She was doing it again. My wife stood at the kitchen window, elbow deep in sink water, even though the frothy suds had long since flattened to a greasy film.
I cleared my throat so as not to startle her. Mary turned. “You’ve got to believe me,” she said.
Ever since the trip to Gwynedd she’d been this way. I nodded at the window where our daughter played outside. She was weaving a crown from a handful of daisies she’d plucked from the garden. “She’s fine, love. She’s the same as ever.”
Mary glared distrustfully at the girl and walked toward me. “I’ve been doing some research. They’re called the Twylwyth Teg. They take a human child, and in its place—”
I hardly knew what to say to her anymore. Our daughter was the same bright child she’d always been.
Mary was the one who had changed.
Sorry for the delayed post! This week and last week have been deadline-o-rama, what with one short story, two articles, and a submission package (for an anthology) due. Plus the daily 1000-word slog on my WIP. And in bouts of insomnia and you get one tired writer. By the time I got to Pegman, my creative juices ran dry.