Broken Wings (22 page)

“We really ought to be moving,” Frond Lovage said. “You know how I loathe being
late. Flora?”

Flora blinked and looked around, surprised, as if she’d completely forgotten the
other dryad.

“I booked your favourite table.” Frond walked to the door.

Flora glanced back at Rye. Rye hardly dared breathe.
I love you. I want you. I
need you. I adore you. I don’t care about all that other shit. I want to spend
the rest of my life in your arms. Nothing in my life is right without you. Is
there anything I can say or do that will persuade you to-
“Your mother was very
kind to send those flowers before last night’s performance.” Frond held the door
open. “Flora? Is something wrong?”

She takes you to lunch at a restaurant and knows which is your favourite table?
Your mother sends her flowers? A rising theatre star. Famous. Rich. Of course
your parents approve of her. Magazine columnists want you two to be a couple.
You deserve someone who can treat you right. Like she can. It’s for the best.
For both of us.

Flora cast a look at Rye. So sad. Rye’s throat tightened with impending tears.
I love you!

Flora strode to the door.

Rye watched her walk away. Again. Her heart ripped. Again.

Rye frowned at the packet in her hand. Her mind was blank. She had no idea what
she had been intending to make for tea. She had better get herself thinking
again before she called those two people Letty Elmwood had recommended that she
contact about possible catering jobs. For a pretentious, over-dressed, overly
made up sylph, Letty had been really nice to her at lunchtime. Not that Rye’s
recollection of their conversation was anywhere near complete. Her day had
shattered shortly after she walked into the gallery.

“Want me to help?” Holly said.

“Um,” Rye said. “Look, I’m not hungry. Can you get yourself something?”

“Yeah. You really don’t look good. I could make you something.”

“No. I’ll be fine.”

An hour later, Rye hung up the phone. Okay. Neither Mrs. Henbane-Wheat nor Mr.
Mandrake had offered her a job, but both wanted to talk to discuss menus. If
only one of them offered her a job, that would be decent money.

“You going to do some more cooking?” Holly asked.

“Yeah. Maybe. I have to go and discuss menus and stuff.”

“You should ask Flora to help you,” Holly said.

Rye scowled.

“She helped you with Ms. Elmwood’s dinner, didn’t she?” Holly said.

Rye fiddled with her pencil. “Ms. Withe is a busy lady. She’s got more important
things to do than waste her time talking to me.” The pencil snapped.

“Waste? When did Flora become Ms. Withe? What are you talking about?”

Rye dropped the pencil halves and stood. “I need a shower. Did you leave me a
towel?”

Holly frowned at Rye and trailed her out into the hall. “Are you acting like the
last dreg in the bottom of a bucket because you and Flora have argued? Did you
do something stupid to –”

“Holly!” Rye shoved the door open. “Ms. Withe was very friendly and kind and
generous to us both for a while. For which we are both grateful. I am not going
to bother her about this dinner thing or anything else, okay?”

For a dangerous moment, Holly looked like she intended to retort. But she gave
Rye a filthy look then strode into her bedroom with an exaggerated shrug of her
shoulders.

Rye chewed her lip as she stripped. Did Holly have any idea that she and Flora
had been lovers? Surely not. Rye had been so careful. Flora had said that she
hadn’t betrayed them. Rye peeled off her tight T-shirt and drew an unrestricted
breath. She stepped into the warm shower and eased her wings out from their
daylong tight fold.

Holly probably wanted her to be friends with Flora because Flora was a famous
weaver. Holly derived a lot of kudos with her friends from her connection with
Flora. And Flora had been kind and encouraging to Holly. Of course Holly liked
her. It made sense that she would want Rye and Flora to be friends. No need to
panic. There was no reason to think that Holly suspected anything. Not that
there was now.

“No. Don’t think about that.” Rye scrubbed shampoo into her hair. “Think about
food. Cooking. Menus. Money. And how you’re actually going to get that fucking
goblin two thousand pieces. You’re going to do it. The kid is going to get an
ident number and be safe. Just like you promised her.”

The next evening, Rye let herself into the apartment and flicked on the lights.
She found a note on the kitchen table.

Rye! Flora called. She wants you to call her back tonight. Holly.

Rye frowned as she fingered the note. What could Flora possibly want to talk to
her about? Surely they had said it all? This wouldn’t be some stupid trick of
Holly’s to get her to phone Flora, would it?

“Fey.”

Rye strode into the hall and quickly dialled Flora’s mobile number.

