Welcome back to the Through the Yew Hedge Novella in Series. Every Wednesday since the end of 2025, you’ll have found a new episode of my debut fiction, Through The Yew Hedge: A Tale of Identity Magic.” Please feel free to explore these pages - begin the journey, at the Prologue.
Uncertainty and longing: We adoptees understand the weight of not knowing. The need behind the urge to search. Today’s episode brings a spring reunion and the mother and child who celebrate a new beginning; a new life together. We start with a poem that expresses an adoptee’s dilemma.
THE SWITCH
As she was born
so, she might still be
but for an intervention in identity.
Genes know,
but the psyche must shift
to make sense of the switch.
Questions mirrored, not answered,
I lost the woman who walked away,
Relinquishment cannot be fixed.
The Search
James followed Ellen’s paper trail: “Mercy Shelter,” he murmured. “Ellen (redacted), was admitted at eight months pregnant, and released in December with her three-month old daughter.” He photographed the faded intake and discharge forms, adding them to his timeline with Ellen’s bus ticket from that day. The police report, and a missing person’s report, were both closed when a social worker reported seeing her in Leastways, a town at the end of the bus line. Not yet discovered were the time and circumstances of the baby’s separation from Ellen, and how or why Ellen disappeared from the Leastways bus station. James was putting together the details and documentation; The Fairy Council recently had revealed their magical transportation -- how Ruth Ann arrived in The Garden of The Silverton Estate.
James eventually connected all the dots. Finally, an address—an apartment building on Willow Street, across from the Silverton campus. The Black Rose petal he used as a bookmark fluttered in agreement: Ellen Fairchild was again residing in the Village of Silverton. She’d been living a parallel life to her daughter, while still separated from her.
That day, James met with his search team in The Archives. He, Sarah, and I gathered at the conference table with our contributions: James’s paper trail research, Sarah’s journal entries about possible magic, and I had my Blue Book of Aunt Ann’s herbal remedies, and the gifts I’d received from the Fae at the Potting Shed Council on my last birthday. I always wore Ellen’s forget-me-not bracelet.
The Silverton Street map James placed at the table center marked Ellen’s apartment building with a red circle. “Three blocks away,” he said, shaking his head.
Sarah reflected his disbelief: “How long?”
James replied, “According to public records, she’s lived in the Village for six years, this time. Before this move, there were multiple temporary addresses, or post office box numbers over the years.”
“Six years,” Sarah echoed. “I bet she returned to be near you, Stella.”
“The Council told me that Ellen is anxious,” I offered. “They said she felt she had no choice but to give me up. Maybe she returned to see if I’m safe but she keeps her distance to protect me from harm.” I wasn’t sure what I meant by that.
James asked, “Well then, what’s our next step?”
“A letter, perhaps,” Sarah suggested, “instead of showing up on her doorstep.”
“No.” I was emphatic. “The mirrors show that she’s unwell. We don’t have time for writing.”
James and Sarah looked at me in surprise. James asked, “The mirrors?”
All I could say was that glimpses appeared in mirrors of a sad woman, too thin, moving slowly and warily.
“We’ll all go tomorrow,” I decided.
The black roses in The Garden turned toward the apartment building, as though they knew the importance of what was ahead.
“Tomorrow then,” Sarah agreed, supportive. Rather than hyper-protective, she wanted to help me restore my fragmented self.
Eve of Reunion
The night before meeting Ellen, unable to sleep, I stood at my window, watching moonlit garden shadows and reflective black roses. In the mirror was not just my face but echoes of Sarah’s determined chin, Helen’s thoughtful eyes, and features I knew from mirror-walking visions. I saw Ellen’s high cheekbones, the slight point to her ears like mine.
“Will she recognize me?” I wondered aloud.
She will know you immediately, Cedra’s voice answered from the mirror, blood calls to blood, especially blood mixed with fairy magic.
“What should I say to her after thirteen years have passed? What possible words could matter?”
Names. Begin with names. Ruth Ann. Stella. Both are true.
My Forget-me-not bracelet glowed in the dark room.
“What if she won’t see me?”
Then you will have your answer, painful though it may be.
