24

There are legends of humans who have mistakenly ventured into the realm of fairies. They usually don’t end well.

Sometimes the humans are turned into reeds or pansies. Sometimes they are turned into smoke. Most of the time they are simply driven mad and sent back to their village or town to be locked away in a hospital or a sanitarium where men in white coats write down all their gibberish about little flying people and the beautiful music they play. They aren’t true, these stories. Not most of them, anyways. They are whispers, carried by the wind, invented by the fairies themselves to prevent humans from venturing too close. A scare tactic that has worked for centuries.

Of course there are also stories—recent stories—of fairies who have stayed too long in the human world. Those never end well. And unfortunately most of them are true.

Ophelia might have stayed there forever—right in that exact spot by the flattened can—if it weren’t for the loud bark that startled her and caused her to spin.

In the alley, only ten feet away, stood a mangy-looking, golden-haired mutt, who had somehow padded up without Ophelia noticing. She didn’t know much about dogs—they weren’t exactly roaming the wild beneath the Havens, unless you counted the coyotes she sometimes heard braying or the occasional red wolf on the prowl—and the Archives considered them a relatively low threat to fairies in general, on account of the fact that they could neither fly nor climb trees. She knew just enough about dogs to identify the slobbering beast in front of her as one. With its dolorous brown eyes and its tongue hanging limp out of one side of its mouth, the creature didn’t look half as cunning or clever as either a wolf or coyote. But it knew how to talk. And because she was a fairy, Ophelia knew how to listen.

“Hello,” the dog said cheerily. “I think I would like to eat you.”

Oh, really? she thought. Ophelia’s hand dropped to the curved wooden handle of her knife. She took three steps back, careful not to corner herself against the wall. “You try it and I swear I will carve my way right back out of you,” she barked back. Maybe that was a little harsh. Technically all of nature’s creatures were sacred and precious and whatnot, but this mound of matted fur had caught her at an extraordinarily bad time, and she wasn’t messing around.

The mutt’s dripping tongue retreated back into his mouth and he barked a little softer this time. “Okay. I will not eat you. Instead maybe I could chew on you some and then find a nice hole to put you in?” He said it like he was presenting a suitable counteroffer, hoping she might agree. He took a tentative step toward her but froze when she hissed at him.

“I am not kidding, dog. You have no idea the kind of day I’m having. You take one more step and I will totally split you in half.”

Actually, Ophelia wasn’t sure she could if she tried. She wasn’t exactly in sparring shape. But it wasn’t as if she could just fly away either. And she couldn’t outrun him, not in her current condition. Her only choice was to stand her ground.

The dog cocked his head sideways but didn’t come any closer. “You are very strange,” he said, panting now. “You are not a bird. At first I thought you were a bird, but birds do not talk like you; they are squawky, and you are not squawky. Plus, your beak is too short and you don’t have any feathers and you are pink and blue and I have never met a bird that is pink and blue before, so since I don’t know what you are I am hoping to sniff your butt.”

Ophelia choked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, it’s okay. I will let you sniff mine, too,” the dog said encouragingly, looking behind him and wagging his tail to indicate where his was located, in case she didn’t know.

Ophelia’s face contorted in disgust. “No. No. Nobody is sniffing anybody’s butt. If you could please just go away, I have some serious prob—”

“You are small,” the dog interrupted.

Ophelia looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“There is a squirrel I used to chase by Master’s house. She was bigger than you, but very fast. I do not think you would be as fast, but I think I would still like to chase you anyway,” the dog added.

Ophelia put one hand up again in protest—the one not gripping the handle of her knife. “Okay, dog. Listen carefully. You’re not eating me. You’re not sniffing me. And you’re certainly not chasing me. I’m not going anywhere. Not yet. I have to figure out which way—”

“Chase is my favorite game. It works like this. You go and I chase you. It is the best.”

Ophelia slapped her forehead. What an idiot. He was worse than the goose. She didn’t have time for this. She turned back toward the street and the cars passing by, concentrating again, listening for the wish. The dog’s sudden intrusion had snapped her out of her funk, forced her to try to get ahold of herself. She wiped her cheeks with one torn sleeve. The mission wasn’t over. She couldn’t call for backup, and the wish was out of range, but there were still several tocks left in the day. If she could somehow pick up the trail of Kasarah’s voice, locate the white car, maybe find a way to fix up her wing, at least temporarily, then maybe . . .

“Did you get kicked?”

Ophelia turned back to the mutt, who was still staring at her.

“What? No, I didn’t get kicked. What makes you think I got kicked?”

“You said you had a terrible day,” the dog explained.

Ophelia paused to take in this creature a little more closely. She could see some scratches along his ear now, and a swollen spot on his side. A mark on his snout looked like it had healed long ago, but it left a firm reminder.