“Rye!” Flora said. “Thank you for calling.”

Rye felt that familiar exhilarated rush at the sound of Flora’s voice which was
so inappropriate now. “Um. Sure. I got a note from Holly. You called?”

“Yes.” Pause. “I’m not sure how to tell you this.”

Rye frowned. That was not a good way to start a conversation. “Tell me what? Is
this about the gallery? Look, I wouldn’t have been there if I’d known.”

“No, it’s not about that,” Flora said. “I know you’re going to be hurt. And I
hate to do it to you. But I can’t not tell you.”

Rye’s frown deepened to a scowl. What could possibly be this bad? Flora was
getting married to Frond Lovage? Oh, no. Not that. Please. “What… what’s wrong?”

“I’m guessing that you don’t read many women’s magazines.”

“Magazines? No. Why?”

“This week’s copy of
Hedgerow
,” Flora said. “Page thirty. You ought to take a
look.”

“Why?”

“This sort of nuisance happens occasionally. No one really pays any attention to
it. Teenage girls do not read
Hedgerow
. Holly will not have seen it. I would
bet large sums on that.”

“Seen what? Babe, what are you talking about?”

“Oh, branch,” Flora said. “There’s a picture of us in the gossip section.
Listen, Holly won’t have seen it and they don’t name you.”

“Picture?”

“Yes. A photograph. Of us kissing.”

“What?”

Rye dropped the phone and bolted for the front door. She scrambled down seven
flights of stairs two and three at a time. She hurtled across the street to
Cloudnut’s All-Purpose Store, but skidded to a stop in time. She couldn’t go in
there to buy a magazine. Holly was working in there.

Rye ran down the street to the hypermart. She stood sweating and panting in
front of the magazine rack.
Hedgerow
? She grabbed a copy of the glossy
magazine. Page what? Rye flicked past advertisements, a story about a famous
woman and her pet moths, the latest diet, cosmetic tips, more and more
advertisements.

“Oh, fuck.”

Rye stared. Page thirty. Top centre, under the heading Needle’s Eye. The
photograph showed her and Flora kissing.

“That’s my favourite magazine.”

Rye started, jerked the magazine closed, and stared at a squat gnome woman who
smiled at her through a wispy white beard.

“They have the nicest stories, don’t they?” The gnome grabbed the last copy of
Hedgerow
and dropped it into her shopping trolley.

Rye strode away to the cashiers. She was so stunned that she didn’t even blink
at handing over five pieces.

Outside, Rye opened
Hedgerow
to page thirty.

A hot favourite to be one of this year’s
Golden Spindle
nominees, it looks
like
Flora Withe
is engaged in another successful project. The whisper about
ShadeForest City was that
Frond Lovage
was the inspiration for sexy Flora’s
sizzling new weaving. The stage sensation currently wowing fans and critics
alike in her latest role in the
Cumin Bugloss
play
Second Time Loss
was also
tipped to be responsible for
Flora
suddenly sporting a stylish range of hats.
Yes, ladies, a reliable source confirms that the dryad weaving star has
something to hide:
Buds
! True love is in the hair for the thirty-three year
old only child of banking magnate
Bark Withe
and his society hostess wife,
Hazel
. But move over,
Frond
! Our ever sharp Eye has snapped this romantic
moment. Who is
Flora Withe’s Mystery Budmate
? The Eye will keep searching for
the answer to this exciting secret.

“Crap.”

Rye trudged back to her apartment in a daze. She set
Hedgerow
on the kitchen
table and opened it to the offending page. The photograph was crisp and clear
and unmistakably them. But how? How could anyone have seen them kiss?

They stood in front of a sapling. Flora had worn that hat the time they had met
in the park to finally and irrevocably break off their relationship. The irony!
The stupid magazine called that a romantic moment. If that sneaky photographer
had waited just a little longer, he might have had a very different picture.
Flora fleeing in tears and Rye standing heartbroken.

Where had the bastard been? Lurking in some bush?

Rye put a hand to her forehead. “The bloody ball game.”

There had been photographers covering the games. One had only to turn around and
zoom in. Rye slumped.

Eventually, she heard a strange buzzing hum. The phone hung off the hook. She
carried the phone into the kitchen, set it beside
Hedgerow
, and dialled.

“Rye?” Flora said. “Have you seen it?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. But it may not be as bad as you fear.
Hedgerow
doesn’t have a huge
circulation. And it’s only a gossip column snippet. Rye?”

