"Willow, we must find it!" Dad says quietly but insistently so Mum won't hear.

"I know, Dad."

"Before it's too late," he adds, muttering under his breath.

I sigh, not knowing how much longer our community can be sustained like this. We really must find the Westbury faery.

"So, where do you think it could be?" I ask. We don't even know whether it's female or male.

"I haven't a clue. We've searched everywhere, and no one seems to recognise this picture," he says, pointing to the sepia photograph of an old lady. She has woollen clothes, sits in a rocking chair, and seems to have had something to do with the mystical creature we must find. Yet, there is no trace of that woman. Not anymore.

"Arthur!" a voice calls from the kitchen. The smell of soup wafts beneath my nose; the conversation is over.

***

I rush out of the front door into the rain. Rivers of water slide over my feet in torrents, before running down the gravel path. The trees seem to surround me ominously.

Heart pounding, palms sweaty. The path should be familiar from daily country walks, but it isn't. Gravelly fragments of rocks slide beneath my feet, and the swishing of the rain doesn't make the darkness any easier to navigate through. However, the darkness, the rain, and the jog clear my brewing mind. Even at this time.

I know it is 2:55a.m.; my luminous watch reminds me of that even in the gloom. I hope Mum and Dad haven't woken up yet. Especially Mum: her sharp voice stings even in my memory.

There are flower fields ahead of me, pulling me out of my thoughts. I can smell the gentle fragrance of the snapdragon blossoms. A fierce ecstasy pulses in my chest, and I force my feet to pound even faster- harder- on the turf, abusing the last of my energy. Then, I slump onto a mossy, yellowed rock, feeling my leaden legs. Their heavy feel makes my smile, satisfied. For the first time, my mind is crystal clear. Thus it is that I hear a quiet tinkling sound even over my heavy pants.

Stopping myself from breathing for a few seconds, I strain my ears. There it is again. A soft melody, almost carried away by the wind, but still there. I squint at my surroundings, scanning the area. When I find nothing, I imagine that it must have been a mind trick, but I have not felt so at piece with the world for ages, and my mind seems calm for once. I wait a second, pricking my ears.

Finally, another gasp of song escapes from a little mouth, which I perceive on a flower nearby. I gasp. Please, tell me this is what I am looking for. If this were the Westbury faery, all my problems would be solved. Please.

I imagine dad, his arms enveloping me like a warm blanket, and mum, gazing at me with wide, astonished eyes. I'm sure she would say, "So you were right. Oh my dear, well done!" She'd look at me with loving eyes, rubbing a hand against my cheek. I want that so much...

Quietly, I get up, but every step I take seems to echo across the clearing. I hope it won't hear me. For a moment, I lose sight of her. I snap my head from side to side before my eyes track her down again, and now I'm not looking where I'm going; I'm just making sure I don't lose her. Snapdragon stems wilt underneath my feet, trampled, but I don't care. This being is nothing like I've ever seen in dad's lab or in faery history books.

A pearly, translucent veil envelopes the delicate, white being, whose head is hidden in its hands. The being's shoulders shake, long fluorescent hair cascading over them, much like suspended rivulets of water. Is it an alven? Or an ashray? Or even a devas? Or is it the Westbury faery? Six pairs of dragonfly-like wings protrude from its shoulder blades, and a lilac substance seems to patter down onto its lap. I notice that it leaks from her eyes- are they tears?

I reach out, (why hasn't it noticed my presence yet?) and am about to reach it, when it's eyes level with mine. A sharp gasp of horror escapes it's lips, but it's too late. I have caught sight of the angular face, the tender lips and the warm, brown eyes. Once more, I direct my index finger towards her. It meets soft skin, the softness rivalling that of a feather, before sliding down her arms.

I feel something, which feels like neither gas nor liquid, but which one of either, fall onto my fingernail. Then, there is silence. The last thing I see is the violet tear sliding over my hand, leaving a burning trail behind it.

Zap! A stranger, invisible to my eyes, begins to yell, "WES-" in a muffled voice. I hear voices whisper indistinctly even as dots cloud my vision. Impenetrable darkness engulfs me, leaving me blinder than a bat without echolocation. In the distance, I hear a clock.

Instantly, I know that I'm lost. Back in Westbury, we have a no-public-clock policy. This one, however, sounds like Big Ben. It rings one... two... five times: it must be five a.m. Where am I?

A light flickers; a street lamp a few paces away has switched on. I almost tip over as a mass of solid flesh barrels into me. "Hey!" I shout, but the man wearing blue dungarees and a black, leather jacket- a strange combination- has already gone.

Quickly, I follow suit. Hurry, or she will die. I hear the words clearly, but no one says it. An absurd idea penetrates my mind, 'am I hearing someone else's thoughts?' Instinctively, I get the feeling I'm right. Which means someone here is in danger. A crawling sensation creeps over my skin.