“Okay. No. I didn’t get kicked,” she said softly. “Just nearly run over. And I’ve got this.” She turned slightly so he could see her busted wing.

“Oh. You are broken,” the dog said.

“Yeah. I guess so. It’s not terrible, but I can’t really fly, I don’t think, so—”

“You are broken. I will lick you.”

“What?” Ophelia panicked as the giant, panting beast came toward her. “No! Wait!” But it was too late. The dog’s meaty, sticky tongue rolled out of its mouth like a fat pink carpet. She didn’t even have time to draw her knife before she was slimed, a trail of saliva running down the front of her suit, which was already soaked in white foam and blue spritzy stuff. “Stop! Cut it out, all right? I don’t need your stinking dog spit all over me!”

The dog scooted back a little, panting, clearly pleased with himself. “Don’t you feel better?” he asked.

“No, I don’t feel better! Now I’m broken and gross! What did you have to eat last? Your breath smells awful!”

“Oh. For breakfast I had thing-on-the-side-of-the-road,” the dog said thoughtfully. “I think it might have been a possum. It was not very good.”

Ophelia fought down the urge to retch. She did her best to wipe the dog spit from her face.

“You do not taste very good either,” the dog admitted.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Ophelia snipped. She felt all-over disgusting now. She needed to get out of this flight suit. It wasn’t doing her any good anyways; she obviously wasn’t heading back home anytime soon. She began to undo the buttons—easier since one of them was broken already—and peeled off the slimy, foamy, dead-thing-on-the-side-of-the-road-smelling outer layer, being especially careful pulling it free from around her broken wing. She let the pink suit crumple into a pile at her feet. For a moment she considered burying it, hiding it, but any human who passed by would surely see only a scrap of dirty fabric. Maybe a bird would make it into nesting material. When she was done she felt a twinge better, like snakes must feel sloughing off an old skin. She touched her hand to the vial nestled above her heart. At least she hadn’t lost that.

The dog was still panting next to her. He obviously didn’t have anywhere pressing to be. “Do you have a name?” he asked. “Or do I just call you broken-thing-that-is-not-a-bird-and-doesn’t-play-chase-and-doesn’t-taste-very-good?”

“My name is Fidgets,” she grunted. “Ophelia Delphinium Fidgets. I’m a fairy.”

“Oh.” He didn’t seem too impressed. He’d probably never met a fairy before. Or even heard of them. “My name is Dog. Stupid Dog. I am a dog.”

Ophelia squinted at him. “That can’t be your name,” she said, even though she’d called him pretty much the same thing only moments ago.

“Oh no, I have lots of names. You can pick the one you like best. You can call me Useless. Or Mangy Mutt. Or Worthless-Son-of-a—”

Ophelia put both hands up. “Okay. All right. I get it. Lots of names. How about I just call you . . .” She stopped to think. She was no Founder. She’d never had to name anything in her life. She looked around the alley and spotted an empty crate that once held something called Samuel Adams Boston Lager. “How about I just call you Sam.”

Sam slapped his tail against the pavement. “Oh. I like that. I like that name very much.”

“I’m glad. Now, listen, Sam, I’d love to stay and talk, but I’m on a very important mission. There’s something I’ve got to try to track down.”

At the word track, Sam’s ears perked. “Oh yes. Oh yes. I can help you,” he said. “Master says that is the only thing I am good at.”

Ophelia didn’t doubt it. Not the only thing part—he was obviously good at annoying people, and licking them when they didn’t want it—but the other part. She’d read somewhere that dogs were excellent trackers with a tremendous sense of smell. But that wouldn’t help her. You can’t sniff out a wish. “Maybe some things. But not this,” she said.

“Is it a cat?”

“No. It’s not a cat,” Ophelia answered.

“Is it a bird?”

“It’s not a bird either.”

“Is it a cat?”

“What? I just told you it wasn’t a cat. It’s a wish, okay?”

“Oh! A wish. I can track a wish,” Sam said emphatically.

“Do you even know what a wish is?” Ophelia asked.

“No. But it sounds delicious. Can you eat it?”

“No, you can’t eat it.” She supposed you could swallow the nickel if you wanted (easier than a quarter at least). Knowing what little she knew of Sam already, she guessed he might try. “Wishes aren’t like other things. They don’t have smells. You can’t eat them or sniff them or lick them. You can only grant them. I lost one. And if I don’t find it soon, there could be serious trouble.”

Sam whimpered. “That’s bad,” he said.

“What’s bad?”

“Being lost,” he answered.

Ophelia forced a smile. She was starting to put his story together now. No tags. No collar. Abused and then abandoned, probably. Or maybe he ran away. If she was a Whisperer she might know what to say. If she was a Mender, maybe, she would take a look at the scratches and bruises and do something to make them better. But she was a Granter. And even if dogs could make wishes—which they can’t—Sam’s wish wouldn’t be hers to grant. What little magic she had wasn’t meant for him.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I’d love to stay and chat,” she lied, “but I really have to go.”

