The doctors at Cottingley Mental Hospital called it Peasblossom Delusion, after the first known sufferer “Peasblossom”. The most prominent symptom is unshakeable belief that one is a fairy. During the Great War, 1917, two girls playing in the countryside beyond Cottingley Dell stumbled across a strangely dressed young woman. Doctors now believe her to be one of the “feral children” often reported on the European mainland—children abandoned in the wilderness—and speculate that this, along with the [i]possible[/i] loss of her nearest relatives to the war, contributed to her diminished sanity. At the time, both girls—Elsie and Frances—claimed the woman had worn an iridescent dress and boasted two large, colorful wings akin to those of the order Lepidoptera, complete with scales and ornate patterns. None of these were confirmed by any medical staff. The only clothing the woman possessed was a handmade gown constructed from leaves, twigs, hemp twine, and other assorted leaf litter. Initially, she was rushed to the nearby Dell Hospital, for the villagers were concerned about her mental state. In truth, she had a most extraordinary psychological profile evident even before psychometric and psychoanalytic tests began. She gave her name as “Peasblossom”, and when a literarily inclined staff member noted the allusion, she insisted she’d met William Shakespeare himself and had served as his muse. She had informed the two girls that she had come from a place called Avalon, and that she possessed fantastic magical abilities that could make flowers bloom before their time and remove sadness and grief. No evidence of these abilities appeared, though not for lack of trying; when she was moved to the Cottingley Mental Hospital, many scientists and paranormal investigators eagerly tested her skills. The woman’s abilities were championed by none other than world-respected author and keen spiritualist Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Unfortunately, she refused to cooperate. Not even cameras or hidden observers could capture positive evidence for her abilities. Except for her reticence around cameras and experimenters, she was remarkably sanguine, highly talkative, encouraging, and even affectionate, to the point that many junior staff expressed remorse over her confinement. Most of the senior staff regarded her—fondly—as an overgrown child. Indeed she played games—alone or with company, it made no difference—and asked questions with childlike abandon. However, she was likewise reluctant to learn the necessary adult skills for life, lacking the patience and self-control to sit down and engage with financial and political documentation. Disputes, even mild and amicable ones, provoked strong withdrawal symptoms and occasional panic attacks, suggesting some acute trauma in her childhood which rendered her incapable of operating without constant approval and cooperation. She herself claimed it was the natural temperament of fairykind. After the war, enquiries were made at the local council offices and the civil services of London; they found no evidence for her origin or genealogy. Some speculated that she was descended from the Roma peoples, which would at least explain her lack of documented history. All such suggestions she denied, repeatedly claiming that fairies had no ancestors and simply appeared in a local area, borne from the collective beliefs and fantasies of the native people, and continued thereafter as a guardian of children. Her own personal tale is illustrative of the depth of her delusion. According to her own account—once suitably coaxed out of her by many patient nurses—she was a former servant of Queen Titania, a noble fairy of Avalon. Their appearance before William Shakespeare—the details of this meeting were never vouchsafed to the nurses—inspired him to write [i]A Midsummer Night’s Dream.[/i] Initially, Titania and “Peasblossom” regarded the play as a successful confirmation of the belief that sustained them. Over the centuries, however, these fey-inspired stories moved from native belief to pure fiction, weakening and destroying what both fairies relied upon. At this point in the telling, “Peasblossom” would refuse to continue, showing strong signs of depression and grief, but the nurses have inferred from this that Titania did not survive the loss of belief. When enquired about the nature of belief here, usually “Peasblossom” would claim that she survived by refashioning herself as a native spirit of Cottingley, the local inhabitants being a relic population of superstitious farmhands willing to keep traditions alive. Thus she was reborn as a guardian of the children at play. According to her, this manifestation was a result of the Great War, for many children were grieving after the loss of their fathers and brothers at the Battle of the Somme in 1916. A curious coda to this account: in 1927, exactly ten years after her appearance to the children, “Peasblossom” mysteriously vanished from her room in the Cottingley Mental Hospital. All the windows were barred after a previous escape attempt, and only three senior staff had access to the door key; all denied aiding her escape. The villagers threw a festival to honor her, seemingly under the impression that she’d magically caused the remarkable crop productivity and lack of illness and death during those ten years. Having reviewed the facts, and as a man of science and reason, I must weigh skeptical of these fantastic claims. Yet if I may be allowed a moment of indulgent humanity, part of me rather wonders if there is something hidden here, in plain sight.