Chapter 30 #2
I smiled as I spun slowly, taking in the brownies playing soccer with, well, with another brownie, who was curled into a ball and giggling every time he got kicked.
A few clover-looking pixies flew past, to greet faerie-kin coming off the ferry.
Ha! Talk about a magical welcome to Beane Isle!
The faerie-kin were oohing and ahhing—and texting wildly.
“They’re spreading the word,” Leo said.
“I know,” I told him. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“No, Pan,” he said. “We have no idea what’s going to happen. We let loose a horde of uncontrollable magical creatures. For all we know they’ll turn evil at the full moon.”
“Oh, my Dames, Leo! Will you shut up and stop being such a control freak? You’re ruining everything! You’re always talking about magic, yet here you are faced with reborn extinct creatures and all you want to do is shut them back up into the manuscript. What is wrong with you?”
“They’re not meant to be here, Pan,” he told me. “For all we know, this will turn into a Jurassic Park situation. We never should’ve opened that manuscript.”
“You know what’s a mistake? You and me. If we hadn’t opened that manuscript, I never would’ve gotten my gift. Isn’t that what you always wanted? And now that I’ve got a gift, you don’t like it.”
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“No, Leo,” I told him. “It’s what I’m saying. The problem was never my lack of a gift.”
“I’m not talking about your—”
“The problem was you.”
I’m back, Diary! Talk about a front-seat of history. Hello, future scholars looking for primary sources about the Emergence of Magical Folk in the Twenty-First Century!
Anyway, it’s been a few days. A few strange days, as pixies and brownies and gnomes began to settle in on Beane Isle.
The brownies spent the first day engaged in mischief and idiocy—largely the latter—until Philip realized they settled down if you fed them.
Granted, he realized that after a few of them fell into a food coma while raiding the picnic basket he brought on his treks around the island to commune with boulders.
Still, once you fed brownies, they became nocturnal house servants. They slept in attics and dog beds and unused chimneys during the day, not waking until after midnight. Then they burst into action, doing the dishes and laundry—and creating felted animals from dryer lint.
They had a fondness for stealing whiskey, though. And when tidying up, they occasionally returned items to the wrong place. Still, most faerie-kin were so enchanted that they were happy to overlook finding clean dishes in the toaster oven.
The pixies, on the other hand, have charmed absolutely everyone.
During the day they’d play games with wind chimes, chase the waves around sailboats, and devour lobster with as much gusto as any good faerie-kin.
I started calling them by the name of the flower or plant which made up their dress, and soon everyone was doing the same.
Deja helped identify the rare plants by scent, and people would show up at her shop wanting to know who they were keeping company with.
Deja enjoyed helping—and selling pixie-themed scents. She even started flirting with a guy who lived in Portland but started day-tripping to the island to see the creatures. He was part of an influx of faerie-kin tourists, eager to see these mythical beings who were no longer a myth.
By day four, the Inn was so busy that Mom was turning away customers.
And I, for once, was the star attraction.
Not only because the faerie-kin tourists marveled at my gift, and wondered what other fae magic I might rekindle, but because I have a special connection to the creatures.
Maybe they’d sort of “imprinted” on me, because I was the one who freed them.
I adored the attention, even when I got frantic calls to sort out some brownie nonsense, or to tell gnomes not to build weird constructions in someone’s driveway.
The faerie-kin influx continued and everyone on Beane Isle, including the normals, was thrilled at the increase in business.
Mom set up fancy tents between the Inn and the Carters’ house, which she called glamping but we all referred to as Pixie Camp.
The gnomes built elaborate platforms and lavish outhouses ornamented with strings of dried flowers.
Mom decorated the tents in a bohemian fashion, with lots of paisley and vibrant colors and the embroidered silk fabrics she’d kept in the attic for just such an occasion.
Well, she’d saved them for my wedding, she said. “But I’m putting them to better use now.”
Thanks, Mom.
Meanwhile, Dad palled around with gnomes, who loved designing tiny wind-powered plows and elaborate irrigation systems. He’d even named their leader. He started calling the one with the hat and the longest whiskers “Jera.” Why Jera? Because that’s the name of the rune for harvest.
As for Sheila, she browbeat a few brownies into trading their rags for chef’s whites, and taught them to manage half of her prep work at night.
All was running smoothly, considering that we now lived among fae creatures. In other words, Leo was wrong. He was obviously, undeniably wrong. I only hoped he realized it.
I wouldn’t know. I hadn’t seen him since yelling at him.
I’d marched away with pixies flying around me, refusing to listen to his excuses.
Since then, I’ve been busy troubleshooting problems, greeting visiting faerie-kin, holding court in the Inn each afternoon, and making myself available to everyone.
Everyone, except Leo.