Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles

by Irene Radford

  Dusty didn’t answer her cell.

  Chase threw his pen across the room, grabbed the keys to his pickup, and headed out. Paperwork would wait. There was always a backlog of paperwork no matter how much he worked on it. Finish one report and three more cropped up.

  Dusty’s emergency, no matter what it was, was more important.

  Twenty-six

  “WILL YOU INTRODUCE ME TO TITANIA and Oberon?” Juliet asked as she rocked to and fro. She fiddled with bits she’d torn from a silk flower and a needle and thread.

  Chicory had to shake his head to break free of the hypnotic rhythm of her rocking and the flick of her needle. He took a sip of cooling tea from the doll-sized cup his new protector had set out for him. Scattered about the front parlor, his tribe nodded and drifted drowsily.

  “Ms. Juliet, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said and stuffed a cookie crumb into his mouth so he wouldn’t have to say anything more.

  “They are real! I knew it. The Bard couldn’t have drawn such wonderful verbal portraits of them if they weren’t.” Juliet stopped rocking, leaning forward to peer at Chicory over the tops of her glasses.

  “‘I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

  Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows

  Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

  With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine:

  There sleeps Titania some time of the night,

  Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;

  And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin

  Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.’”

  “You really should get trifocals, Ms Juliet. That way you wouldn’t have to adjust your glasses constantly.” Chicory tried to change the subject.

  “You’re almost as good at diverting me as Benedict,” Juliet said, returning to her rocking. She took a sip of her own milky tea. Her eyes crossed a little bit in contemplation.

  Chicory stifled a yawn.

  “‘Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber.’ That’s from Julius Caesar,” Juliet said. “No more honey for you in your tea.”

  Chicory shook himself awake. He knew he had obligations to Juliet in return for the freedom of her attic, but stars and storms above, didn’t she realize that Pixies needed their naps? Especially this time of year.

  “Why is it difficult for the king of a Pixie tribe to introduce his patron to the king and queen of Fairies?”

  Chicory took another sip of tea. Some of the sugar and caffeine wiggled into his brain, waking him up. A little. A very little.

  “Because Pixies and Faeries don’t get along. They have their realms. We have ours. As long as we don’t cross borders, everything is fine.”

  “William Shakespeare got it right, though, didn’t he?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Only mostly? What did he do wrong?”

  “Faeries went underhill. They’re cowards, refusing to share the world with unbelieving humans. Pixies stayed above ground and won over enough people to help us thrive. Lovely people like you. Faeries only come out when called, or to manipulate people and Pixies in their never-ending games. They think it’s great fun to make us do dumb and ugly things, hurtful things to each other, like puppets on their magic strings.” Anger at the current Faery king heated his blood and twisted his tummy into livid knots. The old guy, whoever he was, would rather kill and disrupt Pixies throughout the town so he could claim The Ten Acre Wood as home. No way would a Faery bother going to the trouble of finding a new home of his own. No, he had to steal The Ten Acre Wood. He’d build a new hill and destroy all that was sacred about the treasured place.

  “We play tricks on humans, but only so they’ll learn something—even if that is only to not take themselves so seriously. We don’t hurt our friends. And we can only go underground to die. Takes a lot, I mean a whole lot, of magic for either race to survive in the other’s realm.” He shuddered with cold and dread, remembering how Snapdragon had so casually thrown him into Mabel’s basement.

  “Oh, well. Another time, perhaps. For now, here’s a new cap for you.” She held out a frothy blue thing. “See, I’ve worked a bit of gold thread into the top of it because you are a king.”

  Chicory’s heart swelled almost to bursting with pride and gratitude. “Th-thank you, Ms. Juliet,” he whispered around the lump in his throat. He bowed properly.

  She slipped the cap of silk flower petals onto his head. It fit perfectly.

  “May I look in the mirror?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  Joyfully, Chicory rose up and flew straight toward the big mirror stretched over the mantel. He turned this way and that to admire the new cap. “Oh, Ms. Juliet, it is perfect. Just perfect! I’m a proper king now.”

