Thistle Down

by Irene Radford

  The scientist in him screamed for order in the semichaos. The chaos and disorder of childhood games and magical imaginings beckoned to him from The Ten Acre Wood at the far end of the museum grounds.

  Strange, he never noticed the heat back when his days were full of imagination.

  He shook his head to clear it. Time to relinquish the treasure of the wood to a new generation of children. Big brothers had been introducing their younger siblings to the wood, and its inhabitants for generations.

  But a guy could grow up too much. His job as a representative of a major pharmaceutical company suited him much more than his original career in medicine. He could be flamboyant and glib and not have to worry about studying.

  “Dusty!” he called, as he breezed into the museum lobby—just a narrow space between two velvet robes that led past the parlor toward the offices at the rear. He was surprised at the emptiness.

  The blonde teenager who worked summers poked her head out of the back room. “Oh, it’s you. Ms. Carrick is in the basement. As usual.” Then she disappeared again.

  Dick heard the dulcet tones of the other girl, the African-American one with her beautiful, thick hair, done up in beaded cornrows, upstairs giving a tour.

  Down, boy, he reminded himself. They’re both jailbait.

  The roar of the air conditioner in the office beckoned him with the promise of coolness. The only concessions to modern conveniences in the museum proper were a few carefully disguised safety lights. In winter, Dusty turned on gas log fires in every hearth and free-standing iron stove.

  He didn’t expect to find Dusty anywhere except the basement at any time of year. When tourists abounded, Dusty hid.

  “Hey, Dusty, you down there?” he asked at the top of the staircase. A shiver of disgust ran the length of his spine at the thought of actually having to touch the filthy railing beside the steep descent. He didn’t dare use his handkerchief to protect his hands. The accumulated grime would ruin the silk.

  Instead, he turned slightly sideways so that his feet fit nicely along the length of each narrow step.

  “What’s up, Dick?” Dusty’s voice drifted upward, as if it came from a long, long way away.

  “You aren’t. Can’t you come up to the light of day for a change? I’m beginning to think you’re a vampire or a werewolf or something equally hideous that can’t stand daylight hours.” He backed up two steps to the landing and the security of the doorway.

  “Oh, all right,” Dusty grumbled.

  Dick retreated another two steps and waited for her.

  “Do you need Dad’s pickup on Saturday? I promised to help the guys at the firehouse haul flowers for the parade,” he said to fill the time she needed to climb. “I can march with the volunteers, but I’ll have to duck the reception afterward and work.”

  “Let me look at the calendar. I might have to help haul tables and chairs from the library for registration and refreshments.”

  “I can do that while I’m bringing tubs of flowers from the nursery.” He spotted his sister on the landing, in her dull green calico pioneer dress and filthy apron.

  The front door banged. It sounded as if someone had shoved it with a good deal of anger behind the thrust. Muted grumbles followed the reverberations.

  “Um, Dusty, sounds as if trouble is brewing up front.”

  “What time is it?” she asked, wiping her hands on her work apron. It had been white once but never would be again; no amount of chlorine bleach would get out the ingrained dirt. She negotiated the steps confidently, without using the railing. But her petite feet fit perfectly on the steps.

  “It’s, uh, eleven o seven.” Dick checked his cell phone. He wore a watch, an expensive one, but never thought to look at it now that he had access to everything on the phone.

  “That will be Chase Norton, then,” Dusty said. She paused, one foot hovering above the next step like she didn’t want to proceed any further, but had to.

  “Is something wrong?” Dick asked. “Can I field the interrogation for you?”

  “Thanks, anyway. But this is something I’ve got to do myself.” She shoved her glasses back up her nose and settled her shoulders, bracing to face conflict as if approaching the guillotine.

  When she reached the doorway, though, her shoulders slumped and she didn’t seem capable of lifting her gaze above the baseboard. The thick lenses of her glasses distorted any possibility of reading her expression.