Again, the voice rolls in my head as loudly as thunder. You must get to her, Phillip. What if it's too late already? God, I should have left even earlier.

The man in the dungarees ahead of me speeds up. My eyes widen, and I sprint after him. I must not lose sight of him. I must not! Though I don't know why.

The man reaches the squat little bungalow at the end of the street, and I try to make my legs go faster. My heart beats fiercely in my chest, and I barely skid to a halt at the house's front door.

Each of my nerves tingle more and more insistently as the door remains unanswered. Just as I feel what must be the hundredth drop of sweat running down Phillip's forehead, the door opens. A lady in her nineties gives Phillip a warm smile, not even glancing in my direction. I bump into the doorway on the way inside, but instead of feeling the sharp wood, there is only air. I look down at myself. The skin, which was touching the wood, has disappeared. All I can see is the arch of the entrance, which stands as straight as ever, as if my skin hadn't just vanished. I push myself after Phillip as the door swings shut, still staring at my hip, whose skin has suddenly returned. Am I invisible?

As we reach the old, rosy woman's living room, she says, "Have a seat."

While I agreeably slump into an armchair, wanting to collect my thoughts, Phillip remains standing, shaking his head. "No. You asked me to find a... a butterfly fairy and encase her in this tea-caddy. We're going to carry the ritual out now, right? We'll make the potion, and my wife will be saved?" asks the man, a tired edge cracking his voice. Yet, his eyes are bright and alert, his fingers fumbling with the zip of his leather jacket.

"Yes, but rushing will do us no good." I glance up at her properly for the first time, and I barely stop my hands from clamping around my mouth in time.

"Wait, you're the lady from the picture! Tell me, who is the Westbury faery. Please! My dad's life depends on it!" There is no answer to my pleading. I continue, "But didn't you live around fifty years ago?" Again, she doesn't hear me.

"Now, do you have the purse with the hair?" the woman probes.

"Yes, I do," Phillip replies, and I don't understand how she hears him and not me. Phillip's voice is meek with fear, quieter than mine.

"In that case, we must go," the woman replies.

"Thank you Avera," Phillip answers quietly, but Avera has already moved on. She shuffles towards a bookshelf at the back of her living room. It stands proudly next to a huge, velvet red lamp, which hides the woman's action.

However, I still notice the way she jabs at a book in the wall, making a door swing open. It swings to and fro. I get up from the arm chair. As Phillip walks through it, the archway begins to close. I shoot forwards, but the door is still a few metres away. Again it sways. One, two, three times. I reach it, and it is open by a fraction of a centimetre. I try to pull it open, tugging with all my force, but my hands make no effect on the plaster. I sigh, a burning sensation crawling its way behind my eyelids: failure.

All of a sudden, the doorway slashes open again. A young man comes into the room, almost bumping into me, and as he passes, I step through the doorway, my eyes widening.

A white, modern room greets my gaze. When I look towards the centre of it, my eyes are greeted by a sallow-faced lady, who is doodling on a square piece of paper. She sits at the only piece of furniture in the room: a plain, flat desk.

Although I expect to see the wizened, plump lady and the oddly-clothed man a few steps ahead of me, I finally hear them coming from behind me.

Their footsteps draw nearer, and I hear Phillip say, "Now that your apprentice has left, we can do it right?"

"Yes. But he is only not participating because you wished it so. This would have been a good exercise for him, and it would have saved time." There is note of urgency and exasperation to Avera's voice, but she hides it well, her hands steady at her sides.

"It's too late to change that now, anyway," Phillip replies quickly, his eyebrows high upon his forehead, his eyes darting from side to side. I can see he is too distracted to note Avera's feelings. A surge of dislike pulses through me, but I suppose he must be worried for the lady, who is doodling. Poor him, I suppose.

We reach the fragile lady. Beneath her brittle fingers, I see a drawing of a man with rosy cheeks. I look up at Phillip: the resemblance is remarkable. Same complexion. Same curly hair. That's when I notice the words written next to the picture: Phillip Ripton.

I glance at Avera, who has pulled ahead of us. I follow her hastily as Phillip plants a kiss on the lady's forehead before helping her up. I notice Phillip holding a kind of jar: a so-called tea-caddy, from which musical notes are issuing. The noise sounds like fingers on a whiteboard combined with the chatter of parrots to me, and yet the combination has a melodious tune to it, which makes me want to switch my ears off.

Turning my gaze away from Phillip, I stare at Avera. Although the old woman continues walking ahead, constantly peering into her silver-handled mirror, I manage to glance over her shoulder. The sight I catch sight of makes me jump, my eyes wide. In the mirror, golden pathways glimmer. Right ahead of us, I can see a golden crossing in the shape of a fairy-dust dandelion, but when I look up, there is no glitter nor golden network.

"What is the... mirror for?" Lauren wheezes. I want to ask that myself.

