description of a fairy, wouldn’t you?”
“Vicious, yes, but I wouldn’t call us short. I’d call you unnecessarily tall.” She scowled. “I’m hungry. So is Fluffy Ducky.”
“Hippy take another look at this map.” Pierus pointed to an illegible scrawl in one corner. “Do you recognise this?”
Hippy’s stomach growled again. “No.”
A note of impatience entered Pierus’s voice. “You haven’t even looked. I need to know if this map was made by a Freakin Fairy.”
Hippy took a pinch of fairy dust and threw it on the map.
Pierus jumped back and said a bad word. “What did you do that for?”
The paper sparkled. It didn’t crumble.
“Yes, the map was made by a Freakin Fairy.”
“How can you tell?” Poppy reached for the paper.
Pierus caught her wrist. “Don’t touch, unless you want to lose your fingers.”
Hippy shook the dust off the map and put it back in the book, which she closed and thrust at Poppy. “Please can we go and have something to eat now?”
“Sure.” Poppy didn’t sound convinced. Her eyes were glued to the table, where every bit of wood hit by fairy dust crumbled to fine white ash, leaving ragged holes in the surface.
“Fairies,” Pierus said. “Like I said, vicious. And short.”
The sun sank rapidly outside the windows of a dingy cafe. Hippy was in a much better mood, having consumed two of something called a burger and a very big, thick, milky drink, all under Poppy’s bemused gaze. Pierus had eaten very little. Maybe that was why he was always in such a bad mood, Hippy thought. He was permanently hungry. “What now?” she said.
“I suppose if we find the Freakin Fairies, we find the box,” Poppy said.
“There’s not much point in finding the box.” Pierus toyed with a glass.
“What?” Poppy wiped her fingers on a napkin and pushed her plate away from her.
“The box was nothing more than a box. It’s what was in the box that’s important. It’s the Apple of Chaos we need to find.”
“See, I told you my story,” Poppy said. “You still haven’t told me what this Apple of Chaos actually is.”
“All in good time.” Pierus rose to his feet. “Come along now.” He strode out of the cafe.
Hippy and Poppy followed. The evening air was sultry with heat and petrol fumes. Electric lights flickered on up and down the busy road.
Poppy linked her arm with Hippy’s. “How do you keep from knocking his teeth out?”
Hippy was taken aback. “He’s the muse king. I wouldn’t dare.”
“Is there a fairy king?”
Hippy giggled. “No.”
“Why not?”
“If anyone tried to be our king we’d probably put a sack over their head and hang them from the fortifications by their toes. The elders would never stand for it.”
“But you’re scared of this muse king?”
Hippy scoffed. “Scared? Of a muse?”
“You’re scared of knocking his teeth out.”
Hippy frowned. The conversation seemed to be going in a circle, so she changed the subject. “How old is your son?”
“He’s two.” Poppy fished in her pocket and took out a battered photograph of a smiling toddler with sticky-out hair. “That’s him. His name’s Drew.”
“Who looks after him?”
“His dad.” The picture disappeared back into the pocket.
“Your husband?” Hippy understood this much better. Most fairy husbands took turns looking after the children when there was a war on. Everyone knew women got more done on the battlefield.
Poppy chuckled. “God no. I’d never marry a man named Bob Smithers. The very idea.” She stared off into space for a minute. “It was all quite foolish, really. He was a good deal younger than me, so I was rather flattered by the attention. We had a romance, I got pregnant and had the baby, and all of a sudden he seemed to think I was going to clean his house and cook his dinner all the time. Never mind someone rather unpleasant was hounding me for money I’d borrowed and making threats against the child. I left before things
“Vicious, yes, but I wouldn’t call us short. I’d call you unnecessarily tall.” She scowled. “I’m hungry. So is Fluffy Ducky.”
“Hippy take another look at this map.” Pierus pointed to an illegible scrawl in one corner. “Do you recognise this?”
Hippy’s stomach growled again. “No.”
A note of impatience entered Pierus’s voice. “You haven’t even looked. I need to know if this map was made by a Freakin Fairy.”
Hippy took a pinch of fairy dust and threw it on the map.
Pierus jumped back and said a bad word. “What did you do that for?”
The paper sparkled. It didn’t crumble.
“Yes, the map was made by a Freakin Fairy.”
“How can you tell?” Poppy reached for the paper.
Pierus caught her wrist. “Don’t touch, unless you want to lose your fingers.”
Hippy shook the dust off the map and put it back in the book, which she closed and thrust at Poppy. “Please can we go and have something to eat now?”
“Sure.” Poppy didn’t sound convinced. Her eyes were glued to the table, where every bit of wood hit by fairy dust crumbled to fine white ash, leaving ragged holes in the surface.
“Fairies,” Pierus said. “Like I said, vicious. And short.”
The sun sank rapidly outside the windows of a dingy cafe. Hippy was in a much better mood, having consumed two of something called a burger and a very big, thick, milky drink, all under Poppy’s bemused gaze. Pierus had eaten very little. Maybe that was why he was always in such a bad mood, Hippy thought. He was permanently hungry. “What now?” she said.
“I suppose if we find the Freakin Fairies, we find the box,” Poppy said.
“There’s not much point in finding the box.” Pierus toyed with a glass.
“What?” Poppy wiped her fingers on a napkin and pushed her plate away from her.
“The box was nothing more than a box. It’s what was in the box that’s important. It’s the Apple of Chaos we need to find.”
“See, I told you my story,” Poppy said. “You still haven’t told me what this Apple of Chaos actually is.”
“All in good time.” Pierus rose to his feet. “Come along now.” He strode out of the cafe.
Hippy and Poppy followed. The evening air was sultry with heat and petrol fumes. Electric lights flickered on up and down the busy road.
Poppy linked her arm with Hippy’s. “How do you keep from knocking his teeth out?”
Hippy was taken aback. “He’s the muse king. I wouldn’t dare.”
“Is there a fairy king?”
Hippy giggled. “No.”
“Why not?”
“If anyone tried to be our king we’d probably put a sack over their head and hang them from the fortifications by their toes. The elders would never stand for it.”
“But you’re scared of this muse king?”
Hippy scoffed. “Scared? Of a muse?”
“You’re scared of knocking his teeth out.”
Hippy frowned. The conversation seemed to be going in a circle, so she changed the subject. “How old is your son?”
“He’s two.” Poppy fished in her pocket and took out a battered photograph of a smiling toddler with sticky-out hair. “That’s him. His name’s Drew.”
“Who looks after him?”
“His dad.” The picture disappeared back into the pocket.
“Your husband?” Hippy understood this much better. Most fairy husbands took turns looking after the children when there was a war on. Everyone knew women got more done on the battlefield.
Poppy chuckled. “God no. I’d never marry a man named Bob Smithers. The very idea.” She stared off into space for a minute. “It was all quite foolish, really. He was a good deal younger than me, so I was rather flattered by the attention. We had a romance, I got pregnant and had the baby, and all of a sudden he seemed to think I was going to clean his house and cook his dinner all the time. Never mind someone rather unpleasant was hounding me for money I’d borrowed and making threats against the child. I left before things
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