“I support the book’s message!” Tam shouted at Zanna. “The environment. The polar bears. All of that. But it’s my job to uncover the facts!”
“You know nothing about us,” Zanna snapped. “And you wouldn’t understand or care if you did.”
He saw her dark eyes blazing and realized it wasn’t just anger he was watching. “Fire,” he gasped. He threw his head sideways. “Let me go. The room’s on fire.”
“Gretel!” Lucy cried, getting back to her feet. “Quick, do something!”
Suddenly, Tam noticed that the dragon that had been above his head was on the sideboard. With one breath, she drew in the flames and swallowed them. “What the —? Wh-who are you people?” he stammered.
Zanna pulled back her sleeve. On her forearm, the mark of Oomara was weeping. “You know, for one foolish moment, I let myself believe that you could be something special, like David, when all you were giving me were lies and deceit.”
“I can help you,” he insisted, coughing out pungent, oil-sweet smoke. “If you tell the world the truth, it will only raise your profile even more.”
“Truth?” said Lucy. “What do you mean?”
Tam shook his head. “That he never existed. The author of the book: David Rain. He’s a cipher. It’s all just a front, isn’t it?”
“What?” said Lucy. “‘Course he existed.”
“Then why doesn’t one of you explain to me why I can’t find any records of him beyond his time at Scrubbley College?”
“Shut up,” said Zanna.
“What’s he talking about?” asked Lucy, wild-eyed and frightened.
“This is the mark of Oomara,” said Zanna, holding up her arm for Tam to see. “It’s a symbol of the divide between good and evil. Once marked, you can never truly settle into one state or the other. And now you’re going to know what it feels like to own it.”
“No!” shouted Lucy. “No, you can’t!”
But Zanna had already brought her arm down, to press the mark of Oomara over Tam Farrell’s heart.
He screamed and his body gave a violent convulsion. Even so, he managed to force out a word, one that would trouble Lucy for many days to come. “Parents …,” he spluttered. Then his head struck the pillow. Parents, he mouthed again.
And then he passed out.
18
TEA WITH HENRY
There,” said Mr. Bacon, placing a large encyclopedia down on the table and turning it around for Alexa to see. “Most famous case of fairies ever recorded. 1917. Cottingley Beck, Yorkshire.”
Alexa let out a little gasp. On the open page was a black-and-white photograph of a young girl, a little older than herself, sitting beside a waterfall with fairies dancing around her head. She pointed to them, open-mouthed. Liz said, “Yes, aren’t they lovely?”
“Complete fakes, of course,” Mr. Bacon said.
“Henry?” Liz growled at him under her breath.
He whispered back, “Is it wise, Mrs. P., to let the child believe these things are real?”
“They were real enough for the creator of Sherlock Holmes,” she said, referring to the fact that the world-famous author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the inventor of the greatest detective in the world, had endorsed the photographs at one time.
Henry responded with a painful grimace. “Bizarre,” he muttered, “that one of the greatest minds in the universe believed in sprites and nature spirits. He must have had writers’ block that day.”
“Excuse me,” Liz said, folding her arms (doing a scarily good impression of Lucy). “I live with one of the greatest minds in the universe, who also happens to be called Arthur. You’d be surprised what he believes.”
“Ah, but he’s a physicist,” Henry reasoned. “Rational thinker. Finger on the pulse.”
“He believes in dragons,” Liz said teasingly.
Henry grimaced again. “Another cup of tea?”
“They’re dancing, Aunty,” Alexa said.
“Yes, they look very happy,” said Liz.
“Mmm, well, if you like those,” Henry said, “I suppose you might find some amusement in this.” He disappeared into his kitchen for a moment and came back with a cereal box. On the back of the box was a series of classic fairy drawings, to cut out and keep.
“Oh, how wonderful!” Liz exclaimed. “You are a sweet man sometimes, Henry.” She popped a kiss on his cheek.
