I was so surprised that I almost dropped my flute. I didn't wouldn't that give Mom something to yell at me for if I broke it! but I did muddle the tune. As soon as the music faltered just like that, as though the only thing that was keeping her in this world was that tune she disappeared.
I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to what Meran was saying for the rest of the lesson, but I don't think she noticed. I couldn't get the faerie out of my mind. I still can't. I wish Mom had been there to see her, or stupid old Mr. Allen. They couldn't say it was just my imagination then!
Of course they probably wouldn't have been able to see her anyway. That's the thing with magic. You've got to know it's still here, all around us, or it just stays invisible for you.
After my lesson, Mom went in to talk to Meran and made me wait in the car. She wouldn't say what they'd talked about, but she seemed to be in a way better mood than usual when she got back. God, I wish she wouldn't get so uptight.
"So," Cerin said finally, setting aside his book. Meran had been moping about the house for the whole of the hour since she'd gotten home from the Firehall. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"You'll just say I told you so."
"Told you so how?"
Meran sighed. "Oh, you know. How did you put it? 'The problem with teaching children is that you have to put up with their parents.' It was something like that."
Cerin joined her in the window seat where she'd been staring out at the garden. He looked out at the giant old oaks that surrounded the house and said nothing for a long moment. In the fading afternoon light, he could see little brown men scurrying about in the leaves like so many monkeys.
"But the kids are worth it," he said finally.
"I don't see you teaching children."
"There's just not many parents that can afford a harp for their prodigies."
"But still "
"Still," he agreed. "You're perfectly right. I don't like dealing with their parents; never did. When I see children put into little boxes, their enthusiasms stifled . Everything gets regimented into what's proper and what's not, into recitals and passing examinations instead of just playing" he began to mimic a hoity-toity voice, "I don't care if you want to play in a rock band, you'll learn what I tell you to learn ."
His voice trailed off. In the back of his eyes, a dark light gleamed not quite anger, more frustration.
"It makes you want to give them a good whack," Meran said.
"Exactly. So did you?"
Meran shook her head. "It wasn't like that, but it was almost as bad. No, maybe it was worse."
She told her husband about what Lesli's mother had asked of her, handing over the English essay when she was done so that he could read it for himself.
"This is quite good, isn't it?" he said when he reached the end.
Meran nodded. "But how can I tell Lesli that none of it's true when I know it is?"
"You can't."
Cerin laid the essay down on the windowsill and looked out at the oaks again. The twilight had crept up on the garden while they were talking. All the trees wore thick mantles of shadow now poor recompense for the glorious cloaks of leaves that the season had stolen from them over the past few weeks. At the base of one fat trunk, the little monkey men were roasting skewers of mushrooms and acorns over a small, almost smokeless fire.
"What about Anna Batterberry herself?" he asked. "Does she remember anything?"
Meran shook her head. "I don't think she even realizes that we've met before that she changed, but we never did. She's like most people; if it doesn't make sense, she'd rather convince herself that it simply never happened."
Cerin turned from the window to regard his wife.
"Perhaps the solution would be to remind her, then." he said.
"I don't think that's such a good idea. It'd probably do more harm than good. She's just not the right sort of person ."
Meran sighed again.
"But she could have been," Cerin said.
"Oh, yes," Meran said, remembering. "She could have been. But it's too late for her now."
Cerin shook his head. "It's never too late."
From Lesli's diary, addendum to the entry dated October 12th:
I hate living in this house! I just hate it! How could she do this to me? It's bad enough that she never lets me so much as breathe without standing there behind me to determine that I'm not making a vulgar display of myself in the process, but this really isn't fair.
I suppose you're wondering what I'm talking about. Well, remember that essay I did on ethnic minorities for Mr. Allen? Mom got her hands on it and it's convinced her that I've turned into a Satan-worshiping drug fiend. The worst thing is that she gave it to Meran and now Meran's supposed to "have a talk with me to set me straight" on Thursday.
I just hate this. She had no right to do that. And how am I supposed to go to my lesson now? It's so embarrassing. Not to mention disappointing. I thought Meran would understand. I never thought she'd take Mom's side not on something like this.
Meran's always seemed so special. It's not just that she wears all those funky clothes and doesn't talk down to me and looks just like one of those Pre-Raphaelite women, except that she's got those really neat green streaks in her hair. She's just a great person. She makes playing music seem so effortlessly magical and she's got all these really great stories about the origins of the tunes. When she talks about things like where "The Gold Ring" came from, it's like she really believes it was the faeries that gave that piper the tune in exchange for the lost ring he returned to them. The way she tells it, it's like she was there when it happened.
I feel like I've always known her. From the first time I saw her, I felt like I was meeting an old friend. Sometimes I think that she's magic herself a kind of oak-tree faerie princess who's just spending a few years living in the Fields We Know before she goes back home to the magic place where she really lives.
Why would someone like that involve themselves in my mother's crusade against Faerie?
I guess I was just being naive. She's probably no different from Mom or Mr. Allen and everybody else who doesn't believe. Well, I'm not going to any more stupid flute lessons, that's for sure.
I hate living here. Anything'd be better.
Oh, why couldn't I just have been stolen by the faeries when I was a baby? Then I'd be there and there'd just be some changeling living here in my place. Mom could turn it into a good little robot instead. Because that's all she wants. She doesn't want a daughter who can think on her own, but a boring, closed-minded junior model of herself. She should have gotten a dog instead of having a kid. Dogs are easy to train and they like being led around on a leash.
I wish Granny Nell was still alive. She would never, ever have tried to tell me that I had to grow up and stop imagining things. Everything seemed magic when she was around. It was like she was magic just like Meran. Sometimes when Meran's playing her flute, I almost feel as though Granny Nell's sitting there with us, just listening to the music with that sad wise smile of hers.
I know I was only five when she died, but lots of the time she seems more real to me that any of my relatives that are still alive.
If she was still alive, I could be living with her right now and everything'd be really great.
Jeez, I miss her.
Anna Batterberry was in an anxious state when she pulled up in front of the Kelledy house on McKennit Street. She checked the street number that hung beside the wrought-iron gate where the walkway met the sidewalk and compared it against the address she'd hurriedly scribbled down on a scrap of paper before leaving home. When she was sure that they were the same, she slipped out of the car and approached the gate.