The rules of magic, my dear, are best not discusses. For once we understand the illusion, we no longer believe it.

They swoon over Tom, who preens for them, bowing, which sets them to blushing and giggling. God help us all.

What do you feel? I’ve never been asked this question once. None of us has. We aren’t supposed to feel. We’re British.

A gentle breeze catches in the branches then and I hear it, soft and low, a murmured prayer--Gem-ma, Gem-ma--and then the leaves bend down and trail delicate fingers across my cold cheeks.

We sit and listen and are enthralled anew, for good stories, it seems, never lose their magic.

Mawah meenon ne le plus poohlala," I say with an affected bow.

Our mouths and bodies speak for us in a new language as the trees shake loose a rain of petals that stick to our slickness like skins we will wear forever. And just like that, I am changed.