The Grimm brothers grew up across the streetin a half-timbered magistrate’s house:studying Greek and Latin, collecting eggs,and not thinking of magic. By all accountsit was the best time of their lives. It is quiet here, calm,unburdened by tourists and noise exceptthe gentle twittering of small, silver-winged birds.Watching you squint in this particular light,it occurs to me that most magicin fairy tales is the kind that hurts, that trapsand twists and isolates—the happily ever afteris the return to the disenchanted life,the confidence that love is enough. This must bethe solace those brothers sought to return to:the nostalgia of afternoon sunlight on the castlethat stood in the neighborhood of their childhood. Strawberries from the market stain our hands. I can feel this picnic turn into memoryeven as I busy myself with worry about my white sundress. The light is carefree, like a princejust transformed from his animal skin ora princess newly awakened—giddywith the reward of ordinariness. Through no fairy intercession that I know of,you are young and beautiful, and I am too,and strawberry juice runs in rivulets down our wrists.