Page 35 of The Brightest Fell

“You carried an entire pixie colony from San Francisco to here.”

“Yes.”

I paused. “Poppy was in Muir Woods. They’re moving between the Summerlands and the mortal world. How . . . ?”

“They use the knowes, as a rule, or they use the door I opened for them.”

I stared at him again. “You opened a door. For the pixies.”

“Yes. It’s in a tree in the Golden Gate Park botanical garden. It’s quite small. No one larger than a squirrel is even likely to notice that it’s there.”

“Best door,” said Poppy proudly. “Most colonies haven’t got one. We do lots of hunting through it.”

“I’m sure you do,” I said, looking at Simon in confusion. It was getting harder and harder to reconcile the things I knew about him—that he’d kidnapped his own niece and sister-in-law, that he’d spent years in the company of a woman who killed for fun as much as for money—with the things I was learning.

People are complicated. That’s the problem with people. It would be so much easier if they could all be put into easy little boxes and left there, never changing, never challenging the things I decided about them.

Lilac pushed away from Simon, wiping her eyes. “He used to always come, and then he never came, and we thought—I thought—he had died. And if he was dead, who would tell Patrick where we were? Who would tell him we were all right?”

“Patrick’s fine,” I told her. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear that you’re all doing so well. But Simon and I need to go, and we need to take my squire with me.” If Quentin was awake by now, he was probably going to be pissed about the fact that I hadn’t untied him before running after the pixies.

A little discomfort is good for the soul. I’d managed to get myself free, and he could do the same, given the proper incentive. A giant blob of pine resin on his feet was pretty good incentive.

The pixies exclaimed in dismay, their words lost under the din from their buzzing wings. Simon put up his hands. The pixies settled down.

“We will come back, but October is right. We have things we need to accomplish, and we can’t do them while here—or while shrunken to this scale.”

“We do fine at this size,” shouted one of the pixie men.

“You have wings,” said Simon. “That expands your range rather a lot.”

“We can’t give you wings,” said Lilac. She sounded genuinely sad about it.

Simon offered her a warm smile. “That’s all right, dear. A safe trip back to ground level and our original sizes will suffice.”

“And my squire,” I added hastily. “I really do need him back.”

“I’ll get the other one,” said Poppy, and launched herself into the air. Seen at this size, the way the pixies took flight was really impressive. She bent at the knees, jumping straight up from a standing start, and somehow snapped her wings open with sufficient velocity to continue propelling her, never allowing gravity to catch hold. The muscular structure behind her wings must have been incredible; otherwise, not even magic would have been enough to support her.

Simon and Lilac were speaking animatedly when I turned back to them, their voices low, their postures a curious mix of old friends and total strangers. This might have been the first time they had been able to speak as equals. Before, he had been too big and she had been too small, so they had existed in the curious mix of pantomime and patience that had always defined my interactions with the pixies.

Lilac looked at him like he was a hero. To her, he probably was. And Simon . . . Simon looked at her like she was a revelation he had never expected to have. She didn’t know what he’d done. She didn’t know that he was the villain in so many other stories. She didn’t care.

Maybe when this was all over, if Sylvester didn’t have Simon thrown into the dungeon to think about what he’d done, I could convince them both that exile among the pixies was the perfect punishment. Sylvester would see it as a way to get his brother out of his life forever without actually killing him. Simon . . .

Simon might see it as a way of going home.

Poppy flew back, landing in front of me and letting go of Quentin at the same time, so that he pitched forward. I grabbed him before he could hit the ground. He blinked at me, looking stunned.

“We’re pixies,” he said, tone implying that he couldn’t decide between amazement and offense.

“No, we’re pixie-sized,” I corrected, setting him back on his feet. “No wings for us. We triggered one of their automatic defenses, and they took us prisoner.”

“But we’re well sorry now, honest we are,” said Poppy brightly. “Can’t make an omelet without killing a few chickens.”

Quentin turned his confusion on her. “What do you think an omelet is?” he asked.

Poppy laughed. “I like this one,” she informed me.