  Dick threaded her arm through his and flashed her a big smile. The top of her head only reached his shoulder, emphasizing to him just how fragile she was. Chemo at age nine had stunted her growth and left her vulnerable to fatigue at odd moments. She was an inch shorter than their mother. Chemo had also destroyed her appetite. She never ate enough to put some meat on her bones. She looked as frail as a Faery from underhill. Or underground, considering her time in the basement.

  “Okay, Sis, I’m right here to help.”

  She looked up at him with the same look of grateful admiration she’d used when she was eight and a half and he’d rescued her from Phelma Jo kicking dirt in her face after knocking Dusty over in a rough game of tag in the schoolyard.

  The scrapes on her knees and arms had gotten infected and not healed. That was the first sign of the leukemia that had almost killed her.

  He held that look in his mind and let it swell his chest with pride. He took care of his baby sister, protected her when no one else would. His bone marrow, no one else’s, had saved her life.

  Together, they walked through the antique kitchen to the parlor and lobby. Chase Norton stood before the reception desk, bulky in his uniform with a light Kevlar vest beneath his shirt, loaded utility belt and a thigh holster for his Taser. Dick knew the bulk was artificial. Beneath the equipment, Chase Norton was as lean and strong as he’d been when playing college quarterback. A chick magnet. A great companion for picking up girls in bars. Sweat darkened his light Nordic-blond hair to sand.

  The heat . . . or extreme anger?

  Dick was betting on anger.

  Behind Chase stood the most beautiful woman Dick had ever seen, wearing one of Chase’s black T-shirts. Long legs stretched below the hem, giving hints of more lovely curves beneath the thin fabric. From the shape of her ample breasts, and the puckering of her nipples, she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Blue-black hair gleamed against her milky white skin.

  He licked his lips, anxious to get to know this lady. Then she turned and lifted her deep purple eyes to his face. Laughter sparkled just beneath the surface.

  He forgot to breathe. Thistle looked a little different from the last time he’d seen her. But he’d never forgotten those eyes. The eyes of the first girl he’d kissed. The eyes of the woman who haunted, or was that taunted, his dreams every night.

  Thistle studied Dick and Dusty with an eye for the possibilities of a round of mischief. They’d both given her new insight into her purpose in life—spreading confusion and chaos with wild pranks—as they all grew up together. Now her friends looked like they needed a heavy dose of Pixie fun.

  How had they gotten so old? And so solemn? She should have checked back on them more often during their teen years, but there was always a new generation of little ones to introduce to the joys of Pixie.

  Something had to be done about Dick and Dusty. Soon. Chase had probably been a lost cause since he was ten.

  Thistle was just the Pixie to help them out of their funk. Maybe even the angry and pragmatic Chase.

  Those happy thoughts sank to her middle at the sight of Dusty’s frightened form cowering half behind her brother.

  Before Thistle could frame a question or murmur a phrase of comfort, the policeman grabbed her arm and thrust her forward. “Take her. Just get her out of my sight for a long, long time,” he said. “If I never see her again, it will be too soon.”

  So much for tricking him into a better humor.

  “What’s the matter, Chase? Didn’t you enjoy having your siren go on and off fifteen tim
es on the half-mile ride here?” Thistle batted her eyelashes, feigning innocence.

  “I don’t know who you are, or what kind of drugs you’re on, but stay away from me.” He backed up, hands held in front of him. “Bad enough the blasted siren’s on the fritz, the seat belts wouldn’t stay fastened, and the radio only broadcasts static. The minute she got out of the car, everything cleared up fine. I nearly had to cut the seat belt to get out of it, though.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Strange magnetic fields,” Dusty whispered. “Some people are like that.”

  They all heard her.

  Thistle looked back and forth between the men. She expected Dick to have half his senses tuned to his sister. He’d always been overprotective, even before she got sick. But Police Sergeant Chase acted as if every word Dusty uttered fell like pearls of wisdom from a queen to her grateful subjects.

  Stars above, when had that happened? Not good. Not good at all.

  Dusty, of course, spoiled the regal image with a smudge of dust that clashed with the spray of freckles across her nose. That childlike smudge was good.

