Celia and the Fairies Page 8

  “But I told you already, I can’t get it,” Celia said. “Vicky McClutchy keeps it on a chain around her neck. I’ve already thought of everything I can do to get it back, and there’s nothing that will work. I need help.”

  “Find out when she’s not wearing it. That’ll be your chance.”

  “But she always wears it, except when she’s sleeping,” Celia said.

  “That’s when you get it then,” Mira whispered into her ear. “Wait until she’s asleep.”

  “But I can’t do that,” Celia cried out, but Mira was already spiraling away from her. “Wait, come back!”

  As Mira became a speck of light off in the distance, Celia heard a small voice in her head say, “You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure out a way to get it back.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  That evening during dinner there was another knock on the door. Her parents exchanged a worried look. “I’ll get it,” Celia said, putting down her napkin.

  “No, stay here,” said her father, getting up. “I’ll handle this.” At the table everyone was quiet. They heard the door opening and him saying, “What do you want?” in an angry way.

  Celia’s mother got up to see what was happening, and Grammy and Celia followed. On the other side of the screen door, they saw Vicky McClutchy, dressed in a business suit and holding a briefcase. Her earrings looked like large, shiny buttons. “I want to help you,” she was saying to Celia’s father.

  Celia could only see her father’s back, so she couldn’t read his expression, but there was no mistaking the anger in his voice. “You have a lot of nerve coming to my home after what you’ve pulled.” Vicky tried to say something, but he wouldn’t let her. “If you have something to say, contact my attorney. I’m not falling for your tricks ever again. There’s nothing you can say that I want to listen to.” He stopped to catch his breath and turned to Celia’s mother, who looked stricken. His face was flushed, and the tips of his ears were bright red. “I’d like you to leave right now.”

  “All right then, if you don’t want to hear my idea for letting you keep your house, I’ll just leave.” Vicky smirked and turned away. Her high heels made a click-click noise on the walkway as she headed toward her car.

  “I’ve wanted to tell that woman off for years,” Celia’s father said. “But I’ve always been the better person. Well, that day is over.”

  Celia’s mother craned her neck to get a better view of Vicky’s departure. “Maybe we should have listened to what she had to say. We could call her back.” She gave him a pleading look.

  Her father was incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “But she said she could help us keep our house, Jonathan.”

  He harrumphed and shut the door. “I’m sure her plan involves us handing over Celia or selling our souls to the devil. Trust me, it was nothing we’d want to do.”

  And he was right. After dinner, and a lengthy heated argument between her parents, Celia’s mother went into the den to call Vicky McClutchy. She came out shaking her head.

  “So what’s her brilliant plan for saving our house?” her father asked.

  “She says she’ll call off the whole deal if we sell her our company.” Her mother began sobbing, which made Celia cry too. Instinctively, her father went to hug her mother, while Grammy pulled Celia close. The unhappiness in the house was taking over. “What did you tell her?” her father asked tenderly.

  Celia’s mother sniffed. “I told her to just forget it. We aren’t selling. When I think about all our employees—why, they’re like family! How could we do that to them? Unimaginable.” She wiped her eyes. “But then I think about this house that’s been in your family for generations…it’s our home, Jonathan! I can’t imagine not living here. Not hanging Celia’s Christmas stocking on the fireplace mantel in the living room. Not eating together in our cozy kitchen. Not…” Here she broke down crying and pressed her face against his chest.

  Celia had her own list of horrible unimaginables. She couldn’t imagine saying good-bye to the balcony off her bedroom, or not having the staircase landing that allowed for her nighttime excursions. How would she live without the woods behind her house, and what would happen to Mira and the rest of the fairies when the bulldozers came through?

  “Now, now,” Grammy said, interrupting the misery. “Let’s not get too anxious about this. Most of the time people worry for nothing. It will probably all work itself out.”

  Celia’s father said, “I wish you were right, Mom, but this time I think we should be prepared for the worst. Brad says it looks like we’ll have to move.”