  “Of course you are, dear. The crown does not make a king, but a king makes a crown.”

  “What’s that from?”

  “I don’t know.” Juliet looked up startled. “Did I say something profound on my own? Without quoting the Bard? I didn’t know anyone could do that.”

  Chicory suppressed a giggle.

  “Mom? Are you home?” Dusty called from the kitchen.

  “Do you need to disappear?” Juliet whispered to him.

  “No, ma’am. Dusty knows all about Pixies. She and Thistle are best friends from long ago.”

  The sound of two sets of footsteps crossing the kitchen linoleum floor made both Chicory and Juliet sit up a little straighter. Chicory whistled to his tribe to wake up and get ready to hide.

  Daisy flitted up toward the molding on the high ceiling then down to the double door opening between the parlor and the formal dining room and hung upside down, her dainty feet hooking over the ornate wooden frame that hid sliding doors. She loosed a quiet whee-oo whistle. “Caution.”

  Chicory took up his post on the corner of the coffee table but did not totally relax. His tribe took refuge in the velvet drapes and on the mantel, looking like cute porcelain statuettes.

  “Experts at hiding in plain sight,” Juliet said sotto voce. “No wonder you survived so long.”

  “Mom, I need your help,” Dusty said from the doorway. Her gaze riveted upon Chicory. Then her eyes opened wide and her mouth formed a silent “oh.” “You’re not dead?”

  Chicory barely heard her words. He flipped a jaunty wave as he peered over her shoulder at the scrawny girl who hovered in the dining room, eyes downcast but warily searching the room.

  “Help with what, Desdemona?” Juliet asked. She, too, surveyed the newcomer with curiosity and wariness.

  “Desdemona? How weird is that?” the girl sneered.

  “Mom, Hope here is another stray that Dick picked up and dumped in my lap. She’s cold, tired, and hungry, and I have to get back to work.”

  “Not so fast, Desdemona,” Juliet said, holding up a hand to halt her daughter. “Explain, please.”

  “Sheesh, she doesn’t want me any more than my stepfather.” Hope turned on her heel and headed back the way she came.

  Dusty snaked out a hand and caught her T-shirt. They all heard the fabric tear.

  Hope’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “I didn’t say that.” Juliet rose from her rocking chair, set her cup and saucer on the table, and approached the girl cautiously. “I asked for more explanation. Now who are you and why are you one of Benedict’s strays?” She threw her hands in the air in one of her dramatic poses. She really should have taken up the theater. “When and why Benedict graduated from wounded birds and battle-hardened feral cats to lost girls I’ll never know. But I took in the animals he tamed, fed them, cleaned up after them, and grew to love them. I might even do the same for you. But you need to justify your place in my house first.”

  The girl looked up her. Something like respect flashed in her eyes before she dropped her gaze again and spotted Chicory.

  Gulp. No sense trying to hide now.

  “Dusty, are you here?” Chase came in through the back door—no one seemed to use the f
ront—and across the kitchen to the dining room in direct line of sight with the entire tableau. “M’velle said you had an emergency…” He stopped short, seeing first Hope and then Chicory.

  “Shit, this is a trap. You tricked me!” Hope rounded upon Dusty with accusations on her lips. “You lied to me. I said no police and you said fine. Now he’s here.” She looked as if she’d run right around Chase and out into the cold rain.

  Time to earn his keep. Chicory flew up and over Dusty’s head to settle into a hover directly in front of Hope’s nose. “I’m the only one around here who gets to play tricks. These people may be weird, but they are honest.”

  Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she collapsed at Juliet’s feet.

  Dusty dropped to her knees to check the girl’s neck pulse. A steady beat throbbed against her fingertips.

  Chase crouched beside her. “What is going on here?” he whispered.

  “I wish I knew,” she replied.

  Hope stirred and moaned. Her eyelids fluttered.

