Philippa Fisher and the Dream-Maker's Daughter (15 page)

“How am I going to get to you?” I asked, panicked. What if she ran out of air before I got there? I couldn’t lose Daisy — not again!

“I don’t know. Find a way. Make him let you visit Robyn. Then you’ll have to think up some way of sneaking up here.”

“I’ll do it,” I said.

“Look, there’s something else,” she said in a whisper so faint I had to strain to hear her. Her voice was starting to fade as well now. “When he brought me up here, he took me out of the jar for a few moments.”

“Why?”

Daisy paused for ages. I thought maybe I was losing her altogether. The dream had ended. But then she spoke again. “He was measuring my wings.”

“What? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know. But he was muttering something about needing them more than I do. Philippa, I think he wants to cut them off. I think he wants to use them.”

I remembered what I’d seen in the night — the way Daisy’s wings had shimmered in exactly the same way as the dream catcher. And the dream catcher was torn. Did he want to replace it with Daisy’s wings?

“But why?” I said again. It didn’t make sense.

“I don’t know,” Daisy said. “I don’t even want to think about it. All I know is I won’t survive without them — if I ever get out of here alive, that is.”

“Daisy — don’t talk like that! I’m going to find you. You’ll be OK. Do you hear me?”

Her face was fading even more. “I hear you. Just hurry.”

I took a breath. “I’m going to find you,” I said firmly. “After everything you’ve done for me — I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” she said. “Just your friendship.”

“You’ve got that,” I said, a lump jabbing into the words as they formed in my throat. “You’ve got that always.”

Daisy smiled feebly before fading even further. Moments later, she was gone. For a few seconds, I was standing in the glade all on my own. Then something really weird happened. Everything went blurry and faded — the trees, the glade, all of it, faded and disappeared altogether.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in my bed. The window was open, and I could hear the wind outside, blowing through the trees with a soft whistle.

It was morning, and I had a job to do.

“I know you said you were busy doing inventory, but I wondered if there was any chance that maybe I could hang out with Robyn, just for a bit.”

I was standing inside the doorway of the bookshop, talking to Mr. Fairweather in my best, most polite, I’m-very-sorry-and-I’m-actually-a-nice-girl-really voice. It wasn’t that much different from my normal voice, because I
am
actually a nice girl, really. But when you’re faced with someone really scary who shouts at his daughter in public places and has got your best friend trapped in a jar, it’s not all that easy to act natural.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I added nervously. “I didn’t mean to snoop.”

He looked at me from his seat behind the register, his eyes vague and distant, as though he were looking right through me at something a long way away. Then he turned back to the book he had open on the counter. Slotting a bookmark in between the pages, he closed the book. “She’s upstairs,” he said. “I’ll call her. Wait here.”

He went to the back of the shop and opened the door. Without taking his eye off me, he called up the stairs. “Robyn, your friend’s here.”

I heard a muffled voice call back down.

“You can go on up,” he said.

“Thank you!” I scurried past him and ran up the stairs. That was one hurdle out of the way. Now all I had to do was sneak into his office without being noticed, find Daisy, free her from the jar, and get out again in one piece. Simple.

Robyn was at the top of the stairs, waiting for me. “I thought I might not see you again!” she said.

“Why would you think that?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought my dad might have scared you off. Or . . .”

“Or what?”

Robyn looked down and fiddled with the hem of her sweater. “Or maybe you thought I was stupid, because of what I was saying the other day. About fairies and stuff.”

“I didn’t think that was stupid at all!” I said. “I wanted to hear more!”

“Really?” Robyn said as she led me along the narrow hall toward her room. As we walked, I noticed the staircase that led up to Mr. Fairweather’s office. It was dark and narrow with just one door at the top. Closed. I prayed it wouldn’t be locked. Somehow I had to find an excuse to get up there without Robyn — or her dad — knowing anything about it.

We went into Robyn’s room. It was at the front of the apartment with a big sash window. Outside, the sky was white. Virtually bare trees poked over the tops of the shops on the other side of the square, their branches hanging limp and tired, as if drained of all their energy now that they’d lost their leaves, ready to spend the winter resting and waiting to come to life again. To the left, I could see the river that ran along the edge of the village.

“Come and sit down,” Robyn said. Her bed had a pink quilt. The floor was littered with books, and a few clothes were strewn across the carpet. She picked them up and motioned for me to sit on the cushions under the window.

I snuggled into the cushions, and she sat on the edge of her bed. “Can I really tell you what I know?” she asked me. “You won’t make fun of me?”

