[Philadelphia, 7 May 1760]

The Dark King—so named by those who knew of him only through whispered legend and shadowed tales—had entrusted an unusual task to two pixies. It was an odd choice, many thought. And, pixies, according to the ancient wisdom of the fae, must always work in pairs when given missions of consequence. One was the voice of reason when the other faltered in rashness; balance was everything.

These particular pixies—Harper and Petal—were of some renown, not least because they were distantly related to the infamous Talia, the king’s attendant. This connection made their selection all the more curious. Still, no one dared question the king, whose reputation as a seer, inherited from his late mother, the Queen, was near-mythical.

Normally, the king exercised caution regarding mortals—especially the delicate family in Philadelphia at the heart of this story. Yet lately, his favours leaned toward the colonials, specifically those from the northern reaches of the thirteen colonies, where many emigrants from Cork and Munster had settled. He saw promise in these nascent realms across the ocean.

Harper and Petal had crafted a plan—so clever and intricate that Harper often boasted it would confound even the most seasoned strategists at Harvard University. Petal, in turn, insisted the plan would unfold like a finely choreographed dance, each step precise, every move an elegant stroke of artistry that would leave spectators breathless. Indeed, embellishment was their shared delight—exceeding even that of their famed cousin, to borrow a human phrase.

The finer details remained hazy, acknowledged by both pixies as tentative at best. Yet the overall design was sound. The clever minutiae, Harper assured, would emerge in time—fox-like, sly, and flawless. Talia, he was certain, would have been proud of the slick finesse with which their plan was to be executed.

“Here’s the outline,” Harper reiterated to his almost cousin. “Catherine Meade, a twenty-year-old spinster of Philadelphia, is to wed Thomas Fitzsimons—recently arrived from Ireland and presently a clerk in a mercantile house.”

“Brilliant!” Petal exclaimed, pounding her tiny fist on the worn porch table at the Fitzsimons’ residence. “This plan is so brilliant, if it gained an ounce more wit, it could sit smugly in the upper echelons of local government—secretly disguised as sheer folly to fool the electorate.”

“Thank you,” Harper replied, beaming.

“You’re welcome.” Petal paused, tilting her head as she scanned the starry night sky. “Just one question though, Harp. How do we get Catherine and Thomas together? Mortals are notoriously stubborn when it comes to matters of the heart.”

Harper placed a thoughtful hand over his mouth, considering this apparently trivial yet crucial detail.

“It will have to be a prank of such genius,” Petal continued, “that even the craftiest minds in mischief will bow in admiration, acknowledging its unparalleled wit and audacity.”

Harper smiled, nodding.

“I agree. A prank so ingenious that pranksters everywhere would enroll in a masterclass taught by us, just to unravel its intricacies, leaving them in perpetual awe.”

Petal nodded solemnly. “I like it so much I’d sing it night and day until my neighbours sent me strongly worded notes.”

Despite initial doubts when the king decreed two pixies for this delicate mission, Harper and Petal’s neighbours welcomed their selection. After all, they were weary of long, tiresome speeches.

The king prognosticated—Harper liked that word; it carried gravity—that Thomas Fitzsimons would rise as a formidable figure during the war to come. Not necessarily as a soldier, but as a leader among the Irish of Pennsylvania, a sine qua non of future success. The king foresaw Thomas ascending the heights of mercantilism and politics, securing the status and fortune of his mortal descendants in the new nation.

“It’s a good match,” the regent announced at council, echoing the king’s will. And so, the council informed the court. It was then that Harper and Petal were called to act. Neither had ever met the Dark King, who never ventured to Cork, and they harboured a healthy respect mixed with fear of him.

But the orders were clear. Catherine and Thomas were both attractive and of compatible temperaments.

“That’s enough for love to blossom among their kind, right, Pet?”

“Oh, absolutely, Harp. It’s so enough that even Goldilocks herself would nod in approval and declare it just right.”

“You really think so?” Harper asked.

Petal nodded fervently.

The defining moment of the pixie play arrived a week later, inside Meade’s Merchandise and Leatherworks.

Harper and Petal observed from the rafters above, their tiny forms flickering in the shadowy beams. Stage one was complete. Below, George conferred seriously with Thomas over some mercantile matter, while Catherine fussed with displays, marked price tags, and attended customers. The destined pair had exchanged only polite nods—no sign of love yet.

“This will not do!” Harper hissed.

“I agree,” Petal fretted, wringing her hands. “It’s as bad as a Shakespearean tragedy—without the eloquent soliloquies, but with plenty of pratfalls and mishaps.”

Harper nodded.

