I give him my own fake cheery smile. “I know. Don’t worry. It will be just fine.”
And it’s right then that I decide I will make it fine for him. It’s the least I can do for someone who has done so much for me, for someone who is helping me get to Nick.
We stand there another moment. I am so antsy and impatient that I just give up waiting and offer, “Do you want me to ring the bell?”
He half gasps, as if realizing he hasn’t even rung it, and then he shakes his head, smiling softly. For a moment he looks truly human, regular, like any other guy around seventeen or eighteen years old.
“I shall do it,” he says quietly. “I think I am capable of at least that.”
He reaches out but hesitates. His face is one big plea for help, and so I just do it, pressing the gold bell button embedded in the exterior wall. A short older man opens the door. He wears a suit coat and a pressed white shirt, and he carries himself with this absolute rigid confidence. He reminds me of someone from an old black-and-white movie about aristocracy, the kind that Betty watches every Saturday night when she’s not on shift. Behind the man is an expensively furnished foyer with off-white walls and elaborate gold-frame mirrors that look like they weigh a ton, a dark green velvet sitting couch, and a staircase that winds up to the next floor. Doors lead to other rooms on both sides. The man watches us both. No expression crosses his face. I can’t even feel any emotion coming from him at all, which is a first since I’ve turned pixie.
“Master Astley, we’ve been expecting you.” His accent is British and formal. “This way.”
I raise an eyebrow and hope it makes me look all bad girl.
“My mother’s butler, Bentley,” Astley whispers.
I lower my eyebrow. The house is warm and somewhat stuffy. Dove soap smells fill the air along with roses and lilacs. There’s the distant sound of someone walking on the floor above us. Water drips from Astley’s umbrella and softly plops on a plush white area carpet, which is partially covering the deep-colored wood floor.
The butler’s right ear twitches and he says suddenly, “Oh, sir. I am terribly sorry. Let me take your umbrella.”
Before Astley can respond, the Bentley man grabs the umbrella and looks at it as if it is a rat carrying the plague. He thrusts it out and away from him and deposits it in an umbrella stand near the front door. Once he’s done with the offending umbrella, he gestures toward a doorway. “After you.”
I follow Astley and it is instantly pretty obvious that this is the kind of home where nothing is allowed to be out of place. There will be no dirty spaghetti pots or colanders left in the sink. There will be no crumpled-up tissues hiding beneath the sofa. I wonder if they even have a television or a computer. Somehow it doesn’t seem they would.
“Did you live here when you were growing up?” I ask Astley.
“Here and other similar places,” he answers.
“It’s lovely,” I say, trying to be polite as I imagine other similar town houses in other cities. Maybe a condo in a ski resort, a home in the hills, an estate in England. There are so many things I don’t know about Astley or about how pixies work and live. I mean, are all pixies wealthy? Or is it just the kings? Do I automatically get some sort of queenly allowance now? Not that it matters.
Astley leads us into a big parlor with one large window. The walls are the same off-white and the fireplace mantel has been painted to match. Afghan rugs rich with color cover the hardwood floor. Couches and chairs face each other. I stand there as primly as possible with my injury. I feel bad for getting the floor wet and hope that Astley’s mother won’t hold it against me and not help us find Nick.
“Your mother will be down shortly. Shall I get you anything to take off the chill? Tea? Brandy?” Bentley offers, still standing up as Astley and I settle into a plush velvet couch. My feet can’t quite touch the ground when I sit all the way back, so I scoot up and perch on the edge. I won’t get the couch as wet that way anyway, right?
“No, thank you,” Astley answers for both of us. He’s probably noticed my horrified face over the whole brandy offer. I wonder if pixies can get drunk. I should ask that sometime, maybe when things mellow out… if things ever mellow out.
“As you wish,” Bentley says, and does this quiet, gentlemanly bow, bending stiffly from his waist.
I try to imagine Astley growing up here. I bet he had a nanny and a tutor. I bet he wasn’t allowed to slide down that big mahogany banister or spill his milk (or should I say brandy?) or leave his wet towels in a pile on the bedroom floor.
“Was it hard?” I ask him as Bentley leaves the room.
“Was what hard?” His eyes are distracted.
“Growing up here? Wait. Do you live here now?” I ask. “You know… when you aren’t trying to stop a rogue pixie king in Bedford, Maine.”
He shudders. “No, I have my own home.”
Wow. His own home? That’s crazy. Then I remember that I’m actually his queen, which is even weirder. He doesn’t answer my original question, which probably means that it was terribly difficult to grow up here. Sympathy fills me. We sit there in a companionable sort of silence.
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
I nod.
“She promised to help,” he says, taking my hand. “We shall find your wolf, Zara.”
Once again, I wonder why he cares so much, but I don’t have time to ask, because there is motion on the stairs and the distinct smell of roses. I look up just as a small blond woman flutters into the room. I check for feet because it seems as if she is gliding instead of walking. Feet are definitely there. They are ensconced in glittery silver designer heels.
As she enters, Astley instantly lets go of my hand and leaps up from the couch. He walks toward her and I hang back as he opens his arms. “Mother.”
She floats over to him, reminding me of Glinda the Good Witch in The Wiz and Wicked and The Wizard of Oz, and lifts her arms open in a super-melodramatic way.
“Astley.” She almost jingles when she says his name. “How good to see you again, my dear, dear son.”
The air bristles as they hug. She lets go first and looks around him toward me. Her gold hair ripples in waves. As she smiles her face transforms from something regular into something almost shockingly beautiful. Her nose is a bit long but straight. Her mouth takes up most of the bottom half of her face. She appraises me quickly, bluish silver eyes roaming up and down my body before fixing on my face.
She opens her arms again. “You must be Zara. Our newest queen.”
She glides over to me in those shiny heels and her arms quickly wrap around me in a hug. She’s thin and soft. I hug her back. I let go first.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. I don’t know what to call her.
It’s like she has read my thoughts. “Isla. Call me Isla, sweet girl.”
“Isla,” I repeat, looking up at Astley. His eyes narrow, watching us. Tension oozes off him and I don’t quite understand why. His mother seems so very nice, actually. She’s pretty. Her voice is a little high, but that’s okay, right? I mean, it’s silly to feel put off by someone’s voice. It’s silly to be put off by something as small and inconsequential as a voice or a smell, and, seriously, who am I to be put off by someone at all? She is so beautiful and lovely and short, and I am sure that she would never, ever do anything even remotely wrong-ever-and she’s going to help me find my perfect, amazing Nick, which is a perfect and amazing thing for her to do and I love her for it, and I love how beautiful her eyes are, and they are coming closer to me-those eyes-and they are switching back and forth from blue to silver to blue to silver to blue to-