  “Take it easy, Hope. I think the warm house after the outside chill, and an empty tummy were just too much for you.”

  “I’ll make some more tea while you sort this all out,” Mom said. “Chicory, perhaps you and your tribe had best come with me. We don’t want to shock the girl any more than you already have.” She casually stepped over the waif and retreated to the kitchen. A flurry of winged creatures followed her.

  Dusty counted eight Pixies, led by Chicory’s blue form.

  “What’s going on here, Dusty?” Chase asked again.

  “I don’t rightly know,” she replied. “From the few things Hope said, I’m guessing that she’s a runaway who’s been living on the street rather than a reject from foster care. Dick found her at Mabel’s.”

  “Mabel’s house. Everything weird starts at Mabel’s house.” He eased his back against the doorjamb, stretching his long legs across the access to the parlor. As he rested his head against the jamb, he scrunched up his eyes in pain.

  “Headache?” She shifted to gently rub his temple.

  “Ah, that feels good.” He leaned into her hand.

  Dusty twisted around to rub both his temples. “What did the doctor say about your wound?” She figured she knew what he’d say. Stubborn male.

  “Didn’t stick around long enough to see him. The elementary school sent seven kids down with similar wounds to mine. Our old pal Snapdragon has expanded the war.”

  “Oh. Then why are you here?”

  “Running away from the headache of the report I have to file in order to get a hearing so I can get my weapons and my badge back. Life was easier before I believed in Pixies.”

  “You lot are crazy, you know,” Hope said quietly.

  “Cheer up. It gets crazier the longer you stay,” Dusty said on a giggle. “While I get the first aid kit, I suggest you check out the book of Shakespeare quotations in the bookshelf beside the fireplace. A lot easier and quicker than reading the complete works. It is wise when dealing with my mother to sprinkle at least some of the better known quotes through any conversation.”

  Two minutes later when she returned with wet washcloths smeared with soap, a bottle of antiseptic with gauze pads, bandages, and aspirin, she found Chase and Hope in mirrored poses, sitting on the floor, backs against the wall, and knees drawn up to their chests, clasped firmly in place with knotted hands.

  She knelt beside Chase and jerked the sagging butterfly bandage away from the seeping wound. She didn’t like the pinkish color of the fluid, but she supposed his body was doing its best to flush out any toxins from the hawthorn sword.

  “I’m taking you back to the clinic,” she announced.

  He cringed away from the sting of the soap. “I’ve got too many things to do.”

  “It will give you an excuse to avoid that horrible report a little longer.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “And I’m staying with you until the doctor either clears you or sends you to the hospital.”

  “What about me?” Hope asked. Her chin sank deeper into the cleft between her knees.

  “Mom may give you a headache, but she’ll feed you, keep you warm, and protect you for a reasonable amount of time.”

  “What about the Pixies? Should I take my hallucinations seriously?”

  “Life will be a lot easier around here if you do,” Chase said. “I didn’t believe either until I had the evidence thrust in my face a few months ago. Which reminds me—has anyone seen Thistle? I figure she’ll have more answers than anyone.”

  “Thistle? Is that the gal Dick was looking for at Mabel’s house?” Hope asked. Her eyes darted from side to side, avoiding making contact with either of them.

  “Yes,” Dusty answered. “I’m not sure what happened between them, but it must be bad if she’s not here or at Mabel’s.”

  “What about the people she helps? She’s never missed a day checking on the old folks,” Chase said.

  “I’ll have Mom call around. But this is looking bad.”

  “Don’t tell me this Thistle person is a Pixie, too,” Hope sighed.

  “Not anymore,” Chicory replied, flitting in from the kitchen. “Juliet says… she says to come and have some peanut butter and crackers. Dinner will be ready in an hour and ‘Who rises from a banquet with the same appetite as when he sat down?’ Or something like that.” He whipped around, ready to return to the kitchen.

  “Chicory, why aren’t you dead?” Chase called after him.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Fellow named Dandelion.”

