Fairy Magic Quotes

“Fairy magic is present in every ray of sunlight and each joyful moment. Embrace the living essence of nature.”
― Amy Leigh Mercree, Joyful Living: 101 Ways to Transform Your Spirit and Revitalize Your Life

“Toss me one of your pencils!"
"Have you gone mad?" I cried even as I removed the pencil from my cloak pocket and threw it at his head.
It began to transform before it even reached him, elongating and flashing through the shadows--- a sword. I regretted aiming for his head then, but Wendell caught it with the grace of a trained swordsman, which of course he was.
Watching Wendell with a sword is like watching a bird leap from a branch--- there is something thoughtless about it, innate. One has the sense that he is less himself without a sword, that wielding it returns him to the element most natural to him.
He drove the sword into the nearest sheerie, and before it had fallen he had spun round to slash at the one behind him, slicing it open like overripe fruit. The other three fell just as easily.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde’s Map of the Otherlands

“This queen seems no better." He came close to me, looking me up and down as a glint of mischief came into his eyes. "But mortals can be entertaining. And they do not break as easily as some think."
Wendell's expression went from one of bemusement to towering fury with such abruptness that both Taran and I fell back a step; Taran afterwards looked annoyed as a cat following a moment of gracelessness. There came a terrible rumbling sound, coupled with that same wet rustling with which I am all too familiar, as if the attentive oaks were uprooting themselves en masse and lumbering in our direction.
"You are speaking to a queen of Faerie," Wendell said, and it seemed as if the rustling leaves were in his voice.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“Tinker Bell, meanwhile, was drifting with purpose up to the highest leafy branches of the jungle. Her light glowed warmly off the leaves below, the droplets seeping off their thick veins, the sweet sap running down the trunks of the trees. It made the whole clearing look...
Well, like it was touched by fairies, Wendy thought with a smile.
All her life she had looked for fairies in more mundane places, experiencing a rush of hope and warmth whenever a scene even palely imitated the one before here now. Candles at Christmas, fireflies in the park, flickering lamps in teahouses. The sparkling leaded glass windows of a sweets shop on winter afternoons when dusk came at four. A febrile, glowing crisscross of threads on a rotten log her cousin had once shown her out in the country: fox fire, magical mushrooms.
And here it was, for real! Tinker Bell was performing what appeared to be a slow and majestic dance. First, she moved to specific points in the air around her, perhaps north, south, east, and west, twirling a little at each stop. Then she flew back to the center and made a strange bowing motion, keeping her tiny feet daintily together and putting her arms out gracefully like a swan. As she completed each movement, fairy dust fell from her wings in glittering, languorous trails, hanging in the air just long enough to form shapes. She started the dance over again, faster this time.
And again even faster. Her trail of sparkles almost resolved into a picture, crisscrossed lines constantly flowing slowly down like drips of luminous paint.
Wendy felt a bit like John, overwhelmed with a desire to try to reduce and explain and thereby translate the magic. But she also felt a lot like Michael, with an almost overwhelming urge to break free from her hiding place and see it up close, to feel the sparkles on her nose, to run a hand through the sigils not for the purpose of destruction but form a hapless, joyful desire to be part of it all.”
― Liz Braswell, Straight On Till Morning

“Now, Shadow has never been fond of clothing, but he seemed to sense the importance of this particular imposition on his dignity, and held still while Wendell measured and draped him in iterations of what became a fine coat. It was a soft, velvety black, embroidered with a kingly amount of silver, which Wendell somehow made from a handful of the silver buttons I had found. He had decided to make Shadow intimidating--- to which I did not object, knowing this would lessen the dog's embarrassment--- and so he had taken tendrils of fog and attached them to the cloak like billowing ribbons, so that Shadow seemed to carry a mist with him everywhere like the spectral beast that he is. Together with the glitter of the silver, the effect was--- well, mythic.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“The resulting garment was black, of course. But it was like no fabric I'd ever seen before, liquid and faintly glimmering. He had ordered each of his guardians to donate several of their feathers, and these he had woven into the material. They were not visible exactly, except as a suggestion of wings when the cloak caught the wind. It was a garment that needed no adornment, for it was like something snipped out of a dream, and he gave it none, apart from the row of buttons. I would have expected him to pick the finest of those I had gathered, but instead he chose a selection that would represent all the regions of his realm: silver from the Weeping Mines and the lower tributary of the Tromlu River; carved oak from the antlers of one of the hag-headed deer; colored marble from the Blue Hooks. The effect was more impressive than if he had adorned himself in jewels, for together the buttons possessed an enchantment that made strange images flit through my mind when I looked upon them, memories of places I'd never seen. A shadowy grove around a narrow standing stone; a flash of mist-shrouded water tumbling down a sheer cliff.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“The Immortal Rose perfume was, unsurprisingly, one of unusual complexity and depth. The Treasury laid out a precise blend of bergamot and orange blossom in the top notes, a heart of jasmine grandiflorum, as well as levant and centifolia roses, and a touch of musk, sacred myrrh, and benzoin at the base to ground the sweeter, airier notes.
And, of course, the divine nectar of the flowering Afallach tree to weave the heady scent through with a golden breath of magic.”
― Alexandra Bracken, Immortal Rose