“Of course I won’t make fun of you!” I said. “I believe it, too.” I wanted to tell her about Daisy, to prove that she could trust me. But it felt too risky. Not now. Not while she was trapped upstairs in a jar, running out of air. I shuddered. No, I couldn’t think about that now. I’d find her. I’d save her. She’d be OK. Everything would be fine; I’d make sure of it.

Robyn’s eyes shone with excitement. “Well, it was a couple of years ago. I didn’t know what it was at the time. I was in the woods with Mom. We used to go for walks together.”

She stopped and swallowed. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s hard to — you know, especially at the moment. With it being so close to the anniversary, she’s been on my mind even more than ever.”

“It’s OK,” I said softly, wishing I could think of something more useful to say.

Robyn took a breath and nodded, as though making a deal with herself. “Anyway. So I saw something in the woods. I thought it was a rare bird at first. I only saw it from a distance. I pointed at it and asked Mom what it was. She’s really good at birds.” Robyn caught herself. “She was, I mean,” she added.

“Go on.”

“Mom said she couldn’t see anything. She said I must have imagined it. And then she said we should take a different route, because the way we were going had a lot of prickers up ahead. She took my hand and walked us off in another direction, talking to me nonstop all the way. It was like she wanted to distract me.”

I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. That was it? A rare bird that she’d seen in the distance?

“But I glanced back over my shoulder while she wasn’t looking,” Robyn went on quickly. “Then I saw that it wasn’t a bird at all. Whatever it was, it came to land in a clearing. It was way bigger than a bird! It had wings, but they sparkled and crackled like fireworks as it landed! It was a fairy, Philippa. I know it was. I saw it with my own eyes!”

“What did your mom say?”

“I grabbed her arm and tried to get her to turn around, but she started running ahead. ‘Race you to the oak tree,’ she said. That was what we always did. It was our favorite tree in the forest. I tried to stop her, call her back, but it was as if she didn’t want to know — or didn’t want me to know. So I let it go.”

“You didn’t mention it again?”

Robyn shook her head. “I could tell the subject was off-limits. That’s how it was with my mom sometimes. If she didn’t want to talk about something, there was nothing you could do. She closed up like a book.”

I thought Robyn was a bit similar in that way. I didn’t say anything, though.

“We’ve got some books in the shop about fairies,” Robyn said. “They’ve got lots of pictures. One of them had a picture that looked just like what I saw. That was when I knew for sure.”

I suddenly had a thought. She’d given me an opportunity. “Why don’t you get the books?” I said. “We could look at them together if you like.”

“Really? You want to?”

“Sure,” I said, hoping I was managing to disguise the quiver in my voice. This would probably be the only chance I’d get, and I couldn’t afford to mess it up.

Robyn jumped up off the bed. “OK, I’ll get them now. Back in a sec.”

“Get them all!” I said, hoping that would mean she’d have to spend some time rummaging around.

She smiled. “Do you want to help me look for them?”

“I don’t know where they are,” I said quickly. “Anyway, it’s so nice snuggled up against your radiator! I’ll wait here. Is that OK?”

“Of course,” she said, heading for the stairs. “I’ll see you in a minute.”

The moment I heard her feet on the stairs, I was up. I waited till I heard the bookshop door close behind her, then I darted across the landing and up the dark staircase.
Please be open, please be open,
I muttered as I approached the door. It was an old-fashioned brass knob. I turned it. Nothing.
Don’t be locked — please!

I tried it the other way. Locked. No! I looked all around me for something that might help. There was a ledge running along the top of the door. Just out of reach. I stood on tiptoe and jumped up, grabbing at the shelf. There was something there — I could feel it.

I jumped up again, trying to grab whatever was there. Just missed it. One more try. I jumped up, swiping my hand across the shelf — and I got it! Something fell to the floor. I reached down and grabbed it. The key!

My hands shook as I slotted the key into the hole and turned it.

I pushed the door, and it opened easily. I was in! My heart was thumping so loud Robyn could probably hear it from downstairs.

Keep calm, keep calm.
I took a deep breath.

The office was dark. A small window might have let in some light except that it was behind the huge desk, which was piled so high with books and papers they blocked half of it. I could hardly see. I didn’t dare put the light on, though. I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself.

There was a cupboard in the corner. That must be it. I crept over to it and carefully pulled at the door, wincing as it squeaked open. More papers, more books. Old folders that looked as though they hadn’t been touched for years. But no jar.