It is fall weather. Magical weather. The kind of weather that anything could happen in, the kind of weather that tugs you to both run outside and dance and dance until you collapse in wet grass and to stay in and pretend not to hear the faerie music in the distance. It is weather that a girl could disappear in.
It is weather that brings back memories of walking every day, of warm black coats and jeans and thermoses of tea and suitcases over pavement. Of leaves under boots, of a small lane, tucked away from busy roads, with brilliant fall colours and faded, bright houses. It brings back memories of striped sweaters and Halloween decorations, of sitting on stone walls and watching dancers and monsters line up.
It is weather the fae like. Weather for being taken to far away islands, for sword work and broken crowns and hair braided into horns, rust-coloured dresses and tight belts and acorn-tipped hair sticks and dancing.
It is weather the fae like. Weather for moving into great mansions, falling apart, with rotted-out staircases. For gryphons on the wind, exploring attics full of strange creatures’ remnants, for going into rock quarries and being surrounded by gems.
It is weather the fae like. Weather for glass coffins, for loud parties, for curses and blessings and horned boys, for ballads and paintings and kissing. For red curls and green sweaters and blackened swords found near lakes.
It is weather for starting adventures by yourself, weather for swords, weather for pink cheeks and clanging metal, weather for pizza and fish and game birds and fish sticks, weather for going into forests and never coming out, weather for crossing streams and carrying salt and stringing rowan berries, weather for mirrors ringed with vines, weather for ivy climbing stone walls and roses twining over hidden doors. It is fall weather.
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