  That night, listening from the landing, Celia overheard her father say, “Maybe we should consider selling the company.”

  “Jonathan, how can you say that?!” her mother said.

  “It’s just that my mother and Celia will be crushed if we have to move. Did you see the look on our daughter’s face?” He sighed. “And you know, I was thinking, if we sell Lovejoy World, we can turn around and start a new company. We’ll call it something else, get a new building, and hire back all our employees. What do you say? It could work.”

  Her mother exhaled, loud and weary. “Except Vicky McClutchy would still own the rights to the name ‘Lovejoy World,’ which is our name, and she’d own all the toys and games you’ve created. All your ideas, they’d be hers. Look at The Good Deed Game, for example. Just one of your many inventions, but how many good deeds have come from that one game? We’ve heard from thousands of people who say it inspired them to do good deeds in real life. You did that, Jonathan. You and you alone. All the joy and all the good you’ve brought into the world. Don’t let her take that away.”

  Celia’s father shook his head. “I just don’t know what else to do. I’ve never had a problem I couldn’t solve before. Even Brad thinks it’s hopeless.” Complete silence. If Brad thought it was hopeless, that was it. “I think we’re stuck, Michelle. We’re out of options. We’re going to lose our house.”

  Celia crawled back into bed just before midnight, exhausted. The sun came through her window before she was ready, but she still had to get up. It was a school day, and if she wasn’t standing out front when the bus came, it left without her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Under the silvery light of a full moon, Mira lined up the other fairies for an important briefing. “We all stick together tonight,” she barked. “There’s safety in numbers. You never go off by yourself, unless you want to get eaten by a shadow thing.” For emphasis, she pointed at each one in turn. She didn’t want to tell them she spoke from personal experience. Her encounter with the shadow thing the time she’d been saved by the original Celia was fresh in her mind. Even after all these years, she remembered the rotten-meat stench of the fake coyote’s breath and the feel of his teeth grazing her legs. That thing had exuded wickedness.

  “What are we supposed to do?” asked one of the younger fairies, a pipsqueak named Pim.

  “You aren’t supposed to do anything. This mission belongs to me and Jasmine. The rest of you are just coming along as backup.” Honestly, these new ones were unbelievable. “Jasmine!”

  Jasmine stepped forward. “I’m here.” She had the eager look of someone who didn’t realize how serious this night would be. How well she did her job would affect the entire future of the fairies of the woods, and maybe the rest of the world. It was always risky putting so much responsibility on someone so new. Jasmine had just taken over at that boy Paul’s house. Boyd was such a nincompoop he didn’t even care that he was replaced. Most fairies would have felt great shame, but not Boyd. The higher-ups put him in charge of a house on the other side of the woods where a single, retired man lived. By himself. Completely alone. Most of the time the man watched TV or slept. There wasn’t much Boyd could mess up there.

  “Jasmine, you know your part?” Mira squinted. Jasmine looked particularly bright and shiny tonight. Her wings glimmered, and the moon shone on her hair.

  “Yes, I
know my part. I’m ready.”

  “Okay then,” Mira said. “Everyone stay close and think good thoughts. We’re heading out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Attorney Brad came over after dinner the next evening. The adults pored over paperwork at the kitchen table and discussed what they now were calling “the situation.” Celia lurked nearby but only caught snatches of the conversation. Brad told her parents that reversing the situation was nearly impossible. They could appeal if they wanted to, but he doubted it would help. Their house would eventually be torn down, no matter what. Celia’s parents looked gloomy after he’d left, but they went through the motions of family life as usual, tucking her in and turning on her nightlight before kissing her good night.

  She waited one hour after her parents went to bed, then got up and changed into jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. She opened the balcony doors and tiptoed outside to the railing. Good, a full moon. At least it wasn’t completely dark. “Mira,” she called out softly, “I’m going to get the flute tonight.” The quiet echoed back at her. There was no way to know for sure if Mira had heard her. Returning to her room, she tucked the half flute into her back pocket for luck.