Below my window, The Garden sighed, stilled while it listened, poised on the edge of something momentous. Soon, the reunion of two bloodlines. The un-severing begins; the Celtic trinity knot from Helen’s folklore, three interlocking loops with no beginning or end. Past, present, and future. Birth mother, adoptive mother, and daughter. Human, fairy, and the bridge between. Remember that you are neither just Ruth Ann, nor just Stella. You are becoming someone new.
Cedra vanished, and I slept.
The Reunion
The next morning, I stood with James and Sarah on the corner of Juniper and Elm, on the other side of the campus. “Number 42 Willow, Apartment 3B,” confirmed James. “Are you ready?”
My heart fluttered in response. As we set off north to Willow Street, I noticed a sparrow land on a picket fence, then she flew ahead to perch on a street sign with another sparrow. At the intersection, another bird joined, and the little flock watched me before flying off to Willow Street.
“James, do you see the birds?”
He glanced up. “Just ordinary sparrows.”
I knew otherwise.
Out of the corner of my eye, the signs seemed to shift to Threshold Lane instead of Third Street, Keeper’s Way instead of Maple Avenue. At a storefront, the display window showed me the path to follow: “We need to turn here, into this courtyard.”
“That’s not what the map shows,” James said.
Mom replied, “We should follow Stella, James. Let’s trust Stella—it is her search, after all.”
I had walked ahead and turned onto the path only I could see. They followed me through a courtyard that opened to a narrow alley that intersected with 42 Willow Street.
“This is it, but I could have sworn...” James couldn’t imagine how the paths that had gone awry led us to our destination.
A black iron fire escape zig-zagged against the four-story red brick façade of the apartment building. I saw a third-floor window with wavy glass. “Ellen’s apartment. I see it from here.”
Sarah coached, “Are you ready?” My forget-me-not bracelet pulsed like a second heartbeat. My yes sounded uncertain. James said he’d return to The Estate, leaving Sarah and me to the plan.
Five concrete steps led to the landing and the wooden door with a privacy-glass pane. Sarah took hold of the brass thumb-latch door handle, and we crossed the threshold into the dimly lit lobby. Tarnished mail slots were fixed to the metal wall panel on our left. I slipped off my spring jacket.
Sarah led the way up the grimy linoleum stairwell. All the way to the third floor, my thoughts cascaded, tumbling like stones in a noisy stream. Like viewing multiple-exposure photography, I saw myself as abandoned and chosen, lost and found, human and someone other. When would I finally be whole?
Outside 3B, Sarah whispered, “Here we are.” I sensed awareness of our presence and hesitated before lightly knocking.
The woman who held the door ajar was about my height, five and a half feet, with a slight frame that seemed too thin. Copper hair, streaked with silver. Green and amber eyes, wide with surprise. Her plain, royal-blue dress accentuated the pale smoothness of her complexion. Somehow, I knew the Celtic-knot pendant. She whispered, “Ruth Ann.”
“Ellen...”
She opened the door and motioned to us.
Meeting Ellen
I recall the first kiss of September’s sun, the swing of the baby carrier,
and your tentative, soft lips on my forehead to say goodbye. Can you
recall, Mother? Now your eyes are moist, your face flushed with an
unknowable emotion. Is it a flood of recollection? Regrets? A pang of
pride in the person I’ve become? Momma, I’ve inherited your sensitivity;
what else makes us alike, or different? Taking your hand, I take charge
of our feelings. You yield to my warmth and murmur something not
meant for me, but for the Fae who still linger.
No knick-knacks, no photos, no mirrors in her studio apartment.
“You found me.” In both statement and question, her voice was steady, but her hands shook slightly. I was relieved to hear, “I hoped you would.”
I replied, “You’ve been here for a long while. So close.”
Ellen said, “I didn’t want to interfere in your life, I just
wanted to know you were safe...”
“After your older daughter, Emily? The Council told me...”
Ellen’s gasp said she was surprised I knew about the fairy realm, let alone Emily. “They spoken to you. The three who watch from mirrors?”
“They’ve been teaching me about controlling the sight.”
