What does one do when one encounters a problem in life that isn’t so easy to solve? What is a person to do when the things that they want to do directly collide with the things that they don’t want to do? How does one decide which of these choices is to be weighted more heavily in the hierarchy of decisions that they must make? Mirabelle has finished not only one but two simple orders that belonged to the now passed shoemaker, both of which were simple repair and conditioning projects — the smelly leather boots and the fabric shoes. However, for obvious reasons, she has yet to deliver these to the customers.

How would she? It’s not like she can just… open the door to the store and let in the crowds of people who are standing outside, all still hoping days later to catch a glimpse of the fairy.

— She peers out of the window upstairs, looking at the crowd. Vendors have set up stalls on the streets, and they’re starting to sell fairy dolls and toys. Bakers are baking fairy shaped cookies, and there seems to be a whole event taking place, having been spawned by the societal hype born of her simply existing and them knowing about it.

It’s very scary.

If she opens the door, then… everyone will see her. They’ll know that she’s real and alive and they’ll look at her with their eyes and they’ll maybe even try to talk to her and… and…

Mirabelle shakes her head. She doesn’t know if she’s ready to do that. Grace is fine. He’s just one person, and they only ever talk when they’re really alone. But this many people… She’s never had anyone really interested in her, let alone this number of souls. It’s very overwhelming. So what is she to do? She has completed the jobs but can’t let in the customers.

— Not that this is her store to begin with, obviously. The house belongs to the shoemaker, and, even if she is completing his old projects as a gesture of thanks for everything he did, it’s not her place to just open his front door and let in thousands of strangers.

Mirabelle pulls the last inch of the curtain shut again, rubbing her hands through her hair in frustration, her wings buzzing.

Why can’t all humans just be like Grace? Her life would be easier then, as much as she hates to admit it, given the strangely annoying way the man grinds on her nerves. She doesn’t even know why she gets annoyed by him. He’s always so nice, but something about him always bothers her. It’s probably his disgustingly smug attitude. Ugh. But still. At least he’s quietly accepting of her existence. He isn’t out here hawking cookies in her likeness. …Although she wouldn’t mind having one of those herself, honestly.

— Mirabelle shuts the curtain again, having caught herself peeking at a baker’s stall.

No. Stay strong. She has work to do.

The wicked, horrific, and terribly shy fairy looks back into the house and then flies off toward the workshop, needing to come up with a plan if this is going to work.

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She didn’t come up with a plan.

It is late at night again, the day having come to an end.

Mirabelle fusses, the monstrous beast of a demon swearing with the foulest, most disgusting swears uttered by the fairy kind, as she picks up rocks that are much too heavy for her and tries to toss them into the pond in frustration.

“Berry swallowing, snake licking, mud stompers!” yells Mirabelle, spinning with a half grunt and chucking a pebble a good few inches into the water with all of her strength, watching as it sinks away into the mud.

The sound of horrific, smug, disgusting laughter comes from the bench behind her, from the man laying on his back, staring up at the stars, and shaking his foot, which is crossed over his leg. She turns her head, shooting a deathly glare his way. “You’re gonna make a grown man cry, Marbles,” says a relaxed, leisurely voice that stems from a face that doesn’t turn her way.

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Mirabelle stares at him and then droops her shoulders, covering her mouth, as she realizes what a terrible thing she just did. The horrendous fairy rises up into the air, looking at him. “I’m sorry, Grace,” says Mirabelle. “I didn’t mean to make you sad. I wasn’t fussing at you,” she apologizes.

— This causes him to laugh more, which then, of course, makes her angry. Why is he laughing at her apology? He’s so frustrating.

“Why don’t you just deliver them?” he asks.

Mirabelle floats there, staring at him. “…What?” asks the fairy, flying to the side and then landing on his outstretched leg and sitting down there on it. She’s not sure why, but she watches him as she does so. Is this a socially acceptable thing to do? Is she allowed to sit here? Flying all the time is exhausting. The man doesn’t seem bothered though, and so she remains there on his bobbing leg and watches him.

‘Deliver them’? “The boots?” she asks.

Grace nods, his hands resting behind his head. His immaculately perfect hair stays exactly as it should, as if it didn’t dare move a single strand lest it be immediately corrected by a sharp comb. “Sure, Mirabelle,” says Grace. “If you don’t want people to go into the store, then why not just bring the boots to their house?” he asks.

Mirabelle stares blankly. “You mean like… fly the boots to them?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “That way you can give them their shoes back and you don’t have to make any public appearances,” says Grace.