  “I’ve got to do something about Chase,” Thistle said to herself. “Can’t have my best friend trapped with a humorless bully of a man.” She rubbed the bruise on her wrist from where he’d grabbed her to drag her out of the fountain.

  With that thought, she flounced over to Dusty and put her arm around her shoulders. Yee gads! Thistle now stood half a head taller than Dusty. Last time they’d been together, Thistle fit into Dusty’s hand or atop her computer mouse. But she only rode the mouse when Dusty got tired and Thistle got bored. The computer made interesting noises, and the screen flashed in odd colors when Thistle got too close.

  And as for Dick . . . well, well, well, didn’t he clean up pretty with his sun-streaked brown hair, light tan, and brilliant blue eyes, so much like Dusty’s but more . . . more intense and defined.

  Dusty just looked crumpled and, well, dusty. Sort of like this whole house.

  Oh, I’ve got a lot of work to do, Thistle thought. Since it looked like Alder intended her to stay here for a while, best she get started. And she couldn’t do that with Policeman Chase Norton hanging around.

  “I’ll launder your shirt in Faery tears, Sergeant, and have Dick return it,” Thistle said. “Unless, of course, you want it back now.” She reached for the hem and began tugging the garment over her head, exposing her butt to them all.

  “That’s okay.” Chase blushed all the way from his neck to the tips of his ears. “Call me later, Dick. There’s a preseason Seahawks game on the big screen at Old Mill. Friday night, free Buffalo wings with a pitcher. And Festival in full swing.” He practically ran out the door and down the steps.

  Thistle threw back her head and laughed; the only way she could keep from crying. But the tightness in her chest continued to squeeze her heart and she couldn’t swallow past the lump in her hot throat that burned like Faery fire. She’d lost Pixie. Maybe forever. Now she had to make do with humans!

  The irony of Alder’s punishment wasn’t lost on her.

  Nor the cruelty.

  Three

  CHASE MOPPED THE SWEAT from his brow on his shirtsleeve. He wished he could start work on the cold pitcher of beer right now. He had a lot of explaining to do to the captain.

  He should have kept the naked woman in lockup and processed all the paperwork on about fifteen counts, from drunk and disorderly to public nudity to . . . laughing at him. But lockup, with air-conditioning, had become a shelter from the heat for the elderly, poor, and homeless. Since he had a place to dump Thistle Down, or whatever her real name was, he’d grabbed it.

  The captain could chew his hide. But part of Chase’s promotion to sergeant included the authority to step slightly outside the box when necessary. Today was necessary.

  Besides, dumping Thistle Down on Dusty had given him a chance to talk to her, to elicit more than just a few mumbled words from her. She hadn’t graced him with a complete conversation since . . . since he broke her music box, the pink one with the twirling ballerina inside, fifteen years ago.

  He shook his head. He thought he’d given up trying to attract her attention. Dating his best friend’s sister would complicate his life too much.

  But that Thistle woman. Wow! Gorgeous. If she weren’t so much trouble, he’d love to escort her to the fund-raiser Masque Ball next week.

  One more short-term flirtation in a long list of them.

  Dusty probably wouldn’t even notice that he’d come, alone or with someone.

  One of these days he’d forget Dusty’s pert little turnedup nose and the endearing smudge of dirt on her cheek.

  His gaze drifted toward The Ten Acre Wood, imagining it lit with Faery lights on the night of the Ball. He sighed. Not this year. He planned on skipping the Ball, unless he had to run security. No sense in spending the evening longing to hold Dusty in his arms while they danced when he knew that would never happen.

  “Hey!” he yelled at a couple of kids running around the picnic tables in the museum grounds. “Stop throwing rocks!” The clatter of broken glass from the vicinity of the restrooms followed by a yelp of surprise punctuated his command.

  He took off after the kids as they dispersed into the bushes and down the steps to Main Street. He had ’em cornered. The only way off the stairs was over the cliff and a roll through poison oak.

  Thankfully, they hadn’t disappeared into The Ten Acre Wood. He’d never find them in that tangled overgrowth.

