Chapter Eleven
As the long cul-de-sac of oak trees at the base of the hill loomed before her, she was already having second thoughts.
But when she saw Antony and Hamish leaning against Antony’s sturdy zoo buggy, bickering in that easy companionably way of theirs, they looked so reassuringly real, she almost wilted with relief.
All she needed was for them to tell her categorically that there could be no fairy hiding in the Hawthorn.
She propped her bicycle against the broad trunk of an oak and steadied herself as Antony and Hamish pushed themselves off the buggy, a beast of a thing Antony had nicknamed Grace. Hamish looked at her empty hands in dismay.
‘Where’s our waffles?’ They had a single line of bronze eyeshadow across their upper lids, and it twinkled in the midday sun. ‘You said you’d bring waffles!’
Frida might have – possibly – said something of that ilk, but she was so relieved for this semblance of normality that she launched herself at Hamish, wrapping them in her arms.
Hamish, looking bemused over her shoulder at Antony, sighed deeply. ‘I told you that she’d forget, Ant. We should definitely have brought our own waffles.’
Antony chuckled. ‘Fri, what are we doing here?’
She let go of Hamish, and winced. Both their hands were stained a deep sapphire blue, and that could only mean one thing.
They’d been re-planting a rare genus of lepidoris fungi.
Hamish, as inept with plants as Frida, had taken a particularly vivid interest in fairy mushrooms recently, but she suspected this had less to do with the mushrooms and more to do with Antony’s extensive library of mushroom-lore, which Hamish just had to visit Antony’s bedroom to read.
‘I’m sorry, you were busy,’ Frida said guiltily. ‘And I didn’t even bring lunch.’
‘There are more important things than lunch sometimes,’ Antony said sagely.
‘Blasphemer!’ Hamish cried.
Elbowing Hamish in the ribs, Antony looked at Frida with concern.
Her message had been a tad overdramatic, she supposed, full of URGENT CAPITALS.
She glanced at the trail into the wood. It shone Oz-yellow, the trees swishing in the peachy sunshine.
In the branches, a robin sang a cheerful tune.
Everything seemed peaceful, at least. But .
. . was it too peaceful? Everything had felt peaceful last night, too.
And besides, it shouldn’t be peaceful, because it was Saturday afternoon in the summer holidays!
Sure, it was Moira the manticore’s feeding time and a lot of guests were probably watching her roll around in a bloody puddle of sheep’s livers.
But still. There was usually someone who wanted to see the Hawthorn.
The words on the elaborately carved sign nailed beneath the last oak caught her eye.
Welcome and beware. All who enter this wood, prepare to be enchanted. She gulped.
‘I have to tell you something,’ she said, turning back to her friends. ‘And I need you to tell me that it is categorically not possible.’
Hamish quirked an eyebrow, patting Antony on the back. ‘Antony James Ruiz, ride or die cynic at your service.’
Antony glared. But Frida’s attention had just snagged on one of the gnarled oaks. An unfamiliar vine of velvety roses had curled around and around its branches like a snake. ‘Hey,’ she murmured. ‘Have there always been roses growing there?’
Hamish cocked their head. ‘You called us here to talk about gardening–’
Just as Antony said, ‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’
Frida startled. ‘What?’
Antony was suddenly looking at her so strangely, she turned pink.
Quickly, she peered in one of Grace’s wing mirrors, but her eyes looked normal to her.
A bit weird, but they were always a bit weird.
Her mum’s eyes had been brown, but the splashes of blue and copper had come from somewhere else.
Her dad perhaps, but her mum had never talked about him, and she’d never asked, beyond knowing that it had been a one-night stand.
‘They look fine,’ she said nervously.
Antony shook himself. He peered closer at her, then shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess they are. I just – they looked different for a moment.’
‘Anyway,’ Frida said, exchanging a baffled look with Hamish. ‘I . . . um . . . something happened today. It’s a bit weird. And I’m not sure if . . . ’ As she trailed off helplessly, Antony slipped his warm, calloused hand through hers and squeezed.
After her mum had died, it had been Antony’s family she’d gone to stay with.
It was his mum who’d tucked her wordlessly into the spare bed at night, surrounded by the spicy, rich scent of her cooking.
Fried plantain, jerk chicken, sweet potato pudding .
. . without Frida knowing it, the warm spices had seeped into her bones.
She’d spent days, weeks – she didn’t know – watching Premier League football games with his dad.
She hated football, but their sofa was old and soft and scratchy, and it was the only place she’d managed to sleep, lulled by the drone of the commentator and his dad’s occasional shouted curses at the TV.
‘Fri, it’s ok,’ Antony said confidently, dark curls framing his face. ‘Whatever’s happened, you can tell us.’
