Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles (34 page)

Their gazes locked for half a heartbeat.

“I’m out of here. I’ve wasted enough time and need to get back to work.” Phelma Jo averted her eyes from Ian.

Running away,
Dusty thought. Just as Thistle and Hope had run away. And Mom. Mom used Shakespeare to avoid dealing with unpleasant reality. And Dad had run away to another university rather than deal with Mom. Then there was Mabel, running away from her family rather than face the possibility that her beloved home, a sanctuary for Pixies and runaway teens, might not be perfect.

Dusty had run away to the basement too many times. At least now she was trying not to.

Did she have the courage to try and stop the pattern in those around her?

“My eyes are crossing from looking at the map. I need a break,” Dusty said, more like thinking out loud. “I haven’t visited Mabel yet today. Ian, do you want to come with me?”

“Dusty,” Phelma Jo said, warning clear in her voice. “We have to respect Mabel’s wishes. She doesn’t want to see anyone but you and Chase, and maybe me.”

“I don’t think Mabel is thinking clearly. She needs to connect with her family. But that’s something you don’t have a lot of experience with.”

Anger flushed Phelma Jo’s face.

“Think about it, Phelma Jo. There was a time, before I screwed things up between us, when you pretended to be my sister. You wanted family so desperately you practically lived at my house. I’m sorry we lost that closeness. But surely you must see that family is what Mabel needs right now.”

“I—I’d like to see my aunt,” Ian said. “I’ve tried several times, but she closes her door to me.”

“Well, I know how to open it. Come along. Phelma Jo, if you want, you can come, too.”

“No way. You aren’t my family, and neither is Mabel. I have work to do. Maybe I’ll see you around. Maybe I’m done with being a good citizen. Let the Eagle Scout take up the slack.” She flounced out the door across the gym to the interior corridor. Running away, even if she did it slowly enough to be called back.

T
HISTLE ROSE UP TO HOVER beside Milkweed where she basked in the fitful sunlight on a flat rock beside the pond. Most of the tribe flitted about collecting pollen and berries and seeds to hoard for the winter. The little ones gathered soft moss and shed animal hairs to line the nest. Milkweed did nothing to enhance the tribe or work with them. Neither did Alder.

“Alder, tell your bride why the Old Faery really chose you to be king?” Thistle called out so that all could hear her. Now that she looked for signs of Faery blood in Alder, she saw that he stood half a hand taller than she. His magical power pulsed through him, almost visibly stronger than any Pixie. Had it come to him simply by claiming kingship, or had it been there all along, carefully hidden and controlled?

“What is she talking about, Alder? We both know she’s full of Faery lies,” Milkweed protested.

“Faery lies. That explains a lot, doesn’t it, Alder?” Thistle said.

“I don’t know what you are saying. Perhaps the cold from sleeping alone, too close to the Earth, has addled your thinking.” Alder dismissed her with a gesture.

“Look at his aura, Milkweed,” Thistle commanded, as if she were ordering Suzie and Sharon, her old boss’ kids to bed on the nights she babysat them. “See the fire that encircles him, fuels his magic, taints his blood.”

“What… what?” Milkweed looked a little cross-eyed.

“Lying about your family lines is enough to negate the
marriage treaty,” Thistle said. “My guess is that the Old Faery in the Patriarch Oak was your grandsire, Alder. He raised you to take his place as king of this tribe. A tribe that should serve the Patriarch Oak and all Pixies, not just the few Pixies who call this wood home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Thistle. Everyone knows that Pixies and Faeries can’t breed. It’s all myth and legend and stories to frighten small children,” Alder snorted.

A young Pixie threw a half-rotten walnut into the pond. Water sprayed upward and outward, touching Milkweed’s spider silk gown.

Alder reached for Milkweed’s hand to draw her away from the pond. Water, the element that could draw him in and completely absorb him, just as Earth did to Pixies.

“Milkweed, your brother, Hay, is half Faery. You know it and I know it. He is myth and legend and frightening children’s story come to life,” Thistle said gently. She needed this frothy white-and-gold Pixie to listen and understand. Her brain was as poufy as her gold-tipped white hair. Too easy for Pixies to dismiss and forget things that were unpleasant to think about.

“Hay’s not… He wouldn’t… He couldn’t…”

“Yeah, he is, and he’s proud of it. Only thing is, he has both the Faery size and loyalties. But he didn’t get Faery brains. His true father, King of the underhill that is in danger of being demolished for a discount store, ordered him to clear The Ten Acre Wood of Pixies so the Faeries could reclaim it as their own. Hay decided that meant he should clear The Ten Acre Wood. That’s why he manipulated Phelma Jo into buying the timber and starting to clear-cut.”

Both Alder and Milkweed shuddered at the ominous idea of all these tall trees reduced to stumps.

“When the timber cutting failed, he tried to set fire to the wood. He manipulated young men with Faery mushrooms so they’d blow up construction equipment and carnival rides. Rides with lots and lots of innocent people,
children
, onboard. And now he’s leading an army of Pixies to kill all of us, and the humans who get in his way.”

“No. My brother would never… wouldn’t… did he, truly?” Milkweed looked totally confused.

“Yeah, he did.”

“So what?” Alder protested. “That was Hay. Not me. I closed the wood to keep the Faeries out.”

“And where did you get the magic to do that, if not from your own Faery blood?” Thistle asked. “Is the lying, dishonorable, cruel Faery blood the reason you cannot remain loyal to any female? Is a mating flight just another thrill for you instead of a sacred ritual?”