Relief washed across her face, followed by something more complex I would later learn was regret and grief—mourning what she had missed.
“You learned what I couldn’t teach you.”
Sarah extended her hand. “Thank you,” she said, “for trusting us with Ruth Ann.”
My two mothers—one who bore me, one who raised me—regarded each other across the gulf of thirteen years. When their hands met, I felt the resonance of a chord struck in another realm. My forget-me-not bracelet’s tiny flowers were hopeful that this fracture between mother and daughter could mend. This rift could heal.
We three shared Ellen’s humble space over tea that seemed to brew itself. For the first time, my first mother and second mother spoke together—with me. And the moment held only a little strain.
The Guest Cottage
A week after our April reunion, Ellen waited in her apartment building lobby for James to pick her up in his car. Since she decided to accept Sarah’s invitation to stay at The Guest Cottage until she felt better, she cancelled her lease. Long before, she’d pared her life down to essentials, and two suitcases held all her possessions. She lived on alert, ready to flee from reflections or perceived threats.
The Guest Cottage stood at the edge of The Cedar Grove, its windows strategically placed to catch light and opened to a soothing forest breeze. “Thank you so much! It’s perfect,” Ellen said to us, touching the cottage door with wonder. “I can feel the protection already.”
Charles had prepared for Ellen’s arrival by hanging cedar boughs above the entrance threshold.
Sarah gave Ellen two sets of keys: The Guest Cottage and The Manor House.
“The Estate welcomes you, Ellen!”
My first mother’s health had deteriorated from years of suppressing her abilities, Cedra had warned me. Her medical doctors said an early demise was likely, due to a neurological condition of unknown source. What doctors hadn’t suggested was that her symptoms might lessen if she allowed herself to stop fighting her true nature. Neither did her doctors suggest what her “true nature” might be.
As Ellen settled into The Guest Cottage, a curious change began in The Garden. Plants that had always responded primarily to me now oriented themselves equally between the cottage and The Manor House, as if they recognized Ellen’s fairy nature.
In the library that evening, I found Sarah with her journal. “Are you writing about Ellen?”
Sarah smiled. “I’m reviewing my earlier entries from a new perspective. What I had recorded as mysteries now makes sense. I can see them as inherited traits.” She showed me a page where she had annotated her original observations with her new insights.
“Do you regret taking me in? Keeping secrets?”
“I regret the pain my secrecy caused you. But taking you in? Never. You were meant to be my daughter, Ruth Ann Stella. Just as Ellen was meant to find her way back to you when the time is right.”
Sarah’s perspective had surely shifted. We were meeting halfway.
Imbolc
Green promises unfolded as Ellen taught me to read the subtler signs of our shared lineage. “Watch how light moves through leaves,” she said, her copper hair catching sunlight like Brigid’s remembered fire, the same way mine did. My first mother showed me how to notice what lingered: the way frost traced the edges of shadow at dawn, how light lengthened without insisting on warming, how the soil breathed but did not promise to bloom. Imbolc, she taught me, was not a date but practice. The tending of inner fire. The patience of women who knew that survival came before celebration.
We bridged years of separation with Ellen’s Guest Cottage windowsill herb garden where rosemary, thyme, sage, and parsley seeds sprouted and quickly flourished. Speaking of rituals older than language, she set a small bowl of water and a braid of dried grass on the sill. Morning light struck the bowl; bounced and scattered yellow reflections on the kitchen table and across the wall. “Fire and water,” she murmured. “That’s how our people kept faith. Warmth without burning. Sight without surrender.” I would later understand that this was a ritual of dedication; our lineage remembering how to hold light safely; how to prepare for what was to come.
Spring Song
Two weeks after Ellen moved into the Guest Cottage, she and I joined Cedra for our first formal training session. “The trick is not to fight it,” I explained, guiding Ellen’s hand to the frost mirror, which Cedra had placed despite the mild late-April day.
“Let the reflection become a doorway rather than an image.”
Ellen’s hand trembled from habit. “The reflections have always pulled at me. That’s what happened to Emily. She couldn’t resist their call...”
What claimed Emily’s life was not reflection itself but her untrained response. She stepped through without knowing how to return.
