Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles (5 page)

“I saved you from Phelma Jo putting you in a canning jar with a wolf spider.” They both grinned. “And I saved you from Chase gluing your wings together with dog drool.”

“You were special then and you still are. But I love Pixie. I loved being a Pixie. Yet there is trouble brewing, and I don’t know the beginning or the end. I have commitments to my people.”

“I can’t ask you to make a choice. It has to be your decision.”

“I’ve tried to go back. Truly I have. I’ve tried every bit of magic I know. I’ve stood at the edge of the wood and wished with all my heart. But I can’t break the spell. I even asked Chicory and his brothers to throw Pixie dust on me, and it didn’t work. If I can’t ever go back, then I want to be with you.”

“I can’t take the chance that you’ll just disappear on me one day. You said there are things in Pixie you need to do, that you can only do as a Pixie. You have to commit one way or another. All or nothing. Let me bandage your hand. Then I need to shower and get to work.”

His touch became impersonal and distant, like a medical professional. Like he put on a different personality, a mask she couldn’t peek under to find his true feelings.

“Owwww, owwww, owww!” Chicory screeched.

“Oh, hush. It’s just a scratch. You’re hardly bleeding,” said Mabel Gardiner. She dabbed at his arm with a piece of gauze that stunk of sharp chemicals.

“You’re making it worse,” he sobbed.

“No, I’m not. This is alcohol, and it will kill any germs from dirt and stuff.”

“You’re killing me.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen.”

“Queen? Queen! I’ll have you know I’m not a queen. I’m as manly as any male you can name. Just ask Daisy.”

Mabel rolled her eyes and shook her head hard enough for her tight curls to bob about. Chicory was the only one of her Pixies who knew that she indulged in bizarre rituals
and concoctions to keep her hair tightly curled and white with pink-and-blue highlights, instead of gray and limp.

“I know, Chicory. I know. Drama queen means something else entirely. Now tell me how you got hurt.”

“It’s not important.” Chicory hung his head. When Mabel said nothing, he peeked at her through his lowered lashes.

She sat back in her cushy chair at the police department dispatch desk and folded her arms. “Talk or I’ll feed you to the stray cats behind the jail.”

Chicory clamped his mouth shut on the words he wanted to say.

“You owe me truth, little man.”

“I owe you a manicured garden.”

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“That’s all I
can
say. My arm still hurts. Can you put it in a sling?” He pouted and looked up at her in his best imitation of Peter Pan innocence.

“Only if you’ll talk, and go looking for this child.” She shoved a piece of paper toward him.

“It’s too close. I have to fly to get proper focus and perspective.” The black-and-white nose in the photo was as big as he was.

Mabel held out her palm for him to climb onto, then raised him high enough that the flat photo took on more recognizable lines, shades, and shadows. “Maybe,” he said, twisting his neck to look at the image from all angles, including upside down. “Hard to say. The picture is flat. People aren’t. Pixie eyes don’t translate.”

“This is not good, Chicory.” Mabel shook her head, pushing the picture out of the way and returning Chicory to the desktop. “You lost your hat. I know how important your hat is as a symbol of your magic. You were due two new petals added to the crown for your help with the Masque Ball in August.” She shifted topics but still held the cotton swab too close to the bloody scratch on his arm.

“I loved my hat. And I can’t make a new one until next summer when chicory flowers bloom again.” This time he let his lip tremble.

“So you aren’t talking.”

Chicory blinked rapidly as if fighting tears.

“Okay. I’m bringing in reinforcements.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“You bet your sweet patooty, young man.”

D
USTY PULLED HER WOOL COAT TIGHTER around her as she paced the paths around the Skene County Historical Society Museum. Where were all the Pixies? They should be flitting about, gathering the last bits of pollen, nuts, and berries to tide them over the winter, or absorbing the stray shafts of low sunlight that filtered through the broken clouds.

A bevy of yellow-winged critters flew arrow-straight out of the woods, each holding a hawthorn spike directly in front of them, like spears or swords. They held a tight phalanx formation.

“So that’s what Thistle wouldn’t talk about this morning.” She pushed her glasses higher on her nose to see them better. Dandelions, probably. They could thrive in any weather.

“Hey wait a minute!” she called. “Where are you going?”

The Pixies kept going, not turning their heads to the side or drifting away from the group, so focused they buzzed right by her ear. The last one in line flew close enough to scrape her face with his weapon. She ducked just in time to avoid a nasty wound.

Not normal Pixie behavior. Memory of blood trickling down Thistle’s palm with the plant spike deeply embedded in her hand made her shudder.

“Dandelions,” she muttered in disgust. “Put a thought in their heads and there’s not room for anything else until they finish what they’re doing.”

She turned her attention back to her original chore of
inspecting the preparations for the All Hallows Festival. But not before making a mental note to prod Thistle with the news of a Dandelion army on the march—er—flight. She remembered everything she made notes about.

The children’s haunted maze started here, in the middle of the knot garden—low-growing edible herbs that had all gone dormant for the season. Then the path progressed around the carriage barn for a brief foray into The Ten Acre Wood, and back out again. The intricate bow of black-and-orange plastic ribbon that Thistle had created showed up fine in daylight. What about after dusk with flashlights?

She noted some new cobwebs around the display of broken-down wagons in the long shed. Hideously appropriate for the season.

