“Pish-posh. I had to see you. Godmother might have demanded any number of things from you today. When Aurora told me you’d gone to the tearoom this morning, I came right away. I wasn’t going to miss a chance to see my granddaughter and great granddaughter!”
“You mean in case Godmother rejected us and ousted us from Devashire, you wanted to be here to see us on our way out.”
Her blue eyes twinkle. “Well, yes.” A guilt-laden look crosses her face. “I believe in you, Sophia, but you know how Godmother can be. Why, when I was about your age, I watched her enchant a satyr to strip off his own skin as a punishment for deserting his regiment. That was during the war, mind you, but still, something like that sticks with you. She can be absolutely ruthless.”
I do know how Godmother can be. I once saw her tear the wings off a pixie who’d stolen from her. He didn’t die, but it was a painful yearlong recovery. That was her shtick—find someone’s weak spot, their vulnerability, and jab a wand into it until they did what she wanted.
“Well, considering you’re not packing your bags, I take it she didn’t oust you.” Grandma’s brows rise over her glasses.
“Arden and I can stay. I just have to do something… difficult.” Grandma is far from frail, but the last thing I want to do is burden her with my problems. She is one of the few people I’d stayed in touch with when I was on the outside. One of the few people I trusted… trust.
Grandma squeals. “Whatever it is, I know you can do it, Sophia. You’re the strongest fairy I know, besides me. And the smartest.”
“Aside from you of course.” We laugh. “Now there’s just Mom and Dad to deal with.”
“Ah, that will work itself out.” Tears fill her eyes, and she rubs my shoulders. “I’m just so relieved you’re home in one piece. When I’d heard you’d been caught…”
I squeeze her again. “I’m here now, Grandma, and I’m okay.” I take a deep breath. Iamokay. Who cares if I have to spend a few days with my teen crush? I’ve handled worse.
“I want to hear all about what’s happened to you. Why don’t you start with why you’re covered in mud?” She takes in my splattered dress, worry flitting across her expression.
“Oh, uh…” I hadn’t even realized that between my slip on the beach, the wind, and the falling tree, I’m splattered with dirt, water, and debris. I’m lucky no humans saw me like this. The last thing I need is another reason to face Godmother. “I visited Glaive Lake. I must have gotten dirty.”
She grins widely. “Were you speaking with that leprechaun boy again? You two always loved the lake.”
“He’s not a boy anymore, Grandma. He’s an asshole.”
“They all are, honey. It’s up to us to whip them into shape.” She pats my hand between her own.
I cluck my tongue. “Grandpa wasn’t an asshole.”
“Sure he was!” she says through a laugh. “You just came along after I molded him into submission.”
We both giggle, and I wonder how I ever survived without this woman’s warmth. “Have you met Arden?”
“Oh yes! Bright young lady. She showed me something on her phone called a TikTok. Do you want to see the dance I learned?” Grandma bends her knees and starts rocking her hips.
“Uh, maybe later, Grandma. I should probably find her. She’s got to be starving. We haven’t eaten anything all morning. Do you know where she is?”
“Your parents are showing her the garden.” Grandma’s voice turns soft and reverent.
I lower my chin. “Not the back garden.”
She nods. “Afraid so. It’s time you all had this out and put it behind you. Best not to let it fester. Better to do it on an empty stomach anyway.”
“I suppose.” I knew this was coming. If I’m going to stay here with Arden—and weneedto stay here—I have to make things right with my parents. In pixie world, there’s only one way to do that. “Tell my story after I’m gone,” I say dramatically, pressing the back of my hand to my forehead.
“Pish-posh. No pixie has ever died planting an emotion. Go, get it over with.”
I kiss her on the cheek and stride toward the rear of the house and the door that leads to the pixie garden beyond. I am ready.
ChapterNine
Nothing is as obnoxious as other people’s luck. — F. Scott Fitzgerald
Apixie garden isn’t simply a collection of plants but a scrapbook of memories. For my kind, it is the holy of holies. No pixie would ever invite a stranger into their garden. It would be like handing over a stack of diaries containing your most guarded secrets or opening a closet wide to expose the skeletons inside. Leprechauns and satyrs don’t have gardens the way pixies do. It’s one of the many ways we’re different and a practice that is poorly understood outside our people.
My parents’ garden waits beyond a mudroom where watering cans and gardening gloves perch on shelves above a massive utility sink and a wall array of gardening tools. I hesitate and take a deep breath, staring at the bright red door that leads to the garden with apprehension. Unlike most similar doors in human homes, this one has no window to see what waits beyond. For us, it would be like putting a window on your bathroom door. But my parents have taken Arden back there for a reason. They want to put the past behind us, and Grandma is right; it will be easier once we do.