Rye sighed. “Fey.”

“Holly will not read
Hedgerow
. Do you hear me? Their audience is middle-aged
women with a reasonable discretionary spending capacity, insecurities about
their age, increasing waistlines, and an intense interest in other people’s
intimate relationships. Rye? You’re not panicking?”

“No. I’m – Shit!”

Rye dropped the handset and darted into the lounge. She tugged the old magazine
out from under the sofa cushion. Daisy Bark’s mother had given Holly this. Rye
flicked hurriedly back to the front page.
Hedgerow
.

“Crap.”

Rye dragged herself back to the kitchen and dropped into a chair.

“Rye? Are you still there?”

“Yeah. She’ll see it.”

Pause. “Okay. Even if she does, it might not be a disaster. Holly has probably
already guessed about us. This may not be any surprise to her. Have you
considered that possibility?”

The front door handle lifted.

“Fey,” Rye whispered. “She’s home. I have to go.”

Rye hung up. She grabbed
Hedgerow
and shoved it in the oven.

“It’s me,” Holly called.

“Um. In here. I’m just going to start dinner.”

While Rye cooked, Holly chatted about something that happened at school and a
very strange customer in the store. Rye’s fear that Holly had leafed through
Hedgerow
magazine in the store failed to blossom into reality.

“Are you planning on seeing Daisy tomorrow?” Rye asked.

“No. One of her cousins is getting married. Her whole family has gone to
CopseLake City for it.”

Rye mentally let out a sigh of relief. Mrs. Bark would be too busy to read her
Hedgerow
for a day or two.

“I’m going to crash,” Holly said. “Oh, did you finish those forms yet?”

“Um. Getting your ident number will take a little while longer. These government
things take time.”

Holly frowned. “Can’t you do something? It’s been weeks.”

“I’m trying my hardest. Trust me.”

“I have three deadlines at the end of next week.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yeah,” Holly said. “Two of them are the scholarships I’m most likely to get.
Flora said so. I really, really don’t want to miss out. I finished all the other
stuff and that stupid essay eons ago.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m doing my best.”

Rye waited until Holly was safely in her room before retrieving
Hedgerow
from
the stove. She shut the living room door and sat at her desk. She glanced at her
scribbling for menu plans. Getting a cooking job or two had looked so promising,
but there was no way she was going to get both jobs paid in advance by the end
of next week.

Much as she hated to do it, Rye was going to have to tell Holly that she
couldn’t put in any applications yet. Holly was not going to like that. Just
when they’d returned to talking to each other. Rye let her head fall into her
hands. Life was shit. Just as she’d told Holly.

Rye sighed, shut her notebooks, undressed, and climbed into bed. She opened
Hedgerow
. The photograph jarred her nerves at first. The more she stared at
it, though, the more it grew on her. So that’s what Flora looked like when she
was being kissed. If only Rye didn’t know how miserable they both were at the
moment the camera had captured them. Why didn’t that show?

Rye lay awake unable to sleep. Holly was going to learn that she was gay and had
had an affair with Flora. The magazine reading world had a photograph of Rye
Woods to study. What if someone recognised her as a fairy? With her wings hidden
most people couldn’t tell, but what if they had specialist illegal immigrant
hunters in the Immigration Service who were trained to spot disguised fairies?
One of them idly flicking through her
Hedgerow
could see the picture. Or,
perhaps, that new ambassador from Fairyland, the one who’d been a priestess;
maybe she read
Hedgerow.
Glossy magazines were probably some form of evil, but
anyone who was sent outside Fairyland to live as a representative must be
regarded as holy enough to resist the lures of consumerism, frivolity, and
vanity. Maybe they even had people at the embassy whose job it was to scour
papers and magazines looking for escaped fairies.

That final kiss had sealed the end of her affair with Flora. It might be the end
of Rye Woods.

Late on Fifth Day morning, Rye steered her broom up the ascending lane to the
seventh floor and then around to the parking pad outside her apartment. She
unlocked the door and carried the first bags of groceries inside.

“Holls? Are you back yet?”

Holly’s room was quiet and empty. Rye set the shopping on the kitchen table and
went outside for the remainder. As she put her broom away, a chubby,
green-skinned gremlin man trotted around from the neighbour’s landing. He was
dressed well enough to look out of place against the second-hand, worked-in look
of this neighbourhood, but his clothes were nowhere near the expensive, tailored
trendiness of Flora’s area.