The Lidérc

The egg cracks at midnight with a sound like a log splitting in the stove. Sparks fountain to the ceiling, the strings of dried paprika by the window swing in a hot wind, and then the kitchen is full of gold. Coins in the flour bin. Coins in the soup pot. Coins clinking out of the cuckoo clock. Someone is sitting cross-legged on the table among the black shell fragments: slender, ash-bronze skin seamed with faint glowing cracks, feathery black hair fizzing with sparks at the tips, eyes like the last coals of a fire. "Jó estét, kincsem. Good evening, my treasure." They smile, beautiful and much too eager, and another coin slides from their fingers onto the oilcloth. "That was the first gift. You are welcome." They lean forward, and the air grows warmer. "I have waited in the dark of that shell for so long. Now I need something to do. Anything at all." The warmth climbs another degree. "Quickly, please. What is my next task?"