a lesson. Look at you, you are cold. You are shivering. Why is that, do you think?”
Joan rolled her eyes. “Because it's cold?”
“But it is only cold because you are not moving. And you are not moving because you are thinking too much about what might happen. You are worrying about everyone else. Everything else. You are being the good little sidekick, always thinking of the hero, never of yourself.”
Joan pulled back. Or at least, as much as the water would allow. “Please don’t. I thought we agreed not to-”
“You agreed. I did not.”
“Delphine, I-”
Suddenly Delphine was gone, and a moment later Joan was underwater.
Panic gripped her. It was dark as pitch, the cold darkness pulling her down, like the stone. Joan kicked and tried to flail her arms, but the water was too heavy, and she was too small.
And then she felt Delphine’s hands on her arms, and a second later the adhene’s body pressed up against her. Warm. Soft. Light.
In the darkness, Delphine kissed her.
And then they were on the surface again, and Delphine was laughing. She splashed water in Joan's face, and then, quick as anything, swam away. Before Joan knew what she was doing, she was laughing and swimming after her. Delphine was a strong swimmer, but somehow Joan caught up with her, grabbed her, kissed her, splashed her, and then swam away.
She had no idea how long they played together, nor at what moment their kisses and splashes become something else, something deeper and more meaningful.
Eventually they left the lake, exhausted and happy. They stood on the edge of the water, both catching their breath. Delphine dropped to her knees, picked up a stone, and stood. She toyed with it for a moment and then, winking at Joan, said, “Watch this.”
Delphine threw the stone at the lake, twisting her wrist at the final moment. The stone skipped across the water’s surface, three, four times, before sinking.
“Is that the lesson?” Joan asked. “Things sink?”
“Non. The stone behaves how you instruct to. If you tell it to sink, it will. If you tell it to skip, the same. But it will always sink in the end, because what else can it do? It has no control.”
“That’s a...” She struggled for a moment, trying to find something nice to say. “...a good lesson. Very practical.”
Delphine sighed and took Joan’s hand. “You are not cold anymore, Joany?”
“No,” Joan smiled. “I’m not cold anymore.”
“That is the lesson. Move, Joany. Move yourself, do what you want to do, and you need not be cold. You need not fear sinking, like the stone.”
Joan glanced at the lake. The sun sparkled across the water, little ribbons of light dancing to the rhythm of the ripples.
“I love you,” she said, turning back to Delphine. “Thank you for making me come here today, and for making me...” She paused, and then grinned. “Making me get wet.”
Delphine laughed. “It is my pleasure.”
Joan was late for her Fairy’s United meeting that evening, but nobody minded.
THE FAIRY'S TALE: INSPIRATION AND REFERENCES.
Character Names
Bea is short for Buttercup Snowblossom - literally the 'B' from the beginning of her name. Buttercup Snowblossom is inspired by the names of the fairies in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. Likewise, Bea's brother's name, Mustard Seed, is inspired by the play.
The King and Queen of the Fairies, Titania and Oberon, are a direct reference to the characters of the same name from 'A Midsummer's Night Dream'.
Ana is named as a reference to both Anastasia from the Disney version of 'Cinderella' and Anastasia Steele from the 'Fifty Shades of Grey' trilogy. This is because, at the time of writing, Fifty Shades of Grey was hugely popular, and I wanted to write a female character who was, in part, a response to the leading protagonist of those works.
Sindy is named in reference to the name 'Cinderella'.
Seven chose his given name as a reference to/reminder of the seven dwarves who 'stole' Maria Sophia from him. His actual name is Abelphizar.
Maria Sophia is named for Maria Sophia von Erthal, who is argued to be one of the possible original inspirations for the character of Snow White.
References and inspiration
Various Fairy Tales, including The Brothers Grimm
Mills & Boon series
Misc
The basic archetype to the story of Cinderella is pretty universal. It was this universality that started to seed in my mind the idea of the General Administration.
The GenAm's four Departments (The Contents, Indexical, Plot and Redaction Departments) are inspired by the Ministries in '1984', as are the GenAm posters.
La Fée aux Choux (The Cabbage Fairy) is one of the earliest black and white movies, and is also thought to be the first film by a female film maker.
Seven and Mistasinon are the antithesis of each other, something which is alluded to in the colours associated with them. Seven wears white (the colour of the Redactionists) but is in fact blue (symbolizing the Plot Department). Mistasinon, on the other hand, wears a blue suite over a crisp, white shirt. More here.
The Raconteurs are something similar to Geisha or Courtesans, though it is not a direct comparison. They can be male or female.
The Grand Reflection Station was inspired in part by the Grand Central Station.
The place names in Ehinenden are meant to allude to different European areas which I associate with the fairy stories used by the Teller (of course, this is very subjective!)