  Celia slowly made her way down the stairs, hugging the wall and avoiding the one creaky step. The house was so quiet she could hear the wind whistling outside. When she reached the kitchen, a ghostly form standing alongside the back door startled her. She jumped, just about to yell, when she recognized her grandmother holding out her sweatshirt jacket. “You’ll need this,” Grammy said softly.

  “Thanks,” Celia said, pulling it over her head.

  Grammy kissed her cheek and opened the back door. “Good luck,” she said, with a smile in her voice. “Be careful.”

  “I will.” Celia took a deep breath and headed out, hesitating on the patio to look back at her grandmother. This was crazy. Even with the moonlight, it was too dark and too late for a girl her age to be out alone. Surely her grandmother would call her back in?

  Instead, Grammy whispered from the doorway, “I’ll keep the door unlocked so you can get back in.”

  Celia nodded and headed down the path toward Paul’s house. The wind whipped around her, whistling with a thin, slippery voice. Go home, it said. Too dangerous. A hard gust made her shudder. Something will get you!

  No. She wasn’t listening. Wouldn’t listen. She kept walking, following the route she’d traveled so frequently she instinctively knew when to step over roots and when to avoid low, muddy spots. She wouldn’t turn back until she had the flute in her hand. A cloud moved over the moon, darkening the path and making her halt, but only for a moment. The wind picked up and said, with a ghostly whisper, Little girls shouldn’t be out at night. What if your parents find out?

  “They won’t find out,” she said aloud.

  But what if they do? You’ll be in BIG trouble.

  She ignored the wind and spoke quietly to herself. “I’m just going to Paul’s to get the flute. Once I have it, I’ll come straight home.” It wasn’t really trespassing. She’d been in Paul’s house so many times, she was practically a member of the family. And taking the flute wasn’t stealing because it really belonged to her grandmother. If anything, she was just righting a wrong, and that was a good thing.

  The wind blew harder, making her hair fly upwards. What if Vicky McClutchy catches you? You’ll be one sorry little girl.

  “Oh go away,” she said. “You’re stupid.” Her heart was pounding now, but she continued, clambering up the small incline that led to Paul’s. When the house came into view, she stopped to catch her breath. The house was a two-story like hers, sided with wooden clapboard. Unlike Celia’s place, none of the outside lights were on. Darkness was good for staying undetected. Not so good for finding your way.

  As Celia walked to the front of the house, she stuck her hands in her pockets and found something smooth and cylindrical. Something that wasn’t there the last time she wore the jacket. A mini-flashlight. She pulled it out and pushed the button, producing a thin shaft of light. She exhaled and said a silent thank-you to her grandmother.

  At the front door she paused and lifted the welcome mat, looking for the house key that was always there. Except it wasn’t. She got down on her hands and knees to look closer, and she ran her hands over the surface, even checking under the nearby flower pot stuffed with plastic geraniums.

  No key. Now what?

  She stood for a moment, out of ideas, and the wind said, Well, that’s it then. Time to go home, little girl. Good effort and all that.

  “No,” she said and walked to the end of the porch to peer into the living room window. The moon was still cloud covered, so she couldn’t see much inside. Celia put the flashlight between her teeth and pushed on the window sash in the hope it was unlocked. No such luck. Stuck tight.

  As she worked at getting the window open, the flashlight spotlighted Clem, the sleepiest dog in the world. Poor goofusy, fast-asleep Clem. He didn’t even stir when someone was trying to break into the house at night.

  An inner voice made her pause. Try the dog door. She lifted her head and listened. In back. Go to the back of the house and go through the doggie door. The suggestion was inside her head and somehow all around her at the same time. It came from Mira.

  Celia used the flashlight to illuminate her path. A chilly breeze followed her steps on the spongy grass. Now she was within sight of the back door with its swinging Clem-sized door. She dropped down, lifted the flap, and looked right into the kitchen. Incredible. Could it really be that easy?

  Behind her the wind tried to discourage her. Go back! You don’t belong here! And then Mira’s voice: Block out that voice. It’s just a cowardly shadow thing. You have the strength to do what needs to be done. I believe in you.

