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The first time they’d returned to the little safehouse in the Highlands, it had legally belonged to Basira. It was over a year after the Change had been put to rights, and they had both chafed against the bad memories they’d developed in the final days (weeks?) they’d spent in it together. The happy memories preceding the end of the world demanded satisfaction, and so, Jon and Martin had gone back to Scotland. They’d spent three nights in the cottage and let the simple domesticity they deserved make its way back to them.
That’s not to say that the bad memories evaporated, or that the whole weekend was smooth sailing. On the contrary, it brought some of the long lasting issues back to the surface, and they had had to stop and have discussions at least once every few hours. But that was part of the trip’s point: proving to themselves and each other they both wanted to be together and wanted to do the work to stay together.
So they’d returned to London after four days, better prepared to face a real future together and with things to take to couple’s therapy to work through.
They’d gone back the second time for their honeymoon, and Basira’s wedding gift had been the deed to the house and its surrounding land. Instead of having a lazy honeymoon, snatching kips on the sofa and wandering around the fields of cows and sheep (well…there’d been some of that), they’d done some refurbishing of the little house, painting and sanding and cleaning and antiquing for more furniture, buying some relatively newer appliances and updating the heating system.
It became a monthly retreat for them, a team project to keep them focused on each other and their future together, coming back up to the small house outside a little village in the Highlands. Once a month, all responsibilities were left behind in London, save their cat, and they’d come continue their renovation project, of course using the money they’d “received” from the Institute before it folded.
A year of hard work later, Martin had finally pronounced himself satisfied, which was enough for Jon.
Then, after Margot was born, casual weekends away for the two of them were a thing of the past, but they made it up a handful of times each year. Margot had spent much of her holidays to date at the cottage, as they’d taken to calling it over the years. She’d never experienced it without telly and Internet, but she also never seemed to be interested in the digital world when they were away, more curious about the native birds than anything else nowadays.
The little village had a small bookstore, and the owner had gotten to know the Blackwood-Simses quite well. Every time they visited, she'd tell Margot about another book on Scottish birds she's either heard of or found at an auction or estate sale. When she was six, they'd added a small bookcase to Margot's room in the cottage. Now at eight, they were considering upgrading it to a full size one.
This meant that Margot was used to keeping the television off and instead planning an adventure for the day, whether it be by herself inside or dragging one or both of her fathers along in the nearby countryside.
This lazy Saturday in September is no different from any of the others in that regard. After breakfast, Margot begs to go on a “forest walk,” as she calls it. Despite being fairly remote, the cottage isn’t actually in a heavily wooded area. However, there are enough dense clusters of trees to satisfy an eight year old’s curiosity, and the family has spent many Saturdays in the last couple of years staking out the trees.
They bundle up as appropriate for a brisk autumn morning—meaning Margot and Jon are in scarves and jackets, whereas Martin settles for a knitted hat and a thick jumper. And then they let Margot go adventuring out in front of them.
They keep pace with her, not letting her venture out of sight, but they also give her space to explore and play. Their steady speed catches them up to her more than once, and on one such occasion, they overhear her talking to a bush as though fairies are sitting on its branches.
Jon has to press his face into Martin’s jumper so as not to make any kind of audible cooing noise.
She skips and twirls and dances her way through three copses of trees before she looks back at her fathers, her head cocked slightly to the side as she waits for them, ginger curls falling around her face.
They've been talking quietly behind her about mundane, every day things. It's actually Jon's favorite time with Martin nowadays, wrapped up in warm clothes and having a conversation about the shopping for dinner, their upcoming Christmas plans, and what Margot might want to wear to the school's Christmas play.
He never expected they would get to have a beautiful, simple domestic life like this, and he cherishes each small, insignificant conversation they have, even more so when they get to have them in Scotland.
"Dad? Tata?" Margot asks, still a few feet ahead of them.
"Yes, darling?" Jon replies, pausing his conversation with Martin about whether to buy fabric for Margot's Christmas dress here in the village or at the shop in London.
"Are fairies real?"
She asks this question with the simplicity of a child who has never been made to feel like any questions she has are stupid, annoying, or worthless. Every time she voices curiosity like this, so simply and matter-of-factly, Jon can feel his heart seize in his chest, and he knows Martin has a similar reaction—they both squeeze the other's hand almost simultaneously in the aftermath of her question.
"Well, baby," Martin says, "we can't know for certain. Fairies are supposed to be very secretive creatures, remember? They don't usually want to be seen by humans."
She nods a little sadly, but then brightens. "Like corncrakes?"
Jon can feel the cogs in his brain turning to try to remember what that bird is. "Sort of," he starts, and then remembers, "and it might not be a bad comparison over all. Corncrakes almost went extinct, but are now more common again. Fairies might be like that, too—they could have had a hard time when humans started large-scale farming and having factories up here, too."
This satisfies Margot immensely, and she starts to turn around to continue whatever she was doing before this thought consumed her. But before she takes three steps, she turns on her heel back to her fathers.
"If I were to find a fairy, I would name it Corncrake and take it home," she says determinedly. Jon purses his lips to keep from laughing, but he knows a smile is threatening to break out.
"If you can find a fairy, you can bring it home, Margot baby," Martin assures her.
Margot skips away again, and they can hear her young, soft voice singing, although Jon's ears aren't quite sensitive enough anymore to pick out the words.
"Why did you do that?" Jon complains, leaning his forehead against Martin's shoulder. "Now she'll spend every weekend we're here looking for fairies."
"She could be doing something way worse, like bringing spiders into the house," Martin teases, nudging Jon with his elbow.
Jon shudders. "I would disown her in a heartbeat."
Martin barks out a laugh, and Jon smiles back despite himself.
It's hard to stay angry for even a moment when his little girl is dancing in the forest to a song only she can hear, searching for fairies to bring home.
Wildshadows Wed 10 Nov 2021 12:03AM UTC
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