Hmm, if she brought out her brooms and conservation tools, she could delay having to deal with giving tours of the museum.

“Stop that!” she told herself.

“Stop what?” Chase asked, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her.

She melted into his warmth, letting his strength make her burdens seem more manageable.

“Stop thinking up excuses to hide,” she murmured, turning so that she buried her face in his Kevlar-protected chest. She had to be careful to fit her arms above his utility belt with the array of weapons and tools for enforcing the law.

“That’s my girl.” He bent and brushed his lips across hers gently. “I know it’s hard to break a lifetime of bad habits, but you are doing a marvelous job.” He held her close a moment. “I’ve got time for coffee before I go on patrol if you’ve got some made inside. There’s a missing child report I’d like you to look at.”

“What child?”

“Someone you may or may not know. But you could set some Pixies to looking for her.”

“Then let’s go inside where it’s warm and less damp. I do have coffee. I started a pot the moment I arrived, hoping you’d show up.” She looked up, way up, to engage his gaze. “Chase, can we elope?”

“Huh?” He put a couple of inches between them, looking
her full in the eyes. “I thought you wanted a big wedding so the planning would help get you used to the idea that you aren’t a spinster hiding in your parents’ house or the basement of the museum.”

“Mom came home from Stratford-upon-Avon.”

“Oh. How bad is it?” He grimaced.

She urged him back to the pioneer home that now housed the historical collections of the region. “Bad,” she said.

“I know Juliet Carrick can be an out-of-control bulldozer when she gets an idea in her head.”

“That about describes it.”

“How bad?” He pulled her to a halt, hands on her shoulders.

“I told her that neither you nor Dick would wear tights to the wedding, nor padded tunics and lace ruffs. Dad won’t either. He’s threatening not to come home from University of Nevada. What does he need with another degree? For gosh sakes, he retired from teaching last summer. You’d think he’s collected enough degrees.”

“Have you? You don’t even have to leave home to gather another MA or even a Ph.D with the Internet offering accredited classes.

“Well, now that you mention it… there is a class on archaeology specializing in Native basketry of the Pacific Northwest that could lead to a whole new field of study for me. I already have an idea for a thesis, might even be enough material for a dissertation…”

“Your father told me he wants to turn the old house into a bed and breakfast when you and Dick move out. And a degree in hotel management will make doing that easier,” Chase said, squeezing her shoulders hard enough to bring her attention back to him.

Dusty snorted. “He’s hiding from Mom. Three months together, twenty-four/seven doing nothing but Shakespeare almost pushed him to divorce. He settled for staying away for a while, taking another degree.”

“So what else is wrong?”

“About this missing child…”

“Later. What’s wrong about our wedding and your mother?”

“The gown is white.”

“At least that much is traditional.”

“It’s a beautiful white-on-white brocade with just a hint of gold thread,” she said trying to sound hopeful.

“But…?”

“Full farthingale hoop, corset, and cartwheel lace neck ruff.”

They groaned in unison.

“How much of our honeymoon money do I need to spend to bribe the dressmaker?” he asked as they wiped their shoes off on the front doormat before entering the museum. Dusty exchanged her walking shoes for house slippers. Wearing shoes inside was one habit from her childhood she hadn’t bothered trying to change. Though she did it now to avoid cleaning mud off the floors.

She paused to breathe deeply of the smells of old dust, lemon oil, and beeswax. Just a hint of mold underneath the familiar warmth of her museum.
Hers
. Truly hers now that Joe, her old boss, had taken a teaching job at the community college.

Mold? Time to check the new heat pump to make sure it was handling the moisture of a typical Oregon autumn. The fund-raising Masque Ball last August hadn’t been totally ruined by the fire in The Ten Acre Wood. She’d found matching grant money to replace the ancient and near useless boiler and steam heat.

“I don’t know if Abigail can be bribed,” Dusty replied to his question. “She and Mom have been working together for a long time, costuming various events. It’s more like a calling to them than historical reenactment.”

“Sometimes I wish your mother could be sent back in time to 1600 and really experience how inconvenient, painful, and smelly life in Shakespeare’s theater must have been. You don’t suppose Thistle has that kind of magic? Or maybe some of her Pixie friends?”

Dusty shook her head. Laughter began bubbling inside her like fine champagne. Chase always made her see the lighter side of life.

“Let’s elope,” she said, really hoping he’d agree. Though the heavy silk wedding gown on display in “Bridget’s Bridal
Boutique” window enticed her. The heavenly silk draped like a waterfall, clung and swirled in all the right places. And, expensive though it was, it cost only about half of what Mom’s dressmaker charged. Add the price of that gorgeous brocade and lace, and Bridget’s gown was a downright bargain.

“I get off at three Tuesday afternoon. That’s tomorrow. Soon enough for you?” Chase consulted his calendar embedded in his smart phone. “We can drive to Vancouver, Washington, get a license, waive the three-day waiting period, get married, and be home before anyone notices we aren’t having dinner down at the Old Mill Bar and Grill,” Chase said.

“Yes!” She studied her own whiteboard calendar that took up most of one wall of the enclosed porch. Tuesday stared back at her accusingly as if it deserved five things scheduled like the rest of the days of the month. “Any later and we’d have to wait until after Halloween. I’m scheduled for meetings and activities every day, morning and evening. I can have M’Velle close up for me tomorrow. With her work-study program, she’s spending almost as much time here as I do.”