Clover saw it and shook his head. “That will never do.
The box needs to be bigger, and much sturdier.” I brought up two more boxes but Clover vetoed them both. Finally I brought him one of my parents’ sturdy green Rubbermaid containers. “We can just tape it shut and put the label on top,” I said. “And look, it has handles for carrying.”
He nodded and said, “That should do for me gold.”
“Your gold?”
“Aye, you didn’t think I’d be leaving it here, did you?”
“I didn’t think you had it with you.” From on top of my dresser he stomped one foot and glared at me as though I’d insulted him. “What kind of leprechaun do you think I am?” A bad-tempered one. Only I didn’t say that out loud.
Instead I said, “Sorry. I guess I should have known you’d be sending your gold home, too. Is there a lot of it?”
His glare increased.
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“I’m not trying to take any. I only asked because of the postage. Gold is heavy, you know.” I realized I’d said the wrong thing again because he folded his arms tightly. “Gold is twenty times denser than water. If you had a gold bar the size of a bread loaf, you’d never be able to lift it. Are there any other gold facts you’d like to know?”
“Yeah,” I said. “How heavy is this package going to be when I take it to the post office?”
“About seventy pounds.”
“Seventy pounds?” My mouth dropped open. “That’s going to cost me a fortune to send to Ireland.”
“Aye, well you should read and understand contracts thoroughly before you sign them.” I let out a sigh and tried not to be too upset. After all, even if I had known the bargain included sending his gold back, I still would have agreed. What other choice did I have?
“Okay, fine,” I said, “I’ll come up with the money somehow to pay for postage. Now, can you please tell me how to get Tristan back home?”
“Read and understand contracts thoroughly,” he said.
I waited for him to say more. He didn’t. Instead he jumped down into the box and walked around, examining it.
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“I did read our contract thoroughly,” I said through gritted teeth. “And you promised to help me get Tristan back.”
“Not our contract,” he said with exasperation. “The fairy contract. The one you signed with Chrysanthemum Everstar. Now hand over another of those Ding Dongs. I need to keep my strength up to make the trip.” That was it? It would end up costing me hundreds of dollars to mail him back to Ireland and all the help he was going to be was to tell me to read my contract?
“Where am I even going to get a copy of that contract?” I asked. “Chrissy didn’t give me one.”
“Of course she did. That’s part of the agreement.
Check your magic files under C for contracts.”
“I don’t have any magic files.” He actually rolled his eyes at me. Even standing less than half a foot tall I could see him do it. He pointed over to the computer sitting on my desk. “And what do you call that?”
“A Macintosh.”
More eye rolling. “Run a search for magic,” he said,
“and then check C for contract. Really, you don’t think those things were built without the help of magic, did you?”
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Actually, I thought they were built with the help of technology, but perhaps those things were closer together than I’d realized.
I sat down at my desk and turned on my computer.
And the weird thing was that sure enough, when I ran a search under the keyword “magic” a file came up. I hit the Print button and the contract emerged from my laser printer in the same long parchment form it had been in when I’d signed it for Chrissy. I read it while Clover dragged Ding Dongs around the Rubbermaid box, effectively turning them into Hostess furniture.
After searching halfway through the contract and not finding anything of use for getting Tristan back, I glanced over and saw a black pot—about the width of a cereal bowl but with much higher sides—had been added to the box. It was filled to the brim with golden coins. Clover must have put it in the box through magic, as there was no way he could have lifted it. I let out a sigh. It was too bad he couldn’t just use magic to return it to Ireland. Postage rates being what they are and all.
I kept reading the contract. I read about the First Party, hereafter known as Chrysanthemum Everstar, who was, as directed in Provision Five Article B, oblig-ated to fulfill three of my wishes. I read about the limitation on the wishes—there were a lot of those—including that I couldn’t wish for something that would violate any 155/431
of the already stated, or hereafter stated, provisions and articles.
Really, the sentence lengths alone were enough to give me a headache.
The part that made my stomach sink—about four feet down the parchment roll, near the end—was the statement that all wishes were considered permanent and binding, their consequences real and lasting. That meant I couldn’t undo wishes.
I laid the contract on my lap and looked down at Clover, who had stolen a pair of my socks and seemed to be using them as a beanbag chair. “How does this help?
It says wishes are permanent.”
“Aye, but didn’t you read the part that says you’re allowed to oversee all efforts made on your behalf to fulfill your wishes? That means if you ask, Chrissy is required to let you go to the Middle Ages and oversee Tristan’s progress.”
“And how exactly would that be a good thing?” Clover held out his hand in my direction. “Lass, it’s as clear as the ink it’s written with. You have to go back and help him become a prince so he can come home again.”
Chapter 10
I pressed the contract against my chest, wrinkling the paper. “But I . . . I hated the Middle Ages. It was smelly and cold, and they didn’t have plumbing. Isn’t there an easier way?”
Clover leaned back into my socks and shook his head.
“Mortals. You’re a terminally lazy bunch. You can’t walk anywhere so you’ve got to invent cars. You can’t do your own work so you’ve got to invent dishwashers and washing machines. You can’t even walk up the bloomin’
stairs. You’ve got to invent elevators.” I didn’t point out that I thought all of those inventions were actually a good thing. I just said, “How can I help him become a prince? I thought the only way you became a prince was if your father was a king. Tristan’s dad is a dentist.”
“Aye, well that’s the fly in the ointment, isn’t it? Still, I’ve done me part to help you. Could you throw in a few Froot Loops for the trip? I’ve become fond of those.” I went downstairs, grabbed the box of Fruit Loops and the duct tape, and then stomped back upstairs.
“Okay,” I told him after I’d sprinkled a layer of Froot Loops into the box. “Once I dump the computer 157/431
gremlins in there with you, I’m going to tape this thing up tight. Any last bits of advice?”
“Aye. If someone tells you that you’re worth your weight in gold, they’re either ignorant or an insincere flatterer. Right now gold is worth upward of $9,000 a pound. And a lass like you”— he surveyed me for a moment—“must weigh at least $1,203,660.” He squinted and nodded a bit. “Maybe even $1,299,950.”
“Okay, thank you very much for that assessment on my weight.”
As I carried the trap over to the box, the computer gremlins clicked away in my direction.
Clover said, “The gremlins wanted you to let the rest of their mates know they can’t make that soccer tournament/data-eating party they throw in your computer every year. But don’t worry, I’ll just have the lads e-mail that information to your computer when we reach Ireland.”