Thistle Down

Seven

“PIZZA’S HERE,” THISTLE SAID. She wiggled out of Dick’s dance pose. A ridiculous and awkward stance. To truly dance, one needed only space and wings to catch the wind in pure joy.

She recognized the hold as part of human, unnaturally strained, courting rituals. Pixies rarely bothered with more than a few flirtatious flits around their territory. If a couple liked each other, they went off to a private glade and explored the possibilities of a potential mating flight.

Oh, well, she wouldn’t be here long enough to follow up on the interesting way Dick’s hand clenched against her back, or the way his fingers entwined with hers as they made their way back to their chairs and the fragrant and steaming dishes a waiter had plopped down in the center of the round table. Dick’s hand kept her from stumbling on every imperfection in the floor.

Chase and Dusty joined them a moment later. They looked flushed and happy.

Thistle narrowed her eyes in speculation. She could definitely see their energies reaching toward each other. At least that part of her magic hadn’t faded along with her other Pixie traits.

This wouldn’t do at all. Chase was not the man for Dusty. He’d kill her imagination and overshadow her intellect with his energy and lust for life. Dusty needed to match up with Joe. But Joe didn’t have a sitter for his daughters tonight. So he stayed home while Dusty danced with another man.

Hmm. What could she do about that?

Dusty’s aura retracted deep within herself as she sipped at the foaming brew in her glass. Good. Chase wasn’t the right man for her. Thistle needed to direct Dusty’s attention back toward Joe. There was a man who truly needed her. And so did his daughters. Two little girls at just the right age to be befriended by a Pixie.

Hmmm. Ideas spun in her head.

Besides. Chase had a mean streak. Thistle had been his victim when he was eight or nine. He couldn’t be trusted. Nope. No way.

“Anyone ever see Phelma Jo’s companion before?” Chase asked.

The two men’s attention fixed on a long-legged beauty across the dance floor. She wore a dark gray straight skirt and plain pink blouse as if they were royal robes, created to enhance her personality. Something was just a little off about her…

“Do you mean the woman with the fake blonde hair?” Thistle asked, directing her gaze across the room.

“She dyes her hair?” Dusty asked incredulously.

“Of course she does. Her roots are almost as dark as my hair,” Thistle replied.

“She was blonde when we were kids.” Dusty brightened considerably as she reached for a piece of the bread and cheese and tomato sauce confection piled high with semi-cooked vegetables.

“Never seen him before. He certainly seems attentive to Phelma Jo, though.” Dick shrugged and snagged his own piece of pizza.

“Something about him bothers me,” Chase said quietly. “Can’t put my finger on it.”

“Maybe you’re just jealous,” Dick laughed.

That made Thistle turn her attention across the dance floor. If Chase were truly jealous, then he needed to stay away from Dusty and not hurt her anymore than he already had.

“He reminds me of someone,” Thistle mused. “Can’t wrap a wingtip around the memory, though.” She tapped her teeth, trying to place the square face with hair the color of wheat ripening in August sunshine.

“That’s an interesting metaphor.” Dusty looked puzzled. “Not a phrase most people would use.”

“Who said I’m most people? Now what’s this on top of the pizza?” Thistle pointed to a brown blob that looked crumpled and nasty.

“That’s Italian sausage. Try it, very tasty,” Dick informed her. He picked a similar nugget off his piece of pizza and ate it separately, smacking his lips and smiling at the delicacy.

“Um… no thanks.” Thistle put her hands in her lap, though her tummy growled with demands for food. Not a bit of pollen or a mosquito in sight.

“Stick to the mushrooms and olives, you can pick off the meat. Or try my veggie special,” Dusty whispered. “Do you eat cheese?”

“Cheese? Of course I like cheese,” Thistle replied with enthusiasm. And mushrooms. She knew about mushrooms and the delicious things they could do to dizzying flight with or without a mate. Alder knew where the best rings of them grew and how to snatch them out from under the noses of the Faeries. But olives?

“Olives are those little black circles. They’re a kind of berry, but they’re savory and salty-not sweet, ” Dusty explained.

“If I eat human food, will I be forced to remain human?” Thistle whispered to Dusty.

