Tea at Midnight 

Katie Houde

The tea set in the garden was always empty, even on the sunniest of spring days.

One night a year, though, the chairs were occupied.

On that night, the moon shone bright in the sky for the longest it ever does. The air is cold and crisp, the world blanketed in ice.

That night, despite the time of year, it felt as if spring had returned. Fireflies twirled in the air. The snow melted, leaving lush green grass in its wake. It was still cold, but not as cold as it should have been in the dead of winter.

It was magic.

Magic created eons ago, made of sunlight and dreams, weaved together with the nimble fingers of the ancient spirits.

Those spirits also came with this magic. The water sprites always made the tea, with help from the dryads. The fae came along every few centuries, giving out biscuits and cookies to everyone there, though they all knew not to eat them.

This happened every year and every year since I figured this out, I had joined them.

Last year was different.

Everything had seemed normal until one of the faeries had offered me a scone. Now, no one had told me about the rules concerning the fae and their food, so I took it. It was a very good scone, but all I remember is taking a bit and then. . .

Well, they found me the next morning, sitting at the tea set in the garden, which was empty except for me. I was shivering in my nightgown, staring into space. My small hands were clasped around a delicate tea cup.

The cup, instead of being filled with tea, was filled with a red liquid. I had spilled slightly and it was all over my nightgown. It was a dreadful mess.

They took me away after that. Almost a year, it had been, since I'd said goodbye to mother and father.

I don't think I'll be making it to the tea party this year.