She stores it in a glass vial shoved under her pillow at night, her fingers clasped around it as if it offers some sort of protection in the dark. Mommy wouldn't like it, she fears, so it is thrust into a pocket in her mattress in the mornings, carefully tucked out of sight, her faithful sock monkey instructed to guard it with his life.
Pixie dust is valuable, she knows, worth more than even diamonds, or so Tinkerbelle says. She would be in trouble if they knew she took some—even Mommy would be angry with her, and she would probably have to give it back. But she needs it to find him. Her Daddy—her Papa—the one Mommy still cries over when she thinks no one can hear her, the one Tinkerbelle has told her she looks like even with her dark eyes that match her mother's.
Pixie Dust can find your true love.
She has heard Mommy and Tinkerbelle talk about it many times when they believed she was asleep. Yes—she has magic—magic even Mommy doesn't know about, but it's not strong enough to lead her to their true love-the person who should be with her and Mommy, the one she wants to hug and feel kiss her cheeks, the one who should read bedtime stories to her and tuck her in at night.
The man who can make Mommy smile again.
She will test it tomorrow—she thinks she finally has enough. She then smiles and lets her eyes drift shut, thinking of the backpack she has filled with food and her favorite blanket, certain her plan will not fail, excited at the prospect of making Mommy happy.
Only pixie dust can find the person she needs. Only pixie dust can lead her to her daddy. And pixie dust never lies.