“Yes, well …,” he blustered, pointing his chin. “Don’t suppose there’s any harm indulging the girl’s imagination a little. This is how it was done, you know. Cardboard stencils, secured to the earth with a series of hat pins —”
“Stop,” said Liz, holding up a finger. Henry bit his tongue, but he couldn’t help trying another approach. “Of course, the photography should have exposed the nonsense. Fairies like to ‘flit about,’ one imagines.”
“Like Gretel,” said Alexa. “She —”
“Hmm,” said Liz, turning a page and interrupting her quickly. “Look, here’s another picture. I think this fairy is giving the little girl a flower.”
“They like flowers,” said Alexa. “And playing with the bonglers.”
“Bonglers?” said Henry.
“Short for ‘wind chimes,’” Liz explained. “In your next life, try to have some children, Henry.”
He looked at her as if she’d been altered by aliens. “It was all box cameras back then,” he went on. “Slow exposure, onto glass plates. The creatures should have been far more blurred. The slight movement you see in them is probably the cutouts blowing in the wind.”
Liz hummed and said, “I don’t think that’s the answer, my friend.”
“Erm?”
“Nothing. A joke. Go on.”
Henry frowned and wiped the ends of his mustache. “Streaks of light would have been more convincing. Duped an expert all the same. Completely took him in. Hard to imagine how. Mind you, folks believed all sorts then. There was even a theory that the child might have somehow photographed her thoughts — held the desire to see fairies so strongly that she’d projected them onto film.”
Liz raised her head.
“Ludicrous, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Liz said.
“Can we put the fairies by the door?” asked Alexa. She picked up the cereal box and hugged it like a teddy bear.
“Door?” Henry queried, looking at Liz.
“An ornamental one, by our rockery,” said Liz. “That’s where our fairies live, isn’t it, Lexie?”
“Sometimes,” said the child, after a moment’s reflection, though she didn’t offer up any further explanation.
Henry rubbed a handkerchief under his nose. “The Scots believed in fairies, you know. Ballads and poetry full of references. Na Sithein, they called them. Not these diminutive dryads, of course. Theirs were a bunch of Iron Age savages who slaughtered cattle and made off with your wives and daughters.”
“Hen-ry!” Liz bracketed Alexa’s ears.
“Sorry,” he said, coughing. “Erm, thought to be a race of special people, child, who lived in tiny houses made from pine cones and bark, who, erm, built underground portals to fairyland.”
“That’s better,” said Liz.
“What’s portals?” asked Alexa, looking up at her “aunt.”
“A doorway into another world, sweetie.”
“Mmm,” replied the girl, as if this made a great deal of sense.
“Of course, they wouldn’t have lasted long,” sniffed Henry. “Probably all wiped out by the last ice age.”
Hearing this, Alexa swept around and peered out over Henry’s frosted lawn.
Liz immediately turned her back again. “It’s all right, our fairies will be fine,” she said, pulling a will-you-please-think-about-this-before-you-speak face at her neighbor.
“Dead souls, fallen angels, or a mystery race,” he whispered. “Take your mythological pick.”
Before she could, Liz heard a slamming sound next door.
“Mommy’s home,” said Alexa, tossi
ng back her hair.
Liz glanced at the clock. “Too early for Mommy. That must be Lucy, in a mood by the sound of it. Come on, blossom, time to go. Say thank you to Mr. Bacon for finding you the pictures.”
“Thank yew, Mr. Bacon.”
“My pleasure,” he said. Unsure of how to part, he took Alexa’s hand and shook it.
“When our fairies come out, do you want to see them playing?”
Mr. Bacon coughed.
“Of course he would,” said Liz, “but not until the better weather comes, eh?” She patted Henry’s shoulder. “Think of it as a treat. Thanks for everything. You’d have made a delightful grumpy granddad. We’ll update you on the fairies next time. Bye.”
Outside, the air was near to freezing. “Ooh, it’s chilly,” Liz said. “Real polar bear weather.” She stamped her feet, thinking she would make Alexa laugh, but the girl was peering around, looking between the trees.
“Has he come?” she asked.
“Who, darling? Has who come?”
