She’s figured it out!

 

Mirabelle, the disgustingly smug fairy’s smile, is illuminated by the moonlight as she sits on the edge of the park bench with Grace. It’s the middle of the night, a few days after the slime incident. She and Grace had been making trips to deliver the boots in secret, but she’s cracked the problem now like a squirrel would have done with a stubborn nut.

 

Fairies are known for their mischievous use of magic, after all.

 

“Are you sure, Marbles?” asks Grace, leaning back on the bench with his arms out at his sides and hanging over it.

 

Mirabelle nods, looking at him and then back at the pair of boots that she needs to deliver tonight. “I’m sure, Grace,” she replies, lifting her hands. “I can’t bother you every night,” says the fairy as magic gathers around her fingers. “You need to sleep more.”

 

— This statement of hers is proved to be true by the loud yawn that fills the empty park, the man covering his mouth lazily with a hand.

 

“I have fun. It’s okay,” he says.

 

Mirabelle shakes her head. “You’re a little pale, Grace,” she says, looking him over in worry. Between his work during the day, he’s been spending so many nights staying awake with her too for hours. It’s no wonder that he's looked a little ragged lately. “You need to eat more berries and take a nap in the sun.”

 

The man tilts his head. “You wanna join me?”

 

Mirabelle frowns, looking back at the boots, and makes some mumbling, idle excuses about not wanting to go out during the day, which causes him to laugh. The soulless entity that is the bootmaking fairy focuses her intent on the pair of human-sized boots that she’s finished working on today, channeling her magic into them and making use of an idea that came to her in a rather spontaneous vision.

 

 

The souls of the boots drip and dribble, as the inky liquid flows out of her hands and begins to coat them. The fluid unnaturally slides around, acting more like a serpentine body than water, as it permeates the material.

 

A second later, the spell stops.

 

“Well?” asks Grace, the two of them staring quietly.

 

“Uh…” Mirabelle stares at the boots, waiting.

 

And then something happens. The boots twitch. “There!” Grace lets out an energetically surprised sound as the boots shuffle around by themselves for a second, and then the two of them watch from the bench as they begin to march off and out of the park — as if being worn by a ghost.

 

“Well, I’ll be…” says Grace. “Not a bad idea, Mirabelle.”

 

“Thanks, Grace,” says Mirabelle, smiling proudly as she looks at her friend. “They’re going to walk to the owner’s house by themselves!” she says, deeply pleased at his praise.

 

The two of them stay there in silence for a time as they watch the boots exit the park. Grace looks back down at her. “So… You don’t think that’s going to scare people?”

 

Mirabelle blinks, looking at him quietly for a moment. “…Scare people?” she asks.

 

Grace nods, spinning a finger. “You know? Spooky boots walking by themselves in the middle of the night?” asks the man, raising an eyebrow.

 

Oh.

 

Mirabelle’s heart sinks into her chest. Did she just mess up? It seemed like such a great idea, too. Oh no!

 

“— Do it during the daytime,” says Grace, leaning over. Holding out a hand for her to climb onto, he picks Mirabelle up and then lays down onto the bench, setting her down on his side in safety as he yawns again.

 

“Huh?” she asks.

 

“Trust me on this, Marbles,” he says. “Do it again tomorrow after the sun is up.”

 

“But then everyone will see, Grace…” says Mirabelle, unsure about his plan.

 

The man nods, resting his head on his arm at a precise angle so that his hair isn’t touched. “Exactly.”

 

Mirabelle, the ghost-creating fairy, and the man with very nice hair don’t do much that night except hang out together on the bench quietly, simply enjoying the company of the other as friends do.

 

---

 

 

It is the next day.

 

Having finished another pair of boots, Mirabelle enchants them, doing as Grace had advised her to do last night. She’s inside the shoemaker’s workshop.

 

It’s kind of scary, but the way he explained it to her made sense.

 

— Everyone already knows that she exists. Everyone already knows that she’s real.

 

The boots march toward the front door of the shoemaker’s house, and she watches as they stop, before simply kicking the door open a second later. The street outside, covered in bright daylight, makes itself seen as the people who have gathered in the pseudo-permanent market of sorts that is now outside of the famous building turn to look at the commotion, as do the stationed guards of the property too, all of them watching and muttering quietly in confusion as a pair of boots with nobody inside of them marches out of the building under their own power.

 

Hanging on the side of them is a visible slip of paper, marked with a clear message.

 

‘Production and delivery of the item by Mirabelle’s Boots. Do not intercept.’ Next to it is her best attempt at drawing a fairy.

 

Terrified, Mirabelle presses her face against the glass of the window and watches, expecting all hell to break loose. Her wings buzz as she gets ready to fly her out of the chimney and to safety.

 

Instead, after a moment of surprise, people gather around the boots and watch them march out and into the city.

 

Grace was right.

 

In the daytime, such things are much less scary. Not only does this solve her problem regarding delivery issues, but it also spares Grace his precious sleep. Additionally, it helps establish her reputation as… something that exists.

 

She’s not really sure what to go for other than that, but for such a vile, corrupted, soggy-hearted creature like herself, this ought to be good enough and more than she deserves.

 

In the days to come, a dozen pairs of boots and shoes, each pair becoming more exotic and colorful than the last, parade their way out of the house, the spell becoming more and more advanced, with many of the pieces of footwear taking stops to show off to the public before reaching their destination.

 

The renewed excitement about the presence of the fairy in the city reaches a peak as people make games of following the enchanted shoes, trying to bet on their destinations or on races with them to known ends. The street outside of the shoemaker’s house is flooded. The sales of plush fairies, drawings, wooden figures, and all sorts of nick-nacks in the vendors’ stalls outside explodes as she becomes a cultural phenomenon across the city within quick order.

 

---

 

When she flies to Grace that night, crying and terrified that his plan had worked too well and that she is now popular, beloved, and that people are interested in her, it is hard for her to explain why this is so horrible.

 

But she thinks it’s because none of them actually know her.

 

“What if, when I introduce myself, they see that I’m not as great as they think I am now, Grace?” she asks, tearing at her hair as she sits in a bundle on his thigh.

 

“Hey,” says Grace, a finger poking her lightly. She squeaks, following her fairy instincts to bite him. The man laughs as she grabs ahold of his digit with both hands, her teeth barely sinking in at all.

 

Mirabelle lets go, realizing that she just bit her friend. This is often considered odd for friends to do, but sometimes it isn’t. She isn’t sure if she and Grace have a biting-friendship though.

 

“Sorry, Grace,” she says, rubbing the tiny spot she had bitten on his finger. The man laughs, but she doesn’t know why. “Thanks, you think?” asks Mirabelle.

 

“I-“ He leans back, yawning loudly and then shaking his head quickly to snap himself awake. “I know it,” he replies, looking and making that disgusting sound he makes when he winks — which the man also does not spare her from. “You’ll knock them off their socks, Marbles.”

 

It’s quiet for a time between them.

 

“— That was a joke, you see?” explains Grace, looking at her with a satisfied look that belongs to a cat and raising an eye-brow. “Socks. Boots. It fits because -”

 

- His explanation is cut short as Mirabelle bites him a second time.

 

She has decided that they have a biting-friendship.

 

The weak must fear the strong.

 

 

---