‘Yeah,’ Hamish echoed. ‘If you’ve released a grootneck into the Extraordinary Café, mistakenly let one of the root lizards drink your coffee, or braided one of the hangferns into a V formation rather than a dreaded W – we’re here for you, babe.’
Frida drew in a shaky breath. ‘Right.’ For the thousandth millionth time, she realised just how much she did not deserve her friends. ‘I spoke to Lucky.’
It wasn’t the best start, but it was all she had.
Antony dropped her hand.
Hamish gave a weak laugh. ‘Ok. Well. That’s new.’
Then it all tumbled out. All of it, in all its ridiculousness.
The fact that she might not have been concussed.
The strange tappity-tap-tap of the Noz. Raz’s rainbow.
Lucky. Oh, Lucky. The mist, the proximity of his fangs, the way she’d stroked his cheeks.
Chirping about his dad, about losing him .
. . finally . . . oh god. The fairy. The maybe real, un-hallucinated, non-extinct Level 8 potentially homicidal fairy.
For an awkward moment, her two friends just stared at her.
‘You’re saying there’s a fairy up there in those woods, right now?’ Hamish slumped against Grace’s bonnet with an audible thump.
Antony dragged his hands down his face as if he was going to short-circuit. ‘Well, you’re in luck, Fri. I can tell you categorically that that is totally not possible.’
She didn’t know why she felt so completely disappointed by this. It was the answer she wanted, after all. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Cool. That’s good then! Mystery solved. Did you say something about waffles, Mish?’
But Hamish didn’t move. ‘What did you think was up with Frida’s eyes, just now?’
Antony startled. ‘I dunno. Just . . . ’ He made an odd face. ‘Like, a bit purple, I guess. But I imagined it. Fri’s eyes are always a bit purple, right?’ He made a little laugh. ‘That’s what your mum used to say. Amethyst. But it was just the light.’
Hamish however launched for Frida, grabbing her face to examine her. ‘Lucky is purple, guys!’
Frida’s heart lurched. ‘Can you see anything?’ she gasped.
But Hamish dropped her face, looking disappointed. ‘Nah, sorry.’
Antony seemed bemused. ‘Come on, a dragon did not change Frida’s eye colour!’ However, he was looking a bit uncertain now.
And Hamish’s eyes had gone round as saucers. ‘We’re in an Extraordinary Zoo. Anything’s possible, Ant.’
As one, they all turned to look at the sleepy wood.
Together, they took a single step backwards.
‘Huh,’ Hamish murmured. ‘Where are all the guests again?’
Frida looked again at the still empty road. There was definitely an odd feeling in the air now, like things were a bit too tight. ‘Can you smell popcorn?’ she whispered to Hamish. ‘And the ocean, Ant?’ She wasn’t sure if she could smell starlight.
Antony suddenly looking stricken. She wondered if he’d just seen a roiling blue sea, streaking across the backs of his eyelids. He cleared his throat. ‘Maybe we should call Cliff. Just in case.’
‘Yeah, good idea,’ Hamish agreed rapidly. ‘Remind us why he isn’t already here, Fri?’
Frida gazed at them both, guilt making her throat close up.
Fuck, was this real? ‘Because I thought he wouldn’t believe me,’ she moaned.
Suddenly, she felt as if she was falling down that very steep abyss again.
It made her feel like her chest was constricting and she couldn’t breathe.
‘I didn’t think you’d believe me!’ Then, she wailed, ‘Am I going to get fired?’
‘That’s not exactly the most important thing right now!’ Hamish exclaimed.
But when she looked at Antony, pity and dread were infused on his face.
‘Look,’ Hamish said quickly. ‘It’s fine.
I’m sure its fine. I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing wrong that a few days in bed won’t fix.
And if we’re wrong, well – maybe this will be a nice fairy.
They didn’t kill you last night, right?’ Hamish perked up, at that.
‘Maybe they’re already bored of the zoo, and they’ve headed down to Melody’s strip for some donuts and a ride on the rollercoaster.
Although,’ they winced. ‘That might be worse, I suppose.’
Antony closed his eyes, and Frida didn’t think she’d ever seen him look quite so unstable, not even when she’d almost lost her ear to a rabid grootneck. ‘But Mish, no fairy has ever been nice,’ he whispered. ‘Not in any history book ever.’
There was a moment of quiet.
‘This isn’t real,’ Antony reaffirmed, opening his eyes. ‘It can’t be.’
Nobody moved.
‘But what if it is?’ Hamish’s Glaswegian drawl trailed off into the supernatural silence. Suddenly, Hamish turned to Frida, inspiration lighting their face. ‘If it is real, you could talk to them! To the fairy!’
Frida gaped at them. She hadn’t even considered that.