Alexa presented her face to the sky. The wind was shaving snow off the branches, turning the Crescent into a snow dome. “The Nooky,” said the girl. “I keep dreaming him. He’s …” She dropped her shoulders and blew a confused sigh. “I don’t know.”
“It’s the cold,” Liz said. “It’s frozen your brain.” She tickled the top of Alexa’s head.
Alexa hummed, then skipped across the lawn. Suddenly, she turned and said, “Is Gwinnyvere a fairy?”
“Pardon?” said Liz, through chattering teeth. She dug her hands into her armpits and shivered.
“She was a special person, wasn’t she?”
A breath of wind made a strand of Liz’s red hair dance. “Yes, she was. What made you ask? Has Lucy or Mommy been talking about Guinevere?”
Alexa moved her head from side to side. “I dreamed her,” she said, making footprints for fun. “She was flying — like a fairy.” And even through the damp gray winter gloom, her blue eyes shone like clear, bright water.
Liz crouched down and brought the girl’s tiny pink hands together. “Guinevere wasn’t a fairy,” she whispered. “She was a girl, a young woman. She lived a long time ago, with big, big dragons.”
“Like G’lant?”
“I don’t know. Is G’lant a big dragon? Is that how you dream him?”
“Sometimes,” said Alexa. “I saw fairies flying around him.”
Liz responded with a lighthearted smile. But a chasm had opened up in her heart. Fairies. Guinevere. Why should that make a grain of sense, when it couldn’t? “Come on,” she said, recovering, “your hands are very sticky. We need to get those washed before they glue together.”
And in they went — to find Zanna, leaning back against the kitchen counter, drinking coffee.
“Mommy, I saw fairies at Mr. Bacon’s!”
“Were they eating a jelly roll?” Zanna said, frowning at the handprints on her skirt.
“You’re home early,” said Liz. “Is everything OK?”
Zanna took a long, slow, thoughtful drink. “Could be better.”
Liz passed her keys to the ever-present Gwillan and tapped Alexa once on the shoulder. “Run upstairs and wash your hands. That’s a good girl.”
“All right,” Alexa said, and was gone in a flash.
Zanna turned the mug in her hands. An image of A. A. Milne’s grinning Tigger peeked out from between her graceful fingers. “I bought this mug for David, you know.”
“Yes, I remember,” Liz said quietly. She placed a thumb on Zanna’s cheek and found some wetness there. “Is that what this is about?”
At the base of Zanna’s chin, more tears accumulated. “Tam was a journalist, chasing a story. It was David he wanted all along, not me.”
Liz stood back and let out a soft, deep sigh. “How did you find out?”
“His girlfriend came into the shop. She gave the game away in a spat of jealousy. Don’t worry, I’ve dealt with it. He won’t get near us.”
Liz spotted Gretel on the fridge top, listening. “You used magicks?”
“I had to.”
“And he’s …?”
“Breathing, just about. He’ll have a headache and some memory loss. No more than he deserves.”
“Zanna —”
“There’s more.” She looked Liz in the eye. “I had a fight with Lucy. She was there. She saw it all. She tried to protect him. I don’t think it was entirely altruistic.”
Liz dragged a finger down the bridge of her nose. “What do you mean?”
“I think it might have been Lucy who set him on me.”
The air between them stood still for a moment. “Are you sure?”
Zanna shook her head. “Not entirely. But she stormed out screaming silly things about Tam and how I hadn’t heard the last of it. I always thought he knew more than he was letting on, Liz. I’m worried that he might have had inside information.”
Suddenly, the front door slammed and the stairs took their usual afternoon pounding. Liz gave an unsettled nod. “All right, I’ll deal with it.” She put a comforting palm on Zanna’s cheek. “We’ll talk later, okay?” Then she slipped upstairs and found Lucy on her bed. The girl was staring at the ceiling, chewing. “Hard day?”
“She’s here, isn’t she?”
“If you’re talking about Zanna, yes.”
“Thought so. I can smell the witch.”
“That’s enough. This is your sister you’re talking about.”
“Part-sister, actually. Very small part. Has she told you what she did today, my part-sister?”
