(Posted April 10th, 2018)

Unfundamental Attribution Error

Year of Water; Winter of the Sunlit River

Friday, December 27th, 1991

Sanderson flew Gary up most of the stairs, even though it was highly impractical and inconvenient. He wasn't exactly the largest pixie, and Gary was so big and heavy that the trip was slow and strenuous, but Sanderson only set him down once they reached the top of the stairwell. Gary was still panting from having run up a fair amount of them, and even though he was a pixie and therefore it was physically impossible for him to be "out of breath", Sanderson got down on his hands and knees for a moment to reorient himself as well.

"I'm sorry," Gary managed after a moment of puffing. Sanderson turned his head.

"What are you apologizing for?"

"For being scared of the elevator."

Sanderson thought for only a split second before he said, "Snow makes me less comfortable than my preferred levels of arousal."

"Oh. But it's winter right now?"

"Unfortunately." He rose to his feet, and took Gary's hand to pull him up. "My room is just on the other side of this stairwell door."

So were his fellow pixies. Half a dozen of them were hovering around outside the open apartment door in a disorienting blur of whirring wings and gray suits. They pulled away when they caught Sanderson's scent, revealing Bayard standing there with a wriggling Kenny clamped in his arms. "Hey," Sanderson said, a little snappier than he meant to. Not that he regretted it; he hadn't approved any of this.

Bayard put Kenny down on the floor. "I was just looking at him."

Sanderson kept his expression neutral, but inwardly, he sighed. "Well, don't. The humans need some proper rest, and I can't have you filling their heads with crazy ideas at this time of night. In fact, everything you say to them should be run through me first for the first year of their stay."

Gary stepped out from behind Sanderson's floating leg, reaching out his hand to Kenny. "I don't mind if they talk to me. I'm living here now, and I want to make friends with our neighbors."

"What? Oh, right." Sanderson turned his glare on Bayard (Bayard raised one eyebrow defiantly, his lips twitching in the corner). There he went, almost exposing information about how the Pixies taking three young humans under their wings was a little more planned than they wanted to let on. Upper lip trembling, Sanderson sighed inwardly a second time.

"Fine. Gary." He gestured to Gary. "You may talk to other pixies. These are my roommates, Hawkins and Wilcox. Hawkins, take Kenny inside and put him to bed. Longwood doesn't seem to be around, but he shares our apartment too. Then there's Caudwell, Bayard–"

"I'm Mister James Bayard. Call me Bayard." Bayard moved lower in the air, wings buzzing, and clasped Gary's cautious hand in both of his own. He shook it up and down, almost showing his teeth when he smiled. "I live right next to you in Room 002 with Caudwell, Madigan, and Walters, because Keefe and Springs are two of those people who can't stand to be apart for long. So we get Walters! It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and I hope it becomes a friendship before too long, huh?"

Gary followed the small red bird roaming along Bayard's collarbone with his eyes. "I'm Gary. You have a very neat tattoo, Bayard."

Bayard glanced down at it. "Thanks. I don't have half as many as the boss does, but I like mine all the same. It's a phoenix; ain't she a beaut? I can make you one just like her if you want. Oh! I could make you a spongmonkey!"

"A what?"

Sanderson placed a hand to his forehead, and several pixies around him shifted their wings. "For the love of dust, don't start him on the spongmonkeys. Bayard, we've been over this. Spongmonkeys scare small children and don't sell sandwiches."

"Spongmonkeys are going to be a thing in another ten years! I'm a marketer for good reason. You'll all see." Bayard dropped his arms and shook his head at Gary as though they were both in on some great joke, and Gary was the only one who understood him in all of Pixie World. By Sanderson's calculations, that was probably true. "Or, maybe a dragon tattoo would be more your speed." Bayard tapped the wand at the sheath on his hip. "Just say the word and I can whisk you away to my favorite parlor, tuck. Although word of warning: You want picture tats. Not words. Don't try spelling words. That ends badly."

