The forgotten fairy speaks to her slumbering child

I never had a daughter. Never found a soulmate.
No kin left to share my grief
when the granny who raised me died.
I held her lore sacred, secret recipes to cure or curse,
to mend or steal—the magic always useful,
always possible to apply it for good or ill.
A curse can stop a ravager of children;
a stolen heart, find a lifetime of happiness.
Just as seriously, to cure again and again
an aged king who has become more enmeshed
in his own spectacle than the good of his people,
can be a perilous thing.
And mending a toy that a frightened child hurled into a ravine
is simply cruel.
True, I have no family, but I have this baby girl—
not entrusted to me, no,
but part of my circle.
They left me out of the invitation to her christening,
probably thinking to be kind, not saddle me with such responsibility—
perhaps out of consideration for my many years on this planet
(they know not just how many years,
nor how many yet stretch ahead).
But I won't hold that against this child,
whose talent already touches me
when she holds my finger, as does her sunny smile.
Her baby spellcraft soars—
my natural successor—like magic calling to like.
But she's a princess, so one day she'll be lost
to a wise woman's ways, forced to bear children again and again
if she doesn't die,
her free hours always wanting,
someone else always coming first,
no necessary attic of her own in which to work her spells.
So I craft a way to warn her—
flee the pricks, for they'll kill your soul
as sure as spindles.
A wise woman has a freer path.
Be happy, child, you laughing soul.
Follow your bliss, your magic,
even if right now you can only pursue it in dreams.
Soul daughter, I'll keep you safe with me,
even if it takes a hundred years or more
for this world to change enough
to welcome your joyous mind and golden strength.