“Something to do with Tam Farrell, I understand.” Liz stood back, folding her arms.
This was not a good sign and Lucy knew it. “What? What am I supposed to say?”
“You’re looking very pretty.”
Lucy touched her skirt. “Meaning?”
“You’ve got a crush on him, haven’t you?”
“Crush?!” Lucy sat up, staring daggers.
“Oh, it’s all right, Lucy. I do understand. You wouldn’t be the first Pennykettle female to fall in love with an older man.”
“Mom, I only saw him today!”
“Long enough,” Liz said. “Why are you so angry?”
“Because of her!” Lucy flung out a hand. “She cursed him!”
“He was deceiving her.”
“He was —”
“What?” Liz said, keeping her calm. “What was he, Lucy? What was he to you — before you ‘met’ him today?”
“Nothing!” she screamed.
Liz glanced at the computer booting up. “Were you e-mailing him?”
By the lampstand, Gwendolen rattled her scales. Ohhh … why had she gone and done that then? She tightened her claws, knowing she’d been rumbled.
Liz’s eyes turned to violet. “Do I have to ask Gwendolen?”
Lucy sighed and beat her pillow till the bedsprings groaned. “He was going to help us!”
“Help us do what?”
“Find David, of course!”
“Oh, Lucy …” Her mother’s voice began to crack. “Darling, please listen to me. You’ve got to let go of this. David’s gone and he’s not coming back. I know it’s hard, but you must accept it. Isn’t it sufficient to have his memory intact and his books and his dragons and his daughter here around us?”
For a second time the bedsprings groaned as Lucy broke down and sobbed into her blanket. “No!” she cried. “I won’t give up!”
Liz sighed and gradually relaxed her stance. She sat down on the edge of the bed and let her hand glide over her daughter’s shoulder. “If I could take this pain away from you I would, you know I would.”
“You’re not trying,” Lucy wailed. “Nobody’s trying. And she’s just … evil.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“She is. She didn’t have to hex Tam, did she?”
Liz stretched her fingers over her knees. “Zanna only did what I would have done.”
“Put the mark of Oomara on him
?”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, hasn’t she told you that?”
“No,” Liz said. “No, she hasn’t.” She looked away, troubled.
Gwendolen gulped.
“She’s Gwilanna in bangles,” Lucy said bitterly. “She should never have come to this house.”
But Liz wasn’t going to rise to that. After a count of three she said, “I’m going downstairs to make you something to eat. Please don’t start any fights with Zanna. Just be calm until I’ve thought this through.”
She stood up to go. But from the depths of the blankets Lucy said suddenly, “Mom, can I just ask you something?”
“Yes, of course. What?”
“Did you ever meet David’s parents?”
There was a pause. Gwendolen looked at Liz. Silly as it seemed, it occurred to the dragon that if Liz had been able to blow a smoke ring, she would have.
“That’s a strange thing to ask.”
“Yeah, but did you?”
“Well, if I remember correctly, he went home for a couple of weekends but, no, they never came here. Why?”
“It’s just …” But Lucy couldn’t get the words out and she ended up sobbing on her pillow again.
Liz left the room. But a minute later she returned with a sheet of cream-colored paper. “Sit up,” she said. “I want to show you something. Don’t ask me why I kept it. Sentiment, I suppose. I don’t know if this will make things better or worse, but if you want it, you can have it.”
“What is it?” Lucy asked. She sniffed and turned over.
Liz unfolded a letter.
4 Thoushall Road
Blackburn, MA
Mrs. Elizabeth Pennykettle
42 Wayward Crescent
Scrubbley, Massachusetts
Dear Mrs. Pennykettle,
Help! I am desperately in need of somewhere to stay. Next week, I am due to start a Geography course at Scrubbley College and I haven’t been able to find any housing.
I am scrupulously clean, and as tidy as anyone of my age (20) can be. My hobby is reading, which is generally pretty quiet. I get along very well with children, and I love cats.
The Last Dragon Chronicles #4: The Fire Eternal Page 12