Birdie's Book (11 page)

I must have rolled my eyes, because the queen stopped and looked at me sternly. “I know that this sounds like lessons to you, but consider that anything you do, anything at all, makes you learn and discover. Do not underestimate the power of experience, Birdie Cramer Bright.”

The queen's intensity was a little scary. I took a
deep breath and nodded. It was so strange that I couldn't quite believe it was happening to me. I hoped I was up for whatever was next.

“May I ask a question?” I asked.

“You just did,” said Queen P. “But yes, ask a question.”

“If I become a fairy godmother, what will I do? Do I have to, like, find someone like Cinderella and help her?”

The fairies all broke out in laughter. I could feel my cheeks getting red. Queen P. finally had to ring her bell again to get the fairies to stop. Then she said, “Birdie is not completely wrong. Fairy godmothers
do
help people.” She turned to me. “But the people you will help won't always know what you are doing. You will have a magic in your world that can make a difference, not just to people but also to the world itself. And in your case, your family—those of the Arbor Lineage—has magic that helps the green world the most.”

“Oh,” I said. I didn't really know what to say. I hoped that Mo would be able to help me understand exactly what I was supposed to do back home, assuming I succeeded in this quest. I looked at Kerka; she shrugged at me (which seemed to be her answer to everything).

The queen put a hand on each of our heads for a moment and smiled down at us. Then she took her hands away and waved them at the fairies. “Now let us eat, fairies of Willowood and fairy-godmothers-to-be—the night is just beginning.”

The sun had set when we finished eating the amazing meal. (I wished that I hadn't had all that fruit on the way there!) I had never eaten so much in my life and was feeling a little sleepy. Kerka and I talked to the fairy queen about our families … well, mostly
I
talked, for once.

When the last of the glass plates was cleared, the queen rang the little bell again, and silence fell. From beneath the blossoms of a lone magnolia tree to one side of the fairy ring, a fairy all dressed in spring green approached, holding something bulky—it was
The Book of Dreams
! Rose and lilac petals fell like snow as she headed toward us and handed the book to Queen Patchouli. The book was as yellowed and tattered and mysterious as it had been when it appeared on my mom's old bed.

“Let us begin, shall we?” said Patchouli, laying both hands on the book. “Everyone close your eyes, except Birdie. You too, Kerka.” Patchouli lifted her hands from the front cover, and the book opened by itself, flipping page after page until it stopped. “Here we are. Emma's dream,” she said as she slid the book over to me.

My mother?
I thought in amazement.

“She wrote this many years ago,” said the fairy queen, as if she'd heard my question. “It will begin your understanding of why you are here and what you must do.”

Queen P. rang the glass bell, and as the sound rang out, a shimmering lavender mist gathered over Kerka and the fairies. I smelled lilacs.

I looked down to see my mother's own handwriting on the page of the book, but it was curlier, more artistic, as if she had been experimenting with calligraphy and enjoying the shape of every letter.

“Read, Birdie,” Queen Patchouli said.

And I did.

My heart ached for the girl who was now my mother. I actually understood what she'd been feeling. “What did she decide?” I asked in a whisper. “What did she do?”

The queen shook her head sadly at me and then rang the glass bell. The shimmering mist melted away. The fairies opened their eyes, nodding to each other as if they knew something now.

I looked at Kerka. She was blinking dreamily.

“I saw a page from
The Book of Dreams
in my head,” Kerka said. “A girl named Emma wrote it.”

“That's my mother,” I said.

“Each girl who comes to Aventurine has the opportunity to make a difference here … and in what you call the real world,” said Queen Patchouli as she gently closed the book. “Now, Birdie, you have come on your own quest.”

“What exactly am I supposed to do?” I asked.

“You must find the other half of the Singing Stone, Birdie,” said the fairy queen.

“Okay, I guess I can do that. Do you know where the other half of the stone is?” I asked. “The flowers said that a flying shadow took it. And what does it have to do with my mother?”

“Fairies cannot follow shadows,” said Patchouli.
“All we know is that the stone piece is somewhere in Aventurine. Your mother's dream shows part of why this quest falls to you—it is your quest to find the other half of the stone and reclaim it for your family.”

“And if I find it, what will happen?” I asked.

All the fairies whispered excitedly as Queen Patchouli answered, “Harmony will be restored to a part of Aventurine that has been suffering, and harmony will be restored to your family.”

“And if I
don't
find it?” I asked.

All the fairies went quiet. Then Queen Patchouli said, “Then you will not have fulfilled your destiny or your family's, and it will mean terrible things for a special part of Aventurine. Terrible things for your grandmother's garden, as well. And the bonds of your family will slowly wither away.”

“What?” I cried.

The fairy queen nodded, her eyes grave. “What has begun will be finished.” She shook the glass bell once more.

