Unlike the human cottages made of stone, wattle, and thatch, Clover's modest fairy hut was a living, growing structure. Integrated into the hollow trunk of a giant willow, it adapted and sprouted new rooms and nooks as she matured. The tree house was more than a home; it was an extension of Clover.

The tree stood in a small, unused field next to the Doyle's cottage. Childless, Mr. and Mrs. Doyle had taken Clover under their wing when she was young. They were the closest thing to parents she had ever known. Since Mrs. Doyle's untimely passing last year, Clover spent every Sunday helping Mr. Doyle with chores.

She cleaned, helped with the laundry, and prepared enough meals to last him the week. The kitchen was missing some ingredients, so Vakur gave her money for a quick trip to the market. He told her to purchase the best fish she could find.

The fish she selected was too large and cumbersome, so Thomas the Fisherman helped deliver it. Before he departed, she grabbed his arm. "I'm really sorry about that new room… and the embarrassment it's caused you. When you find more materials, I'd be happy to try again."

Clover prepared and baked the fish. Then she and Vakur enjoyed a sumptuous meal together. As they ate, his eyes avoided her gaze when asking how she was doing. When the last morsel was gone, he lingered at the table, picking dirt from his fingernails. She washed the dishes in the sink and asked about his week.

"It's getting more difficult to find steady work," he said. "No telling when I'll be able to afford a meal like that again. Seemed appropriate, though, to celebrate your becoming the town Fairy Godmother." He pushed his chair back and cleared his throat. "I'm not asking for a fortune but I, uh, I wish I had more money."

She scrubbed the last dirty plate, keeping her back to him. "Who doesn't want more money?

Vakur remained silent for a moment. "Those are the words I'm supposed to say, right?"

Clover's shoulders tightened as she concentrated on drying the dishes. She forced a lightness into her voice. "Those are the words if you were wishing for something like that."

"So what happens next? Do the coins appear on the table?"

She squeezed the dish towel tight and let out a nervous laugh. "Well, I'd need my wand too. But that's not a wish I would grant. Can you imagine if everyone suddenly had all the money they wanted? "

Vakur's voice grew gruffer. "I wasn't talking about everyone else, and I'm not interested in a bigger house. Work has dried up. I'm barely scraping by. A little financial boost is all I'm asking for." He cleared his throat and repeated, "I wish I had more money."

Clover's breath grew rapid, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. He wouldn't ask for something like that. He didn't mean to say those words. She gripped the plate tightly to hide her shaking hands. Keeping her voice light was a struggle. "It's getting late. I should finish up and tidy the kitchen," she said, hoping her voice disguised her escalating panic.

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Vakur's chair screeched back. "Put down the plate and take out your wand." The tone of his voice made it clear it was a demand, not a request.

Clover's throat tightened. "Please, I'll do anything else to help like come by twice a week. Granting that wish wouldn't be right."

In two thunderous steps, Vakur loomed behind her. Clover froze as his thick hands clamped her shoulders. He effortlessly yanked her around to face him. He loomed over her at twice her height. His usually kind eyes narrowed to slits, his face flushed red.

"After everything I've done for you, this is how you repay me?" he spat. "By refusing my only wish!"

Clover tried to shrink back, but the sink trapped her. Clutching the towel tight, she stammered, "I don't mean to seem ungrateful, but…"

Vakur's face contorted in rage. Clover flinched, thinking he might strike her.

"You owe me, girl. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be in this bind." He leaned in close and growled, "Grant my wish."

Tears sprang to Clover's eyes. "Please," she whispered. "Don't make that wish. You know it's not right."

Vakur roared, jabbing a finger in her face. "The Pact requires you to serve the people of this village. If it weren't for us, you'd be a feral orphan hunted every night by the creatures of the forest. We protected you. I protected you! Now keep your side of the bargain, fairy!"

Her lips quivered as she fought back tears. She wanted to run, to hide, but where could she go? He was like a father to her. The wish was wrong, but how could she deny him? She lowered her eyes and, helpless to resist, pulled out her wand. She whispered, "Tell me your wish again."

He shoved his coin purse in her face. His voice was calm, almost apologetic. "I don't want charity. When I make money, I wish everything I put into this will double."

Even using both hands to hold it, the wand jittered in her hands. A wan stream of uncertain motes wandered around the tip. The coin purse crackled and sparked when she tapped her wand on it.

Vakur released his grip and sat down. He didn't look up as Clover fled the house, sprinting blindly to her hut.

Scalding tears burned her eyes and cheeks as she fumbled with the door. She felt hollowed out and cold, as if her heart had been ripped from her chest.

Clover's mind reeled, awash in a storm of thoughts and shame. Emotions collided within her, overwhelming her ability to sort them. Mr. Doyle rarely lost his temper, and even more rarely directed it at someone. When his dander got up, Mrs. Doyle had always been there to calm him. Clover had never seen such raw anger and aggression from him. A haunting thought seized her: if the enchantment failed, he might storm in and demand she repeat the process.

Panicked, Clover shoved the table and chairs against the flimsy door. The makeshift barrier would be no match for a man of his strength. Her trembling hands fought to stabilize the wand and enchant the entrance. No matter how hard she concentrated, the wand refused to respond.

Trapped in her home, she felt vulnerable and alone. All she had ever wanted was to belong, to not be 'the fairy girl'. Now, the closest thing she had to family just turned on her. Tears scalded her cheeks as they flowed freely. She collapsed onto her bed and buried her face in the pillow, sobbing.

If the man she thought of as a father could turn on her so easily, did the rest of the villagers view her the same way? Not as a girl or even a person, but a magical device to serve their own purposes?

She cried until no more tears came, leaving her limp and hollow, staring up at the ceiling. As daylight faded to dusk, she remained curled up in her bed, her will shattered by the encounter with Mr. Doyle. Slipping into restless sleep, a desperate voice within her pleaded, "I can't do this. I just want to be a normal girl."