  “Which Dandelion? There are dozens of them in every tribe. Except mine. I haven’t added any yet.”

  “I’m not sure, but he was following Snapdragon. I diverted him here. Wouldn’t be surprised if he and his brothers are hiding in the back garden right now. But that doesn’t answer my question. Why did he think you were dead?”

  “We-ellll—”

  “Spit it out,” Dusty ordered.

  “Snapdragon threw me into Mabel’s basement, and everyone knows that underground is death to Pixies.”

  “So why aren’t you dead?” Dusty asked, curiosity piqued.

  “I am not hearing this conversation,” Hope said, shaking her head. “I’m outta here.” She rolled to her feet.

  “Only as far as the kitchen, young lady!” Dusty ordered. “But I can guarantee the conversation in the kitchen is weirder.”

  Hope slid down to resume her place on the floor.

  “Talk, Chicory,” Chase said. “You talk a lot most of the time.”

  “Okay, okay, okay. I managed to crawl up the stairs. That got me above the worst of the death fumes. Then I slipped under the kitchen door and slept it off in one of the nesting boxes Mabel keeps around the house.”

  “Did Thistle see you? She’d have helped, you know,” Dusty said.

  Chicory blushed, that is if a blue Pixie could blush. His skin looked darker blue.

  “She and Dick were making out, hot and heavy in the kitchen. I don’t think she cared about me and my doom at that point.”

  “So whatever happened between Thistle and Dick took place today,” Dusty mused. “He left the house whistling at eight this morning,” she went on to explain. She was starting to worry about her best friend.

  “That’s very interesting, Chicory,” Chase interrupted her thoughts. “So how’d you end up here? Inside. Entertaining my future mother-in-law?”

  “It started to rain. I asked for refuge and she gave us the attic. Now, if you don’t mind, you all are wanted in the kitchen, and I need to see if the Dandelions are willing to join my tribe. I’m the new king, see, and it’s my responsibility. And Daisy wants a mating flight.” He flew out, darting up and down in a complicated spiral, sort of skipping with excitement.

  Dusty wanted to rejoice with Chicory about how he’d run away from a bad situation and found a much better one. But all she could think about was how Thistle should be here to rejoice with him.


  Chicory halted at the swinging door to the kitchen—now politely propped open for him—“Oh, and if you can’t find a way to help the waif, there’s a really old tradition that allows us to absorb her into Pixie. Only there are so many of them nowadays that we don’t have enough magic left for all of them. Thistle should know how to do it since she’s changed from one to the other.”

  Twenty-seven

  PHELMA JO SAT IN THE HARD, uncomfortable visitor’s chair in Mabel Gardiner’s hospital room. The old woman had been moved from critical care to a semiprivate room—though the bed closest to the door was unoccupied at the moment. Mabel reclined against the raised head of the bed, her knees propped up by the strange contortions of the mattress and frame. She wore a pretty pink quilted silk bed jacket and someone had combed her lank hair.

  A single pink rose stood upright in a cheap milk glass vase, decorated with pink ribbons. Something about that lopsided rosebud bothered Phelma Jo. The shape was out of sync with everything, neither straight nor curved, just sort of lumpy without reason.

  “We have a new runaway, Mabel. I can’t handle this. I can’t help you anymore.”

  “Tell me about the runaway. Where is she?”

  “How’d you know it was a girl?”

  “Just guessing. Girls give up the street life faster than the boys. It’s only October. The boys will tough it out until the second frost. Usually late November.” Mabel picked at the soft blanket covering her to the waist. Her gaze kept drifting to the rosebud.

  “Is your gossip network still intact?” Phelma Jo asked. She, too, looked at the flower. If she tilted her head just so, and let her eyes cross a bit, the lump could almost be a tiny pink Pixie.

  No. She refused to go there. The day had been too weird already. She needed a heavy dose of normal. Sending runaways and teens who’d fallen through the cracks of the foster care system on the road to safety was normal. Mabel, as head of the network of helpers, was normal. Hospitals were normal.