"It shows the faery road-network. Now, it leads us to the place, where we will perform the ritual," Vera answers as if she is talking to a toddler, waiting a little before showing Lauren the mirror's polished surface.

Lauren nods distractedly, slumping into Phillips arms. Phillip's face pales. We must hurry. I know for certain now that I am hearing Phillip's thoughts. It doesn't matter right now though; a dark sense of black time surrounds Lauren like a musky perfume. I can feel my pulse in my throat- the black cloud feels like an ominous shadow, which could turn someone's life upside down, and I want to cower behind something. Anything. But I don't.

We stop at the invisible cross-section. Phillip hands Avera a bottle, whose label is aged and peeling off; she places it in the middle of the tile, on which we stand. The wise-woman then opens the purse, which he has handed her as well, pulling a few strands of brown hair out of it, which seem to have come from Lauren's head, though they glimmer strangely.

Deftly, Avera places the hair into the bottle. Simultaneously, she mutters words underneath her breath, "Shall rise in defiant nature. Now add a splotch of ink,-" she murmurs whilst making three drops of ink fall from a feather quill into the glass container. Drip! Drip! Drip!

"Golden dust of faery marrow," Avera says, putting the pear-shaped tea-caddy into the bottle. The wails inside grow even louder, making the frail lady wince. "Creature destined for human hands."

A ringing fills my ears and the tea-caddy pops open. At once a shriek echoes across the room. Tewee! Tewee! Tewee! A faery with skin tinged blue bursts out of it, shaking her head maliciously, her arms bound together by ropes of seaweed. A snarl contorts her face. I back away slightly.

Avera claps her hands, and the faery melts, merging with the other materials placed in the bottle, on which Avera now screws a cork. The faery's previously blue skin shimmers like grey graphite, which is being twisted in the midst of a fire. Her screams are muffled, although I am sure I hear a serene word, a begging: "Freedom."

"Huh?" The question is uttered as a shout. My face darts to the side, my eyes launching me into a reverie as I watch Lauren's back twist, and then she is shrinking, becoming smaller and smaller. A trickle of water spills from Lauren's eyes and her human blood spatters the ground before the last of her vanishes, her skin cells swooping after her into the bottle.

I hear Phillip whisper repeatedly, "Let her be alright. Let sickness leave her premises. Let her be alright!" I cross my fingers too- let this ritual thing not be a waste.

A few seconds pass. One. Two. Three. The bottle shakes violently. Four. CRASH! The bottle smashes into a thousand shards of glass, which reassemble themselves instantly, a golden substance- Lauren's hair- shining among the mix. The solution's glassy surface curves and becomes small and tight, a thin jaw forming, pixie ears appearing beneath the glassy veil, which covers the new creation.

"Lauren has merged with an ashray faery. From now on, she will be called the Westbury faery, after the hills, where I found her faery significant. She will live fine, on one condition. Her guardian must never tell anyone about her. Only her tear will let one person- this guardian I spoke of, a person of the future- see her past," Avera determines, before turning away.

I feel my arm burn; a ringing fills my ears. ZAP! I am back in the present. I breathe loudly, a strange feeling of lightness filling me, even though a tinge of fear still grips at my heart. I breathe in deeply.

I found her. I can save dad. No you can't, or she'll die, a voice whispers in my ear. I close my eyes, my eyebrows furrowed. Why shouldn't I save dad? That's when I remember. Avera said this was the one condition.

But how can I save dad and this faery at the same time? Already, I feel a golden liquid blanketing my heart. I cannot hurt the faery I must protect. But neither can I hurt my dad.

If I don't reveal the Westbury faery to the world, dad will be left broken. People have been trying to sue our company for years; many sponsors had aided our research, and when it turned out to be to no avail, they began to demand for their money to be repaid.

Dad, as the owner of the company, World Faery Society (WFS), would have to take the debt. Mum would be furious; I'm sure their fragile relationship would snap at last, and we'd have to sell our house. Where would we live?

A tear slips down my cheek. Opposite me, I glimpse the faery weeping, too. The lilac substance really must have been her tears. "So you're my guardian, aren't you," she sniffles.

I nod, "But what am I supposed to do now?"

"Firstly, call me Laurann." A sharper tone edges her voice for a moment before softening again. "It's a mixture of the sick lady: Lauren's name, and mine: Annabelle."

"Hi Laurann," I whisper disconsolately. Already, I feel her tugging at my heartstrings. If only I could tell dad about her.

"Keep me safe, Willow, and I'll keep you safe," she says. I look up, knowing what I'll do.

***

The next night, I sleep comfortably with Laurann on my pillow. Dad snores down below, mum snuggling up to him for the first time in month. The people, who wanted to sue us, declared peace. I'm sure it's because of Laurann. "Thank you," I whisper into her ear.

"Thank you," she replies, winking sleepily.