Chapter 8

I stand at the base of the oak tree. If the dirt wasn't damp and cold and sticking between my toes like wet playdough, I might think I was dreaming. A cool breeze blows through my thin T-shirt, sending shivers down my back.

But I don't go inside.

Because the oak tree is definitely glowing. From somewhere high in its branches, golden light streams down.

I hold out my hand. The glow is so thick, it seems as if I could catch it, and I swear I feel a touch of heat.

It's too soft and shimmery for any sort of electric light.

It doesn't flicker like firelight.

If it isn't a flashlight, a lantern, or fire . . . Fairies!

I haven't believed in fairies since I was seven. I know all about that fairy hoax in England a hundred years ago or so. But, staring at a tree that's glowing, it's hard not to at least consider the possibility.
"If it's fairies," I whisper to myself as I grab onto a low-hanging branch and hoist myself up. "And that's a big if." I scurry up one, two more branches, grunting, my pajama pants snagging on a twig. "Don't eat any of the food."

I might not have believed in fairies for the last four years, but I'm not an idiot. I know the rules.
My right foot slips on a knot in the tree and the skin burns where it scrapes. I keep going, though. The higher I climb, the more golden the light becomes. I keep trying to peer beyond the branches into the neighborhood below to see if anyone else has noticed this tree at the end of the cul-de-sac. But Marilyn Court is silent, like it's stuck in a hundred-year nap.

Right when the branches are getting thinner, so thin I'm not sure I can climb much higher without them breaking, I see where the glow is coming from. Situated about five feet away from the trunk of the tree, on a branch just barely sturdy enough for me to sit down on and scooch across, is a nest.
The nest itself is ordinary. Nothing but twigs and leaves and a few bits of grass all woven together in a circle that looks as if it might fall apart at any moment. As I scoot closer to it, I can't help wondering how birds could possibly feel safe putting their babies into something that looks so utterly fragile.

I get to the edge of the nest and gasp. "Eggs?" I whisper. "Just . . . eggs?"

It's a silly thing to say. "Just eggs" are the kinds of eggs you eat for breakfast, or paint for Easter, or mix into a birthday cake. One time Mom cracked open an egg with two yolks and she thought it was so special she made me come see the two orange yolks, almost connected, floating in a puddle of goop.

Even that was "just" an egg.

These eggs are gold.

A gold that glimmers and gleams and glows so warmly and brightly it lights up the entire oak tree. There is no chilly wind in the upper branches here. Even if there was, I wouldn't be able to feel it with the warmth of the eggs right next to me. But beyond the wonder of golden eggs is another mystery. There appears to be something etched on them.

I shouldn't touch the eggs. I don't know if it's true, but I've heard mama birds won't come back to a nest if they can smell that a human has touched their eggs or baby birds. Not to mention the germs. But I can't help it. They're so . . . sparkly. Before I know it, I'm cradling one of those tiny golden eggs in my palm and holding it up to my face to see what's on it.

There's a picture of a giraffe.

I look all over the egg to see if there's anything else, any other clue. But there's nothing.
I pick up another egg. This one shows a picture of a beach, with triangle waves, a kayak, and a palm tree. Interesting.

As I lay the two eggs on my lap and reach for the nest to see what might be on the other eggs, a ferocious, high-pitched catfight breaks out down by Mr. Bailey's house. I startle, bouncing the branch. I grab it so I don't fall off, and my legs part just enough for the two eggs to fall between them.
Down, down, down.

To the ground below.

CRACK.

I sit there. Frozen. Motionless.

A bird screeches above the tree, and I catch a streak of gold passing by outside the branches.

Oh no.

They were her eggs.

I try to stop the burning behind my eyes from turning into tears.

They were her two golden eggs and who knows what sort of magical creature might have emerged. A phoenix? Or a roc? Maybe even a Huma.

Now broken.

Gone.

Their story ended because of me.

How could I have been so careless?

The bird calls again, farther away this time. Like she's searching for something.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.

But then, just as the tears are welling up, a swarm of golden lights, like a million tiny fireflies, rises from where the eggs fell. The lights swirl around the trunk of the tree, spiraling like a ribbon. Up and up and up. Until they reach the branch where I'm sitting. Then the swarm weaves all around me. Tiny lights dance through my hair, across my arms, even under my armpits and between my toes.

They don't tickle. Not really. But I find myself giggling as if they do all the same. They feel like spots of warmth and then like pieces of glitter and then like nothing.

All at once, they dart away from me, forming the shape of a giraffe, ambling along. In an instant, that image dissolves and another takes its place. This time it looks like ocean waves with a kayak holding two people. As soon as I figure out what that scene is, it's gone as well. The lights swirl up, up, up even higher, until they've left the branches of the tree, where in the cool night air, they split into a million more pieces like tiny fireworks and disappear.

I climb down the oak, my hands scraping against the bark. I don't feel the pain. I walk across the yard, into Jeff's house, and upstairs into my bedroom, probably leaving muddy footprints across the carpet.

But I don't care. I can't care.

A few minutes ago, I traded tears over cracked-open eggshells for the wonder of whirling, golden fairy dust. I've spent my whole life listening to Mom go on and on about the beauty of fairy tales and magic, all the while knowing it was a lie. After all, a fairy godmother never came to save us. But now it's like I'm under a spell. Out of all the people in the world, I get to be the one who discovers that magic is real. I mean, it has to be magic. Nothing this beautiful and sparkling and unexplainable can be anything other than magic.

It feels like I've been trusted with a secret. Like I've been seen--really seen--for the first time in a long time.

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Excerpted from Once upon a Family by Amanda Rawson Hill
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.