My eyes closed heavily. Images rushed before me: the rotted spot on the Glimmer Tree, the notes dancing around on Mo's sheet music and floors and walls, my mother's journal entry.

“How did the stone break?” I asked, my eyes
still closed, hoping for a glimpse of the stone's past. I knew exactly
where
in Aventurine it had been broken, from the Agminiums' story, but I didn't know if someone had thrown it, or dropped it, or … ?

“How does not matter,” said the queen. “What matters is that you are the only hope for the healing of the Singing Stone, the gardens, the Glimmer Tree, and your family.”

“I'm
the only hope?” I asked, pulling my velvet cloak tight.

“It is time now for you to sleep and dream,” said the fairy queen. “The dreaming may help you. Or it may not. You do have some power to choose your dream as you add it to the
Book.”

My eyes shot open. Had I been sleeping? I sat up, pushing back light cotton sheets. I was wearing a
spring green nightgown embroidered with daisies. This wasn't mine! I looked at the bed: It was carved with leaves and flowers and the same old woman's face that had been on the wardrobe. She smiled at me and nodded from out of the bed frame.

Clearly, I was still in Aventurine but maybe sleeping or dreaming? The fairies must have put me to bed and made bedroom walls from white curtains that hung from nothing that I could see. Above, the sky was dark as midnight, and the moon had a ring around it.

I was alone.

But something bright was flitting around my head. A firefly. It reminded me of the firefly in Dora's journal entry.

“Hello,” I said. “Is this a dream now?”

The firefly stopped circling and hovered in front of my face. I gently cupped it in my hands. Its wings glistened with silvery flecks, and its little light was a phosphorescent gold.

“How am I supposed to find the other half of the stone?” I whispered. “Why am I the only hope for the Arbor Lineage to heal the green world?”

I looked around my little bedroom. A small table and chair were at the foot of the bed. On the table lay
The Book of Dreams
, the silver lettering on its cover
shimmering in the moonlight.

Suddenly I felt a tingling in the center of my palm, where the firefly was. Then the golden glow from the firefly grew brighter and brighter, until it had thrown a halo around me. I got up from the carved bed and sat at the table, bathed in the firefly's light.

Now I saw that beside the book there was a peacock feather with a pointed tip—a fancy quill pen. Next to the peacock quill was a shell with a silver lid. I took off the lid and saw that the shell was filled with silver ink.

The Book of Dreams
opened all by itself to a blank page.

The fairies had given me a pen and ink, a blank page, and privacy. It was my turn to write. I picked up the feather.

I wondered if Emma had sat in this very spot when she had written in the book. And perhaps Dora and Mo had, too. How far back did my family go? Had all my ancestresses sat here and written their dreams? I tried to flip through the book to check, but the pages wouldn't budge.

I sighed, and dipped the tip of the feather into the shell. I brought the tip out, and the silver ink shimmered in the moonlight. I wrote the date. It was
going to be hard to write something, knowing that someday my own daughter—or granddaughter!—might read it.

I heard the breeze
whoosh-whoosh
ing through the gauze curtains. I heard
whir-whirr
ing in the willows and the firefly
buzz-buzz
ing in front of me. My mind wandered into memory.

I remembered the tree house that Mom and I built when I was little. We hammered planks onto the thick oak tree branches to make a sturdy floor that wouldn't fly off when the Santa Ana winds blew.

“Sorry, tree,” we said every time we hit a nail.

“Is it okay, tree?” we'd ask, for permission.

My mom said that as long as we didn't nail too deep and we only put in the few nails that were needed, the tree would be okay. I was so happy to be in a world of our own, just me and Mom and the big oak tree. I dreaded having to come down out of that tree house to go to school, to go to bed, to go back to regular life. I wanted to stay in that tree with my mom forever.

I found myself writing, images rising unbidden to my mind. And I described them. I didn't mind that I had to dip the pen into the ink a lot. It left beautiful thick lines and slender curves, so my writing looked ancient and important. I put the pen down at
the edge of the book, feeling a little strange. I closed my eyes to think. Where were these images coming from? Was I really dreaming, or was this some fairy magic?

I thought of how it felt as if Mom was deserting me when she first went back to work. Somehow her job had felt wrong to me, like she wasn't being herself. I wouldn't have minded her being away if she had been a gardener or a landscape architect. I had a vague recollection of my parents arguing about my mom's job, but I can't remember who was unhappy. Maybe they both were.

I opened my eyes. The firefly was hovering again. I picked up the feather pen and wrote.

Finally, I signed my name and set down the feather pen. I didn't want to see any more. And I thought I understood now what the dream was saying—I hoped I understood. I looked around for the fairies or the fairy queen. The firefly
whirr
ed around the book.