She turned back toward the street, figuring she would head off in the direction she had seen the white car go, hoping to follow the thread of the whisper. It would take forever, walking instead of flying, but along the way she might think of something, a way to fix her wing, perhaps, or a way to travel faster. Until then she could do little more than put one foot in front of the other. There was still time. It wasn’t completely hopeless. She still had the dust. Still had a canister of spray (provided this one worked). Still had her training to rely on. Still had that moist, rotten-smelling breath on the back of her neck . . .

Ophelia whirred around, coming nose to snout with the dog.

“What are you doing?” she growled.

Sam wagged his tail emphatically. “I am following you,” he said. “It is like chase, but less fun because you are not going very fast at all.”

“I know you’re following me. Why are you following me?”

“Because you are broken and lost and I licked you, so now we are friends.”

Ophelia groaned and shook her head. She considered explaining that that’s not how it worked. You don’t just lick people and hope they will like you. In fact, probably just the opposite. “We aren’t friends, Sam. I’m a fairy. You’re a dog. We have absolutely nothing in common.”

That wasn’t true, of course. As soon as it came out of her mouth, she realized it. In fact, this dog and she probably had more in common than she wanted to admit. They were both obviously on their own. They’d both seen better days. They could both stand to eat something, preferably not lying dead on the side of the road. But the last thing she needed was something else to worry about, something else to distract her from her assignment. And this mutt was obviously a distraction.

“I am Sam and you are Ophelia. You are tracking a wish but you are broken. I am a good tracker. I will help you to track your wi . . . uh-oh . . . here it comes.”

The dog dropped to his haunches, his back paw shooting up, desperately trying to reach a spot behind his right ear. As he clawed for it he growled and moaned at the same time, the same word, over and over. “Itchy itchy itchy itchy itchy.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered to herself. “Okay, just bend down,” she said.

To her surprise, Sam followed orders, his belly hitting the ground, his snout so close to her she could feel the warm air from his nostrils on her face. She circled around his muzzle, careful not to get too near the teeth. She’d never been this close to an animal before, unless you counted the kestrels and warblers who often confused fairies for their own kind and tried to get fresh with them back in the Tree Tops. If Sam suddenly decided that Ophelia would make a good snack or a chew toy, he could easily twist his head and have her in his jaws before she could react. But he lay still as she reached up with both hands, planting them in the thick tufts of blond fur behind his ears.

“Oh yes. Scratch scratch scratch itchy itchy scratch . . .” His back leg started to thump.

“I’m getting it, all right?” Ophelia huffed. She dug in with all ten fingers as he begged her for a minute more, then she wiped her hands on the front of her pants, trying to get the dog stink off. “There. I scratched your stupid ear. Now will you leave me alone?”

“Oh, I can’t leave you alone now,” Sam said. “Now you are definitely my friend.”

Oh Havens, what had she done? Ophelia had friends, she wanted to tell him. A bunch of friends. Well, a few of them, at least, waiting for her back at the Haven. She didn’t need another.

“You are my new best friend, and I will help you find your wish,” Sam reiterated.

“Yeah, but see—I don’t want your help,” Ophelia said forcefully. “This is going to be hard enough for me to do without also having to drag you along and stop every time you see something you want to sniff or eat or talk to. I’m moving slow enough already. So this is it, okay? Good-bye.”

Ophelia waved behind her and continued down the alley. She had almost reached the street when suddenly her feet left the pavement.

She was flying. Actually flying. Except her wings were still folded against her back, one of them half in tatters. She felt the tug of her uniform pulled taut in the back, the collar nearly choking her, then something wet in her hair and something fuzzy tickling the back of her neck.

“What are you doing?” she screamed.

“I wem warrying ewe in mwy mouf,” Sam replied through clenched teeth.

“You’re drooling all over me!” She could feel it dripping down her back. “Put me down!”

She dropped suddenly. It was only a few inches, but it took her by surprise and she collapsed to her knees. Sam looked at her with cocoa-colored eyes.

“Of all the wood-headed, dim-witted creatures I could have possibly run into . . .” she started to say, but she stopped herself.

It wasn’t just the hurt look on Sam’s face that gave her pause, though that was part of it. It was something else. An idea. A way to cover ground faster and maybe avoid being seen, or not be seen as much, at least.

It wasn’t a great idea, and she was pretty sure the other fairies back at Grant Tower would frown on it, but hairy times sometimes called for hairy measures.

“All right, Sam. Do you really want to help me?” Ophelia asked.

“Oh yes, I do. I really do.”

Ophelia sighed, still not sure what she was getting into.

“All right, then,” she said. “Lie down. And whatever you do, do not lick me again.”