Ellen flinched at Cedra’s authoritative voice.
Mirror-walking requires three skills. Recognize thresholds, stabilize your passage, and anchor your return. Today we begin with the first.
As the session progressed, Ellen’s trembling calmed down, and her breathing steadied. When she finally touched the frost pattern with purpose, the reflection responded, like a door ajar, cracked open to share a glimpse of what lay beyond.
“I can see it,” she whispered, wonder replacing terror. “A path, not just an image. Not pulling me in.”
“Yes,” I encouraged. “That’s it exactly.”
For a brief moment, mother and daughter stood with hands extended toward the same frost mirror, seeing the same pathways through reflection—genetic inheritance made visible in shared perception.
As she, Sarah, and I walked Ellen to The Guest Cottage, she appeared to be subtly transformed. Although physically frail, she stood straighter, her eyes clearer.
“All these years,” she said, “I thought the sight was a curse, and something to fear and suppress.”
“As did many in your family before you,” I reminded her.
“If only Emily had this guidance. If only I had understood sooner.”
“You understood enough to protect your second daughter,” Sarah said gently. “That wisdom saved Stella.”
Ellen, the mother who bore me and tried to protect me, turned to the mother who raised me, saying, “We both did what we thought was best. Perhaps together, we did better than either could have alone.”
Bealtaine
Ellen’s color had returned. At times, she walked from the Guest Cottage alone, down the brick path through the Yew Hedge, into the apothecary beds with what seemed to be a renewed steadiness.
On May Day, we celebrated The Garden’s awakening and life’s abundance, all of us gathering in the Manor House dining room. Helen and Margaret prepared a simple meal with the Hawthorn’s spring vegetables, and Helen’s freshly baked bread. Relaxed, but lively conversation and the last bottle of winter mulled cider warmed the table.
Charles was the first to move into the parlor after dinner, where the fire he had set in the stone hearth had begun to blaze, making the room too warm for a few of us. I opened a window to taste the spring evening air, while Ellen and Helen adjusted their shawls higher up on their shoulders, drew up to the fire, and sipped peppermint tea.
Quietly, I removed my Blue Book of Herbal Remedies from the Walnut secretary. Ellen had surrendered it to the Fae at their insistence when I was still an infant, and I wanted to return it to my mother’s hands that evening to honor our new beginnings. I saw her eyes moisten as she leafed with tender reverence through the old, rumpled, water-stained pages; her recollection of Aunt Ann’s herbals she intended to ease the “sight” that troubled our half-fae family. Firelight caught the glow of her copper, shoulder-length hair, and the glisten of her green and amber eyes.
She could have been my twin except for her weakened stature. Her weight hadn’t changed much since her arrival in April, but Sarah and I knew she wasn’t eating much, preferring to prepare her meals and dine alone in the tiny Guest Cottage kitchen; solitude and grief having dampened her appetite for food and life.
Meanwhile, Helen unfolded a six-inch square sketch of the herbal quadrants, saying, “Elizabeth tucked this map into her field journal with these sprigs of rosemary.”
Ellen said, “I couldn’t have imagined I’d one day live where these traditions were kept. If only I had been taught. If only Emily had been trained.” The scent of peppermint tea, rosemary, and wood fire drifted and mingled in the flow of Ellen’s wistful thoughts and the season’s turning. She closed the Blue Book and pressed it to her heart. “It is, indeed, a beginning.”
©Mary Ellen Gambutti 2026
We hope you’ve enjoyed this episode. Tenth in the series will bring us to a Midsummer celebration, Summer Solstice, and the Second Council with Ellen, Stella, Sarah, adoption Triad —reconciliation and a fearless name-claiming. At least for now, the searching is over.
This novella-in-series is free to read. The ebook, print, and sequel are forthcoming. Please consider a free subscription or follow to support indie efforts. Thank you!
Peace and Love,
Profound and magical!
Wow I am so delighted to read about the reunion. I had been waiting in suspense with a slight dread but it turned out to be lovelier than I had anticipated. So tender, beautiful and sprinkled with fairy dust and a good measure of deep reflections! Love it ✨💖