Young Writers Society

17 THE GOOD MAGIC

When she finished her story, Minerva touched a rosebud and spoke to it.

“Wake up,” she said. “Wake up, little sisters. We must speak with you.”

The rosebud she had touched nodded, though there was no breeze. Then it opened, curling back one petal at a time until it was in full bloom. From its center blossomed a tiny golden figure, first a thin golden face surrounded by flowing tresses, then a long humanoid body, and then twig-like legs. When it had materialized all the way, it stood atop the trellis and blinked up at Minerva with eyes as large and liquid in its tiny face as the eyes of a doe.

“Shall I call my sisters?” it asked.

Its voice sounded like wind rustling in the leaves. It was thin and had no discernible curves, but because of the mention of sisters Christian decided it must be female.

“That would be best,” Minerva said.

The golden figure bowed and drifted down from the trellis and over the other rose plants. All throughout the rose gardens, glowing figures, much like the first but in all different colors, blossomed out of the roses. They floated over and gathered about Christian and Minerva like a host of overlarge fireflies, glowing blue, green, pink, white, orange, gold, and violet.

The first figure returned, landing back on the trellis to speak to Minerva.

“Well?” she said.

“This is Christian Abernathy,” Minerva said. “He comes from the Guardian.”

“You are the one who reads books, aren’t you?” the figure said. “Water Girl has spoken of you.”

“Water Girl?”

“She means me,” Minerva said. “They have trouble remembering our names, so they come up with their own for us. I may have mentioned you to them last night.”

“Oh.” Christian turned pink, but he was pleased she’d thought about him after he had gone.

“Forgive me,” the figure said, bowing. “I’ve forgotten my manners. I am called Aurelia.”

“Christian Abernathy,” the accountant said automatically (though Minerva had already introduced him). “I’m sorry—not that I’m not pleased to meet you—but who are you and your sisters? Are you the Good Magic?”

Aurelia cocked her head at him.

“I believe your kind calls us the Good Magic, but I think that is not so much what we are as what we have. You would do better, perhaps, to call us—I am not sure—what would you call us?”

“Fairies?” Christian suggested. “That’s what Conrad said.”

Aurelia combed her fingers through her long hair, thinking.

“That word, fairies,” she said, “I think it will do. It is a pleasure to meet you, Book Man.”

And because it was the polite thing to do, Christian inclined his head and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you too. But that’s not why I’m here. Conrad—the Guardian, I mean—he sent me to tell you Goblin is coming back.”

There was a sound like a strong wind sighing through the trees, though no wind blew. Christian guessed it was Aurelia’s sisters talking amongst themselves. Aurelia held up a hand to silence them.

“Why does he not come himself?” she asked. “He has always spoken to us directly before.”

“He’s—incapacitated at the moment. He got a bad bite off a hellhound.”

The sound of a strong wind returned, and this time Aurelia did nothing to silence it. Instead her golden brow wrinkled in concern and she said, “Are you caring for him?”

“Me? No. No—no, of course not. I’ve no talent at all for that sort of thing. He’s with the Rovers.”

Aurelia’s face cleared again. “Good. He may live after all, then.”

“I—what? It’s just his leg—”

The fairy did not appear to be listening. Her manner became businesslike as she drifted off the trellis to hover before him.

“Then,” she said, “as he has someone to care for him, we must prepare you for your journey. It would be best for you to leave at dawn, but, of course, if you need time to gather provisions—”

“I—wait—what?” Christian said. “What are you talking about? What journey?”

“Why, to fetch the Rover, of course.”

“The Rover?” Christian repeated. “What gyp—there’s a whole caravan of them back at the Fair, which one—?”

“The Rover,” Aurelia said impatiently. “The Rover king, the one who helped us imprison Goblin.”

“Morrow?”

“Yes. The Rover. He resides in the Otherworld and we need someone to fetch him. He must be alerted the spell has weakened: He will return to fight.”

She might have continued, but Christian waved his hands to stop her and said, “No—no, there must be some mistake. I’m not here to go and—no. No, Conrad only sent me to tell you he’s been attacked and Goblin is coming back. That’s all.”

“He did not send you to go to the Otherworld in his place?” Aurelia asked.

“No—no. Absolutely not.” A pause, and then: “I do think he might have told me if that were the case.”

“But—”

“No,” Christian said again. “No, no ‘but.’ I’ve got a job to get to in the morning, a house to care for—besides, I promised Conrad I’d look after the balloon-cart for him. And I need to be about to make sure his wife’s alright. And it’s all just a—a mistake I’m here at all. I’m only here by accident—because my house was closest when he got hurt, and—no. You’ll just have to find someone else.”

There was another pause, during which Christian’s neck burned with embarrassment. Aurelia and her sisters gazed at him without blinking, as if they thought he was joking and expected him at any moment to change his mind. Well, he wouldn’t. He had only come here tonight to make sure Conrad was alright—and to see Minerva again. He was not going to go off on a quest as if it was a quick jaunt to the countryside.

“No,” he said again, firmly now. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going. There are hundreds of people at the Fair. I’m sure you can get one of them to go.”

The fairies stared at him for a moment longer. Then, without another word, they sank back into the rose bushes and vanished.

“Oh, dear,” Christian said. “Well, that’s that, anyway.”

Minerva bit back a smile.

“They’ll be alright,” she said.

He wanted to ask her if he had made the right choice, if she thought less of him for refusing to go. Then he remembered she hardly knew him, so how was she to know if he had chosen right? He had, he told himself. He had too many responsibilities to dash off on an adventure.

As dawn approached, the circus-folk began to join them in the rose gardens. Some had their tents and wares rolled up and strapped on the backs of ponies or fat donkeys; others pushed their carts in front of them with difficulty as the cartwheels snagged on the cobblestones, or carried their wares in bundles on their backs. The Rovers followed after with draft horses hitched to their vardos, crowding in a half-circle at the back of the crowd. Christian would have liked to see Conrad before he went, but the rose garden was so crowded he could not find Imelda’s wagon.

Well, he thought, at least he had the key now—no more climbing in and out of the park. He said goodbye to Minerva, squeezed through the crowd, and made his way back toward the park gate, eager to get out before the guard returned to open the park for the day.

Christian was so tired by the time he reached the Book House he fell into bed without even removing his glasses. When he did, he felt something in his trouser pocket pressing into his thigh. He clicked on his lamp, reached into his pocket—and pulled out a garden gnome.

He stared at it for a moment, blinking as if he expected it to vanish before him. It must have been one of the squat men from the park, must have crawled into his pocket at some point during the night (though he could not think why), but once he left the park the magic that brought it to life stopped working and it had become a statue again.

He put the garden gnome on his bedside table, turned the lamp off, and rolled back over to sleep until his alarm went off to wake him up for work.