“All the Rosebourne perfumes, magic or otherwise, were pleasing to the nose— there was a harmony to their scents. Given the grasses and oakmoss listed for the perfume, heatherbore was likely to be the one that smelled like cool, damp earth— it drew to mind the image of a shadowed grove.
One by one, I worked through them. It was so rare to discover new scents, it was difficult, even under the circumstances, not to be swept away by them, feeling the shimmer of their magic kiss my fingertips through the glass.
Silverbranch had an unusually cold scent, almost like tuberose carved from ancient silver into a key— one used to find what was lost or hidden. Moonflower was a crisp, sweet scent, and like the first bite of a peach, that sweetness kept unfolding, revealing new, nuanced depths. Every perfume that used it involved some form of protection, including from nightmares.
Which left the final bottle. The divine nectar of the flowering Afallach tree.
Tart like strawberry or rhubarb, but rounded by a honeyed note that made my whole soul lift.”
― Alexandra Bracken, Immortal Rose

“This was the truth of fairyborn magic, the one that allowed so many of us to hide in plain sight: even as it’s drawn upon, it cannot be perceived. There are no wisps of smoke, no glimmers of light at our fingertips. Any onlooker might mistake it for a moment of quiet introspection. A summoning of will.
It is secret and sacred— a journey through the layers of ourselves, the way our fairy ancestors once descended through the mounds to their realm. One that can only be taken alone.
That meeting place appeared differently to everyone, a gift that was uniquely their own. Mama once described hers as a single pale crystal glowing in the woods.
Within me, it was a garden.”
― Alexandra Bracken, Immortal Rose

“In that stillness, I drew out the seed of shimmering gold from my heart, imagining it flowing through my body with twining roots. In the darkness behind my eyelids, with no sight to interfere, the floral notes of Immortal Rose sharpened, became greener, like the memory of their earliest life, when they’d first pushed through the garden’s soil.
Then, as if I had dreamt them into being, they were before me, a vision of a vast, lush garden that spread out as far as the eye could see in every direction. Blankets of pink, blue, red, and purple blooms swayed in some phantom breeze. The sight of them allowed me to step out of that fear I’d felt, the horror, and into something pure, and mine.
I had escaped here so many times as a child, not knowing what it was, only seeking a safe place to hide from the pain of beatings. Even now, it had the power to soothe me.
I took a step forward and was rewarded with the release of the warm, sparkling flutter in my chest. The sky was crystal clear, the color of the finest aquamarine. Here, it was always day. There were no shadows.
Flowers and herbs sprung from the soil as I continued down the path, as if eager to follow me to the soul of the garden. Jasmine bloomed on ancient stone walls, and here and there, the lilies turned their faces toward me, encouraging. I felt Mama walking beside me as surely as I felt my own heartbeat.”
― Alexandra Bracken, Immortal Rose

“Miss Tree looked at the thing on the desk. It pulsated a little, as if undecided whether to shimmer or merely glisten contentedly. Then it flashed in surprise as she picked it up and poised it in a shaft of sunlight that had travelled with remarkable speed through the fronds of pine on a distant crest.

'If one might capture and display pleasure in a form other than through the psychic physicality of human emotions it would look something like this.'

Between trembling finger and thumb colours without name or number danced in narrow confines, chasing in silent games around and through and around again in a looping tangle of ecstasy. (Chapter 9)”
― Martyn X Brown, The Golden Girl