  Celia understood then, and when the shadow thing disguised as the wind spoke up again, she ignored it and with one quick movement scrambled through Clem’s door.

  She let her eyes adjust and used the small flashlight to find her way. It was eerie being inside Paul’s house at night, when she wasn’t supposed to be there. On the way to the staircase, she glanced into the living room and saw Clem still sleeping, his stomach rising and falling in rhythm with his snores.

  Celia clicked off the light and headed stealthily up the stairs. Although her heart pounded in her chest, she managed to stay in control of the situation by reminding herself the whole ordeal would be over in half an hour. Soon enough she’d have possession of the flute, and after that she’d be back in her own bed.

  At the top of the stairs she took a quick look around. The door to Paul’s parents’ room at the end of the hallway was closed. Good. She tiptoed over to Paul’s room, where the door was wide open and a mega-bright nightlight illuminated his sleeping form. And here he had made fun of her fear of the dark. Ha! She watched him for a moment, studying his slow breathing and the way he hugged something that looked like a stuffed animal.

  Working her way down the hall, she came to the guest bedroom, currently occupied by Vicky McClutchy, the woman who had made Celia’s mother cry and her parents fight. The one who wanted to knock down their house. The very same person who would destroy the woods, given the chance. That door was open a crack, thank goodness. Celia just might be able to come and go without Vicky ever knowing she’d been there. Celia didn’t have to turn on the light to know the layout of the room: a bed, a dresser, a nightstand, and not much room in between the three. It was a very small room. The nightstand, which is where Paul said his aunt put the flute at night, was on the far side of the bed, which meant Celia would have to go all the way around to get to it.

  Celia carefully pushed the door with one finger, wincing as it creaked open. She peeked around the doorframe to see Vicky sleeping faceup, her fingers folded together on top of the covers. She was still as a statue until she let out an unladylike snort and mumbled something. Celia froze.

  “Gerber samse reebie,” Vicky said. Celia waited stock-still as Paul’s aunt shif
ted onto her side, away from the door. The next words the sleeping woman uttered came out clearly. “We used to be best friends.” Her voice was so small and sad, she sounded more like a little girl than a grown woman. Vicky sighed and then started snoring loudly.

  Celia crouched down and crawled around the bed, inching closer and closer to the nightstand. The carpeting did a good job muffling the sound of her movements. Slowly, slowly. Just a few more minutes and she’d have the prize within her grasp.

  She baby-crawled to the other side of the bed. Right hand, left knee, left hand, right knee, over and over again, so slowly and silently she might have been a wisp of air crossing the room. On the bed above her Vicky snored, and outside the wind wailed, but Celia wasn’t afraid of either one anymore, because now the nightstand was right in front of her. She was nearly home free. Just a little more.

  Moving cautiously, she slid her hand up the front of the nightstand until her fingertips reached the top. She patted the surface until her hand made contact with the chain. Sweet victory! She pinched the chain between her fingers. Now she had it.

  “Bess frens,” Vicky mumbled and dropped her arm over the side of the bed so that it rested on Celia’s back. “Heel ree sary.” Celia choked back a gasp and kept herself steady. Now what? If she pulled away, the motion would certainly wake Vicky. But if she didn’t move, she could be stuck there all night and discovered in the morning. She kept rigid for a few minutes waiting to see if Vicky would shift positions on her own, but if anything, the woman’s arm got heavier on Celia’s back. Something had to be done and soon, because now Celia’s outstretched arm was tired and her legs were getting numb.

  Celia had just let go of the chain and put her hand down on the floor when she heard a loud thudding noise downstairs. She tilted her head to listen. There it was again, thumping its way across the house, slamming itself against the walls and now scrambling up the stairs. Thud, thud, thud. And then, a mournful, plaintive howl. Clem? The dog had never sounded like this in all the times she’d been to Paul’s. In fact, Clem had rarely been conscious when she was around. He was more of a dog-shaped floor pillow than anything else. Could it really be Clem coming up the stairs?