“Because deep in your heart you always knew we were real.”
The scotch in Chase’s belly threatened to come up. It didn’t taste nearly as good the second time around.
“Oh, stop trying to make sense out of Pixies and reality. You two need to figure out how to fix something. Neither one of you can do it alone,” Mabel reminded them.
“Well, his fat fingers sure can’t fit inside,” Chicory sneered.
“How can a Pixie know anything about mechanics?” Chase returned.
“Like I said, neither one of you can do it alone. Now make your peace and get to work. You don’t have all night,” Mabel insisted. “And, Chicory, you’ll need gloves of some sort, there’s metal involved.”
“Looks like copper, not iron. I’ll be okay,” he replied.
“I have a feeling it’s going to take all night and then some.” Chase eyed the Pixie skeptically. “I’m not even sure he’s really here.”
“Oh, yeah?” Chicory flew up and dive-bombed, taking a nip at the tip of Chase’s nose as he passed.
“Ouch! You bit me!” Chase rubbed the stinging bump.
“You bet I did. And you taste like sour sweat and greasy hamburgers. Convinced I’m real yet?”
“Maybe.”
“So get to work. Sun comes up before six. You haven’t a lot of time. I’m going to bed.” Mabel stomped away, letting the swinging door swish back and forth in her wake.
Dusty wandered through the kitchen and dining room two hours before her usual rising time. Dawn crept around the edges of the trees on the east side of the house.
She hummed a sprightly little tune full of chimes and dancing notes.
She skipped to the tune, trying out a few remembered steps from her childhood ballet classes.
Despite the impending doom of The Ten Acre Wood and the ruination of her Masque Ball fund-raiser, she couldn’t help smiling in remembrance of Hay’s kisses last night. So different, more interesting, and much more exciting than Joe’s lackluster attempts to woo her.
The tune hit a sour note in her head. Samuel Johnson-Butler, PhD. had decided to cancel the museum’s grant. No appeal. He was the absolute dictator of the committee.
Three days to come up with a drastic solution. If only Mrs. Shiregrove had come with him, she could have offered possibilities and alternatives, like matching funds.
Matching funds.
Mrs. Shiregrove lived on a five-acre estate filled with wonderfully landscaped gardens between the house and the horse pastures. Gardens that would look magical with Pixie lights strung around the hedges, with the dense perfume of roses spreading through the dry air.
Dusty reached for the phone and caught a glimpse of the red digital numerals on the stove. “Damn, it’s only five thirty. She won’t be up.”
“Who won’t be up?” Thistle asked on a yawn. Her footsteps sounded heavy and hesitant on the back stairs. She rubbed the back of her head and winced at something tender.
“Mrs. Shiregrove. What are you doing up so early? What hurts?” She reached to examine the back of her friend’s head.
Thistle shied away. “That hurts!”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” She gazed into the distance, looking as if she searched her memory, or the trees in the backyard for the source. “I couldn’t sleep.” Thistle kept her head down, her thick black tresses flowing forward to hide her face.
That was a trick Dusty had used often as a child and a teen until she decided she wanted a wash-and-go haircut last year.
“There’s a bump on the back of your head. I bet it’s bruised. What happened, Thistle?”
She shrugged and put the kettle on for tea. “I ache all over. Like maybe I’m getting that period thing you told me about.”
“You were so happy yesterday at the City Council meeting.”
“That was yesterday. Today I think I’ve grown up.”
“I’m sorry. Sometimes we need to retain a bit of our childhood attitudes and perspectives. You’ve given us all a different way of looking at things.”
“Being a Pixie is easier than being human.”
“You’re needed here now. Since you came back into my life, I’ve laughed more than I have in ages. I’ve stopped hiding in the basement so much, and I really have started looking at life a little differently.” Memories of how Hay made her blood bubble like champagne sent lovely heat to her cheeks.
Thistle flashed a small smile that almost reached her eyes. “Then I’ve been a good friend to you.”
“Yes, you have.” Dusty reached over and hugged Thistle, something she’d never done with anyone since her days of chemo when any touch hurt like fire and invited germs to invade her compromised immune system. This felt good. Special. Different from the way she felt when Hay held her, but still important.
“So why are
“Lots of reasons. But I may have figured out a way to save the museum, if not The Ten Acre Wood.”
“Woodland Pixies don’t change to garden Pixies overnight. What will my tribe do if we lose the trees? How will we launch our mating flights if they chop down the Patriarch Oak?” Thistle looked ready to cry.
“I don’t have an answer for that. But if woodland Pixies can make do with a garden, they’re welcome to the rest of the museum grounds. Maybe they can make a better winter shelter in the carriage shed than in a hollowed- out log.”
“Let’s eat breakfast and then go talk to Mrs. Shiregrove about your ideas. I have it on good authority that she’s an early riser. She likes to feed and groom her horses herself.” Thistle hugged Dusty back with a hint of laughter back in her voice. Laughter that chimed and started up that haunting little tune again.
“The Patriarch Oak…” Dusty mused. “That’s the key to this whole thing. Someone said something just the other day. I don’t remember who or what, just that it’s important.”
“Think back, slowly, picture the oak and the words that make you think of it,” Thistle coached.
“Patriarch. A big part of our history. Our heritage. That’s it!”
“What?” Thistle looked up with eyes wide and luminous. Wild swirls of color seemed to sparkle within their purple depths.
“Heritage trees! They’re special. If we can get the Patriarch Oak named a heritage tree, then it’s safe. No one, not even Phelma Jo and the mayor, can touch it. How old do you think it is? If I can find documentation that something important happened there more than one hundred years ago, then the state will protect it until it falls down on its own.”
“How fast can you make that happen?” Thistle sounded breathless with excitement.
“I’ll find out on the laptop while we have breakfast.”
“Can we have oatmeal?” Thistle asked, taking the singing teakettle off the burner and wincing at the noise.
“I was thinking of cold cereal. It’s going to be hot again today, and I didn’t feel like heating up the stove more than I have to.”
“That’s okay. It will only be ninety-eight today instead of one hundred-two.”
“Only.”
Just then, the doorbell rang.
“Who would that be at this hour?” Dusty asked, making her way to the front hall. She stood back a few steps and peered through the beveled glass oval in the top center of the door. She caught a distorted glimpse of Chase: tall, blond hair cut short, wearing the blue uniform that took his Nordic good looks and made him distinguished and authoritative.
She opened the door and peered out, leaving the security chain on, making sure her eyes hadn’t deceived her. “Chase? Why didn’t you come to the kitchen? You never use the front door.”