Mirabelle blinks, her mind unraveling the obvious solution that, really, she herself should have thought of. The fact that he is giving it to her is very frustrating, and she isn’t even sure why. Mirabelle sighs, lowering her head, and then looks at his boot to her left. The fix has held up well, and it’s in great shape. “Thanks for always being nice to me, Grace,” says Mirabelle, rubbing the back of her head. “I’m sorry that I always get snappy and emotional when you see me.”

“Oh, you’re fine, Marbles,” he says, waving her off with a few fingers that he pries free from behind his head. “I know some people who are way more emotionally loaded than you.” He shrugs. “Besides. We’re friends, right?”

The night is quiet, and Mirabelle sits there on his leg, her wings buzzing despite her great annoyance at them doing so. In a sense, they’re like the tail of a dog, always betraying her emotions despite her will for them to simply be still. “Yeah,” says Mirabelle, the cruel fairy, turning her face away out of embarrassment even if he isn’t looking at her. Of course they’re friends. That’s what this is, right? This isn’t a business transaction. It’s not about reciprocity — some work for some berries, like she had thought the other night — as one would expect of such a selfish devil as herself — no. It’s about…

— Friendship?

“Wanna go together tonight?” he asks.

“Huh?” Mirabelle blinks, looking back his way in surprise. Grace slowly lifts the leg that she’s sitting on, gently swaying it out to the side as he sits upright, planting his other foot back on the ground while holding the former out over the bench.

“Let’s take a walk,” he offers. “We’ll go to your shoe store, grab your fixed shoes, and we’ll deliver them together tonight,” he suggests. The filthy villain winks at her, making a clicking noise that causes a deep nausea to set in her gut as he does so. “That’ll get your foot in the door.”

That’s so nice of him. Mirabelle can’t actually bring herself to look at the human, instead turning her head down to the side and rubbing her arm, doing her best to hide the unwanted smile that has attached itself to her face, where it clearly doesn’t belong, not on someone like her. She cranes her neck so much to the side that there’s a pulling on her opposite shoulder, and her joy is not betrayed so much by her wings tonight as by her legs, which rub together, completing the self-contortion of her body.

Is this what having a friend feels like? It feels… good.

“Yes… please…” is the most that the malicious, foul, and most terrible fairy manages to utter, her throat seemingly stuffed with a mouse, given the squeak of her tone.

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Not long after that, the fairy finds herself sitting on the man’s shoulder as they move through the night, moving through the city with the repair order receipts and the finished shoes. Grace knows his way around very well, and the numbers and addresses on the pages are solved in a second by him without much thought, as he spends all of his days walking the city. In the rare moments when someone comes their way, having the possibility of seeing her, Mirabelle hides either within the fabric of the back of his jacket, cautiously peeking out, which she likes doing, actually, because it’s very warm there between him and the fabric, or sometimes she is so bold as to dare to touch a strand of his perfect hair, hiding behind it like a curtain. It smells nice, like rosemary and lavender smoke.

Finding the first house, they set the boots down in front of the door, attaching the note to the tongue. Payment for them was already made in full to the shoemaker, so there’s nothing left to do but deliver them.

As for the cloth shoes, the receipt says that they haven’t been paid for yet.

They arrive at the second house and look at it.

“You sure know your way around,” says Mirabelle. “Thanks, Grace,” says the fairy. “I would have never found this without you.”

He shakes his head, looking into the dark window of the building, before holding up the note. “No problem. But it looks like they’re asleep,” says the man. “What do you wanna do?”

Mirabelle thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. “Let’s just leave them here like the others,” she says.

“You sure?” he asks. “You won’t get the money for the work then,” says Grace. “Never work for free, Marbles. Take it from a pro.”

She looks at him from his shoulder. “What do you even do all day, Grace?” she asks.

The man swipes his hair back, setting the shoes down on the steps along with the receipt of payment due, before rising back up. The two of them walk through the night, through the streets that he knows all too well. “I make money, Mirabelle.”

“…Huh…” says the fairy, not really understanding humans and their ways. What an oddly vague statement.

If nothing else, the man has tonight, however, made a friend.

But, being that she is a malicious, hateful creature, Mirabelle will of course not say anything so bold and foul to him and instead simply asks, born from the deepest cruelty of her crimson heart, if they can walk the long way back to the park, as she leans sideways against his neck and face, selfishly stealing at least another half hour of the man’s precious sleep that he might never recover.

What a monstrous, heartless world it is, to possibly allow such a wretched beast to exist.