  “What happened, Thistle?” Dusty asked over her shoulder as she fished for a cola in the employee fridge. She wiped the can top with a sanitized wipe and handed the cold drink to her charge. Then she washed her private glass and poured another iced tea for herself.

  Dick had hastened away to his sales calls. He’d left today in a bigger hurry than usual, as if something, or someone, in the museum bothered him.

  Dusty laid blame for that squarely on Thistle’s shoulders—one of which was showing too much skin as the neckline of her oversized T-shirt slipped, and then slipped some more.

  Thistle stared at the pull ring on her cola as if it was a bit of alien technology. All the years Thistle had kept Dusty company during her recovery from leukemia with the chemo and bone marrow transplant, and then homeschooling, Dusty had never had a soft drink to show her how to use the pull ring. Mom hadn’t allowed any junk food in the house, not even organic soft drinks. None of the other kids, including Dick, appreciated snacks of whole wheat crackers and organic goat cheese with home-pressed fruit juice or soy milk to wash it down. Thistle had been her only company.

  Dusty pulled the ring on the can, showing Thistle how to do it.

  Mom would love to dress Thistle up in sixteenth century clothing and teach her the part of Arial in The Tempest. With her light bones and long limbs, she looked the part.

  “Why are you here?” Dusty prodded.

  “Because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go but to you.” She opened those fabulous purple eyes wide in innocence. Feigned?

  “Back up. Why do you need a place to go? You could just go home.” Dusty took a long drink, never taking her eyes off of Thistle. She watched carefully for any tic, or telltale flicker of expression that might give her clues.

  “I can’t go home.” Thistle looked longingly over her shoulder. Where her wings should be. “At least not for a while. Alder will come to his senses in a few days. Then I’ll be away from here as fast as I can fly.”

  “Who’s Alder?”

  “The new king of my tribe.”

  “And what did you do to him to deserve trimming your wings and exiling you?” Dusty turned toward the whiteboard with its lists of reservations and Chamber of Commerce notes of things to promote during tours. And the schedule for setting up and tearing down the parade tomorrow. She had too much to do to babysit a Pixie in exile.

  But Thistle had been her only friend for too many years for Dusty to desert her now.

  “I didn
’t do much. Just a prank. Alder has a short temper and more magic now that he’s king. What are we going to do this afternoon?” She took a sip of her cola and spat it out. Sticky drops sprayed far and wide, clinging to the fridge, the walls, the chairs, the papers on the table. “What kind of poison have you given me?”

  “It’s not poison. It’s a diet cola. People practically live on them.”

  “There is nothing natural or clean or even interesting in it.” She held the can up, reading the ingredients. Dusty had taught her to read during those long hours of lonely homeschooling.

  A clatter of bright voices interrupted Dusty’s thoughts. “Suzie!” she cried in delight. “Sharon!”

  Dusty dashed to the entry hall and knelt to give big hugs to her two favorite children in the world.

  “Auntie Dusty, we got lollipops.” Three-year-old Suzie held up a sticky red blob on top of a paper stick. It listed sideways at an alarming angle.

  Dusty grabbed a tissue from her apron pocket and held it under the candy just as it decided to plop off the stick.

  “I didn’t get to finish it,” Suzie wailed. A fat tear appeared at the corner of her eye.

  “It’s too hot for lollies, my girl. How about a nice cold drink instead,” Dusty offered, using a second tissue to mop up tears before they grew too plentiful. “I’ve got lemonade in the fridge. Homemade, just for you.”

  “Daddy promised us ice cream after dinner,” six-year-old Sharon confided. Her lollipop disappeared into her mouth before it collapsed. “Will you cook dinner for us, Auntie Dusty. You cook better than Daddy.”

  “And where is your daddy?” Dusty asked, searching the walkway through the open door.

  “Parking the car,” Sharon replied, obviously bored with adult chores.

  “Well, come on back to the lounge. I’ve got someone I want you to meet.” That ought to fix the problem of babysitting Thistle. Suzie and Sharon could entertain her while Dusty talked to their father, Joe Newberry: her boss, her mentor, and a good friend.