“Alright, I have a plan.”

“Is it cunning?”

“As cunning as a fox who’s taken up chess and is now playing mind games with rabbits in the forest.”

“Wow,” said Petal, impressed. “What is it?”

“You go down there, flit around Catherine, whisper sweet compliments about Thomas. I’ll do the same with Thomas.”

Petal considered carefully.

“Okay, but make sure to whisper sweet words about Catherine. Otherwise, it won’t work.”

Harper gave her a wry look—the sort of look pixies used when dealing with the mentally inferior.

“Yes, Pet, that’s exactly what I meant.” He rubbed his forehead in mock exasperation. Petal giggled.

Catherine, arranging a display of prepared quills, caught herself glancing again at Thomas Fitzsimons. He was not unattractive for a merchant’s clerk, she admitted to herself. Not stout, but fit; his posture straight, his attire neat and elegant in a modest way that spoke of quiet ambition.

She noted his knee-length silk coat, a blue-grey shade with broad cuffs and narrower lapels—embroidered delicately, though she wondered who had crafted such finery. His brocade waistcoat matched the coat perfectly, and his breeches were equally fine, snug but not ostentatious. His white shirt was well-laundered, his cravat simple. His stockings and shoes were unremarkable, save for their practicality, though his tricorn hat, which he removed upon entering the shop, struck her as suitably dignified.

He seemed a man on the rise, she thought, but one who needed a gentlewoman’s guiding hand to perfect him.

At the same time, Thomas found his attention wandering from George’s mercantile discourse. The pesky flies were distractions, but the real trouble was Catherine herself.

Dare I think of her that way? he mused inwardly, stealing glances at her silhouette and the natural curve of her waist, highlighted by her modest gown, scoop neckline, and delicate ribbons. He thought of suppliers for lace ribbons and fans, imagining what might suit her.

If I had a wife like that…, he daydreamed. A stomacher with rubies to bring out the gold in her eyes.

Catherine’s eyes were amber, he noted, a pleasant warm hue that later puzzled him in origin.

He admired her modest bonnet—no frivolous ribbons or feathers, just a simple, sensible style. Practicality was a virtue he respected.

He even noticed her shoes—pointed toe, low-heeled silk—practical yet elegant, a compliment to her gown. He imagined her with a delicate fan, the sort popular in the capital.

“I could do well in fans,” he murmured.

“A supply of what, Thomas?” George asked, catching the murmur.

“Fans, old man. Just a passing fancy,” Thomas replied quickly.

George nodded approvingly and turned to the next page of his catalogue.

At that moment, Catherine realized she was short on sewing pins and had to fetch more from the storeroom. She would have to pass near Thomas and George at the front counter.

Did he look at me? She smiled and adjusted a stray lock of hair. She turned toward the storeroom, careful to avoid the crates of vegetables that lay between her and Thomas.

But fate had other plans.

Suddenly, a crate shifted—or so it seemed—and she stumbled, tripping over her own foot. Thomas, turning just then, caught her before she fell.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice gentle as he held her hand.

Mortified, Catherine blushed a charming shade of crimson, mumbled an apology, and hurried to the storeroom to hide.

Petal beamed at Harper. The prank was perfect.

She whispered to George later, suggesting he invite Thomas for dinner to make amends for the incident.

“It’s simple fare,” George assured Thomas, “but Kate is a marvellous cook. Do say you’ll join us.”

Catherine, reemerging with a few boxes, dropped them at George’s words. Both men rushed to help, Thomas inquiring after her well-being and begging forgiveness for his clumsiness.

Catherine wished she had a fan to hide behind but smiled brightly when George revealed their guest for the evening.

“Splendid!” she said with perhaps a little too much eagerness.

Later, Petal sprinkled a special powder—an enchanted blend said to bring romance into the air, as sure as spring carries the scent of blooming flowers.

“What is that, Pet?” Harper asked.

Petal held up the empty pouch. “A powder crafted by old Monkshood himself, to weave love’s spell through the atmosphere. Sprinkle it gently and watch as it turns ordinary moments into extraordinary connections, igniting hearts with passion as surely as the moonlight kisses the night.”

Harper grinned. “Did I mention you look ravishing tonight, Petal? This work suits you.”

Blushing, Petal giggled. “And you look rather handsome yourself, Harper.”

The Fitzsimons-Meade union proved a triumph, both in business and home, with Thomas rising as the political force the Dark King had foreseen.

Harper and Petal received special commendation from the Silver Duke himself—the king’s cousin and regent—while Blossom, their lately arrived child, nestled quietly in her mother’s arms, a new generation promising fresh enchantments.