“I don’t know. That’s the Greek myth of Persephone, and some tales of European elves who trick humans into staying with them. The theory could extend to Pixies. But if you don’t eat, you will get sick and die. So eat and enjoy.” Dusty took a big bite of cheese and bread.

Die of sadness because she couldn’t return to Pixie, or die of hunger while she held out hope? Thistle felt heavy with no wings to lighten her. Her throat grew hot and nearly closed. Moisture gathered in her eyes. Tears. She’d seen children cry often enough, and helped them get over their hurts. But Pixies didn’t cry.

The savory food no longer enticed her. She lifted the glass of beer someone had set in front of her. One long swallow. She almost spat out the bitterness. But the liquid felt good on her convulsing throat.

She took another more cautious sip. If she ignored the first impression of bitterness, and sought the undertaste of grains and fruit and sweetness, it tasted like something Trillium would add to a festive dinner back home.

Before she realized how much she’d drunk, the glass was empty and Chase was refilling it from a pitcher. Much of Thistle’s heaviness lifted away.

Then Phelma Jo and her blond companion paraded toward them. The companion hung back as Phelma Jo approached their table.

“I didn’t receive an official invitation to the Masque Ball, Miss Carrick,” she said arrogantly. Her overbite nearly covered her lower lip and she scrunched her nose in distaste, making her look like a rabbit with wounded dignity.

“You didn’t?” Dusty asked, opening her eyes wide with innocence. “I’ll look into that in the morning.”

Thistle heard Dusty’s reply from across the room. She looked up and found herself facing the far wall filled with hats made of fake raccoon fur. She shook herself and tried to remember how she got here. Her mind wandered away from that bit of information as quickly as her feet wandered toward the door as she tried to go back to the table.

She had to watch her friends from a distance, it seemed. Thistle knew Dusty’s expression of furtive eyes and a quiver in her jaw as she fought to hide a smile. She had deliberately removed Phelma Jo’s name from the guest list.

“My assistant will come to your office first thing and pick up my invitation,” Phelma Jo spat.

“All the invitations went out by email this year,” Dusty replied. “Perhaps I no longer have a valid address for you.”

The tall man standing slightly behind Phelma Jo’s shoulder leaned forward to whisper something in her ear. His eyes sought and held Dusty’s gaze. He smiled at her and then backed away.

Thistle tried to return to the table so she could hear more. Three steps later she was at the front door, and Dick had to guide her back toward their table.

What was going on?

“I expect a written invitation. Have it ready for Haywood at 9:15 tomorrow morning.” Phelma Jo marched away, tossing her thick mane of bleached blonde hair. Her companion had already retreated.

“The museum doesn’t open until eleven, after the end of the parade,” Dusty called after them.

Phelma Jo didn’t acknowledge the correction, but Haywood Wheatland flashed that glorious smile directly at Dusty.

“Like I’m at her beck and call!” Dusty protested. “She’s never come to the Ball before. Why now?”

“I remember her,” Thistle mused. “Nasty child who trapped me in a jar with a wolf spider. Almost as nasty as the boy who glued my wings together with dog drool.” She speared Chase with a glance.

He choked and tried to bury his blushing face in his glass. He remembered.

Thistle turned her attention back to Phelma Jo. A pattern of energy grew around her, linking in a long chain back to…

Thistle dropped her sandal in front of the couple dancing a vigorous two-step right in front of her. They stumbled, bumping into a passing waitress, who reared back against the jukebox, knocking a listing music lover against the bar. The bartender reached to grab a line of bottles. But they cannonaded into each other, dropping in a line the full length of the bar. At the end, another patron lunged to grab the last bottle to keep it from spilling. He lost his balance and stuck out his foot behind him, catching a waiter in the crotch. He doubled over, spilling a full pitcher of beer on top of Phelma Jo’s head just as she returned to her chair.

The beer bounced off of Haywood Wheatland. What the…?

Dusty’s jaw dropped in amazement. Then she had to bite her cheeks to keep from laughing out loud. Her eyes sparked with amusement.

“See, PJ doesn’t always win,” Thistle whispered.

Phelma Jo spat and spluttered and dripped. She loosed a stream of curses worthy of a Faery drunk on honey.

“Ah, I feel much better,” Thistle said and grabbed the last piece of pizza on the tray. She ate it in five big bites, not bothering to pick off the meat.