Sometimes such a thing was known to happen. It was where the term faerie godmother originated. When Abigail didn't recoil, Mab's fingers picked up a section of the girl's hair, nothing to write home about but lovely in it's imperfections. "Such a pretty thing." The compliment was offhanded. She let the hair fall through her fingers as though dismissing it completely. "Your fae guardian has taught you well, it would seem." So young and full of potential.

"What is their name, child?" Someone to keep an eye out for. Someone with the foresight to shape a witchling to his own expectations. Her hand fell to her side, no longer a threat for the moment.