That was my sister Heather.
And “No!” frowned Mr. Parry, quite rotund in his answer. “Everything here is ...” He didn’t finish the sentence because his eyes had fallen on Alpin’s expectant face, and that gave him pause, but I know he was about to say totally free for you, because it is common knowledge he never gets down to charging anyone for anything and is a multimillionaire in to be paid some day fairy favors. And then his face brightened and with his best smile he asked Heather, “What can I do for you, dearie?”
It’s impossible for nice people not to be delighted with Heather, delicate as white heather, with very pretty curls that remind you of pink heather. And she is always disposed to do or say the right thing and be kind to everyone.
“It’s for my brother. He’s waiting outside because he is sensitive to the aroma of the herbs and didn’t want to cough or sneeze during the singing.”
Yes, I was outside with my parents and another of my sisters, Thistle.
We were there because I have something I haven’t told you about yet. It’s something I’m not supposed to talk about. As if by not mentioning it, it will become bored of going unnoticed and disappear. But I don’t see how I can get on with my stories without revealing my unmentionable secret. Anyway, I don’t think it will matter if I do. It is a secret only because everybody wants it to be. Nobody wants to hear about it. This something is an allergy. An allergy unheard of in a fairy person. But quite common among mortals. An allergy to pollen.
This is a terrible thing for a fairy to have because our lives are so linked to plants. We think it is a sign that things are not going the way they should. A sign of changing times. Of changes for the worse.
“No, you do not have an allergy!” my mother denied this firmly. “You have a bad cold we can do nothing with. Say you can be of help, Henny.”
Henbeddestyr was probably not sure what to make of the symptons I told him I suffered from. So, to gain time, he recited a triad that flattered my mother.
“Three things a queen must have: bedazzling beauty, magnificence of mind and mistressful majesty. You have all three even in excess, my Queen.”
And with a deep bow he assured her he was hers to command.
“He sleeps in a car,” said my father, who believes in calling a spade a spade even when you are trying to deny they exist. “Yes, I do have to say that, Titania. The car is probably where he caught the...the virus or whatever. If we don’t speak clear,” he said,“Hens won’t be able to help us, dear.”
My father was revealing another of the skeletons in our family closet. It is my mum’s policy to give every fairy child a home of his or her own when they reach the age of seven. These are lovely houses made of brick or granite stone, designed to catch the fancy of the owner they were built for. The catch is that they all are in Apple Island, a place practically inaccesible to mortals because only fairies know how to get there and they don’t tell.
I have my own house. But there are reasons I can’t live there. There, all we do is play or sleep. Everything is so beautiful and so perfect you can almost forget other, uglier worlds exist. But I can’t forget. So I don’t feel safe there. Especially at night. I have horrible nightmares about the humans invading us and destroying our happiness. My nightmares are so bad I decided to face my fears and I left my ideal home to go live among the humans. I wanted to learn more about them so I could know how to deal with them.
“Arley, are you badly ill?” asked Alpin. “Of course, I have noticed you sniff a lot, and sneeze and cough too, but how bad is it? Are you going to die?” And then he asked the question everyone feared to hear, “If you can die, can we all die too?”
“I have no idea if I am going to die. I only know I am sometimes allergic to the mould on rotting leaves and other times to pollen in the spring. It’s not really the plants that are hurting me. I suspect it’s their reaction to the pollution created by humans.This began when I went to live among them.”
“Why do you sleep in a car?” asked Henbeddestyr.
“I can’t pay rent with fairy money. It would give me away. A nice lady who lives all by herself likes fairies and lets me sleep in a white Rolls Royce in her garage. It’s not hers. Her late husband used to drive it for its rich owner, who lived in another country and only used the car when visiting. He stayed at an hotel and would phone for the car to fetch him there and take him places. One day this person stopped phoning. No one claimed the car. And there it still is, in the nice lady’s garage.”
“Does it have dust and spiderwebs and other kinds of filth like crumbs and chicken bones and spots on the tapestry from squished caviar and dry mud on the floor from spilled champagne?” asked Alpin, feeling very professional asking such a significant question.
“No! That’s just the problem. It’s squeaky clean. The lady cleans it daily with a cartful of cleaning products.”
“Sleep on a bench in the park!” prescribed Alpin. “Just like any other hobo.”
“Thank you, merciful Fates! You’re in one piece! Henny! I came rushing as soon as I heard you mutter car. ”
An elderly lady with puffed white hair that reminded you of Marie Antoinette and eyes as blue as Henbeddestyr’s burst breathlessly into the shop and paused to lean for support against the door she had crashed through, clasping her hands dramatically to her quivering breast, as if trying to keep her pounding heart from leaping out of it.
This was Mrs. Aureabel Parry, Henbeddestyr’s peculiar mother.
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