“Well, I’m not putting up with a half Faery mate, or even a…” Milkweed paused to count her fingers, “a quarter Faery. I’ll not have my life and my children tainted by monsters!” Milkweed withdrew her hand from Alder’s and back-winged across the pond toward the spray of the waterfall.

“Where will you go, Milkweed?” Alder asked, an ugly sneer on his face that stretched his ears up and his chin out, revealing his diluted heritage. “You can’t go home again. You’ll be disgraced. Your tribe will exile you.”

“There’s a varied thrush waiting for you in the silver knot garden beside the museum, Milkweed. She’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Home, to another tribe, to a place where you can start a new tribe. Whatever you wish,” Thistle countered. “And don’t be so hasty in fearing your own tribe. If they truly love you, they will take you back, unblemished. Remember you were
right
to refuse a mating flight. You were
right
about Alder, and they were wrong.”

Milkweed turned and fled.

“Milkweed, stop. Come back. I love you,” Alder called. But he made no move to follow her. He’d have to pass through the water spray if he did.

“Now it’s time to reveal your cowardice, your malice, and how totally wrong you are for the job of king,” Thistle said. She stood on the flat rock Milkweed had just vacated and faced her tribe and the Patriarch Oak. Ritual had to be observed.

“There is no one else to be king of this tribe, Thistle. The tribe will not accept anyone else as king.” He gestured widely to include the population who had stopped their chores to observe and listen. They knew the ritual even if none of them had ever participated in one.

“We must have a king to survive the coming battles with other Pixies and humans,” Alder continued his oration; his defense. “There is no one else qualified to be king.”

“Except, maybe, Thistle,” someone said quietly. They all heard the young male voice.

“Are you ready to forsake your human friends and stay in Pixie forever?” Alder asked, more accusation than question.

The diamond-and-amethyst ring weighed heavily on Thistle’s hand.

Chicory pointed out to Juliet a knot in Hope’s hair that was going to have to be cut out. No amount of coaxing and brushing would loosen the strands.

“Why did you come to Skene Falls, Hope?” Juliet asked, working the comb gently through the girl’s hopelessly tangled hair. “It’s not like we have a lot of agencies and facilities to help the homeless and runaways.”

“Um… I heard about Mabel helping kids in trouble.” Hope refused to look at the scissors Juliet retrieved from the kitchen table, or at Chicory, even when he flew right in front of her nose and made funny faces.

“Your hesitation says more than your words do,” Chicory told her. He’d dealt with human children who couldn’t tell the truth if you bribed them with chocolate cake. But they usually came around after a few Pixie pranks. “I’m done tweaking your hair and tripping you, and stealing bits of your breakfast cereal. Time to come clean, kid.”

“The cereal wasn’t that good. You’re welcome to it, little man.” She crossed her arms in front of her.

Juliet snipped the knot of hair out and placed it gently into Hope’s left hand. “That clump of hair is a pretty good metaphor for your life. More tangled than one of Shakespeare’s plots.

That’s from
Much Ado About Nothing
.”

“It wasn’t nothing!” Hope protested. Tears glistened in her eyes as she stared at the mass of dark blonde hair in her hand.

“Something needs to be said, or Juliet is going to throw you out,” Chicory said gently. He touched one of the overflowing tears. “What was so bad at home that life on the street looked better?”

“I wasn’t going to stay on the street.”

“Then what, or whom, were you running toward?” Juliet asked quietly. She sat beside Hope and held her hand, stroking the back of it as if petting a cat.

Nasty image. Chicory banished the idea of a cat ever polluting this friendly household.

“I came looking for my dad. My real dad. My… my mom grew up in this town. I thought if I could find her parents or maybe my real dad, I wouldn’t have to put up with her new husband. Everything was fine with just the two of us. Why’d she have to go and get married anyway?” More tears spilled.

Chicory didn’t know how to stem the flow. His middle ached for this lonely child.

“Sometimes a woman needs a man,” Juliet said, still calm and sympathetic.

“Why didn’t she just have sex then and forget the bastard?”

“Did he hurt you? If he did, we can make him stop. Legally.” Anger touched the edges of Juliet’s voice.

Chicory wanted to do more than just stop a man from hitting a child. He wanted… he wanted to become as violent as a human. Or a Faery.

“No,” Hope said so quietly that Chicory had to strain to hear the word.

“Then what was so bad?” he asked, relieved that he could let his anger fade.

“He… he didn’t want me. He made it quite clear that I didn’t belong in that house anymore. It was my mom’s house. Our house. Not his.”

“We’ll think about that later, Hope. If your mother grew up here, perhaps I know her parents. It is a fairly small town and I know a lot of people.”

“I think they may have moved away.” Hope sniffed. “I couldn’t find them in the phone book. They… they threw my mom out when she got pregnant. Threw her away like she was trash.”

“What is their name? I still might know how to find them. Or Chicory and his tribe might know. They acted as spies for Mabel for many years. They know everything and everyone.”

“Sam and Polly Langford. They used to send Christmas cards to mom’s aunt. She took us in and helped raise me while Mom finished school.”

“Langford. Langford. Why do I know that name?” Juliet asked the air.

“Because I dated Sandy Langford our junior year,” Dick said, coming down the back stairs. He looked in bad shape with his hair standing on end and he still wore his pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. He hadn’t shaved.

Chicory smelled his morning breath—and it was midafternoon, well beyond the time for him to brush his teeth and clean up—from across the room.