"Oh, no! Why, I could never! Tattoos are permanent, and they're supposed to hurt. … Well." Gary glanced down at the back of his hand. "Maybe, maybe someday I'd like to get something that represents my heritage. I'm not saying I will ever, because I think it would be scary, but–"

Sanderson clamped a hand on Gary's shoulder. "Shush." A frosty chill ran between his wings. Anti-Fairy magic in the air. The stripe of cold whizzed above their heads in under a second, silencing and straightening all seven pixies in the hallway, Bayard included. Genie magic functioned on a different wavelength than that of Fairies or Anti-Fairies, so Gary wouldn't be able to detect the presence of Anti-Fairies himself with his magical senses, although he certainly seemed to pick up on the unease of the pixies around him. He reached out and took hold of Bayard's arm. Bayard was no longer smiling.

The cold coil of magic writhing through the energy field touched down at the end of the hall beside the stairwell door. In a puff of smoke, it materialized into one short anti-fairy swinging a wand of pumice, and one slightly shorter anti-fairy decked out in blue acolyte robes, glasses, and thick black curls.

"Excuse me," Anti-Cosmo said, clearing the air of smoke with his wand and hand together. His eyes flashed across the gathered crowd, and he straightened importantly. "Do pardon the intrusion. I'm here on a matter of business. Is that him? Is that the human drake? Oh yes, he's certainly the ginger of our party, isn't he?"

He'd changed from his Temple robes into the black silk nightshirt he always seemed to wear in Pixie World, when he had an excuse to rest in a horizontal hotel bed instead of roosting upside-down with the thing flopping in his face. But for some reason, his scruffy blue hair dripped wetness across the hallway carpet as he swept forward. That rattled Sanderson's irritation down to the roots of his teeth. He could sense the droplets' warmth in the way curls of steam still flickered around Anti-Cosmo's colder body, and that had better not be water from the C-level balcony hot tub. There were far too many implications wrapped up in that idea which Sanderson did not particularly wish to entertain. Namely, that Anti-Cosmo hadn't found a towel available to dry himself off with, and would now be holding this against Pixie hospitality for the next decade. In some way or another, this would be coming out of his next performance review, Sanderson was sure of it. He kept himself perfectly unmoving, pressing his palms against his legs, fingers straight.

Whenever Anti-Cosmo moved, he flowed like a creek, every limb so enviously loose and free to drift and swing as he willed. Not stiff and business-like at all. And he always smelled of freshly-cut fruit slathered under chocolate fondue; berries glistening and polyphenol oxidase bright. It took every, every ounce of willpower Sanderson had in his body not to flinch when Anti-Cosmo's eyes trailed across his face and lingered in a taunting way. A turquoise gem glinted at the neck of his nightshirt. Talon tagged after him, grinning from ear to ear–an especially impressive accomplishment considering how tall and pointed his ears were on the top of his head.

"Oh man, you guys are so busted."

"He's one of them, isn't he?" Anti-Cosmo asked, tossing his wand to his right hand. He gestured towards Gary with a flick and half a nod, speaking to Sanderson even though his eyes were focused on the child. "I heard the three humans were all staying up here tonight. I want to see him. Let me see him."

Wilcox barred his path, wand tucked away but chin held up. "High Count, this isn't Anti-Fairy business."

Gary slid his fists into his pockets, but Sanderson simply stepped aside. "Of course. Go right ahead, sir. Wilcox, Bayard, let him through."

Bayard looked at him sideways. Sanderson nodded slightly. The two pixies moved back, in silence. Anti-Cosmo was short enough (most Fae were, actually) that he had to tilt back his head to look up at Gary's face. At least until he decided to spread his wings and spring into the air again. Gary pulled his head away. "Ah ah," Anti-Cosmo tutted, sliding his left hand beneath Gary's chin. "Let me see. Hmm."

He tilted Gary's head to one side, frowning at his jawbone. Sanderson watched Gary squeeze his eyelids shut, but when he did, Anti-Cosmo instructed him to open them again.

Talon shifted excitedly from foot to foot. "His eyes are green, Pop. That's not natural for humans, right? Humans' eyes are either brown or blue."

"No…" Anti-Cosmo rotated Gary's face the other way, tightening his claws. "Not necessarily… In fact, green eyes are quite commonly paired with red hair. But this shade of blue-green with that shade of orange is very…"

He let go and plucked a tuft of hair straight out of Gary's head, ignoring the resulting "Ouch."

"My apologies. What is your name, young chap?"

"G-Gary."

Anti-Cosmo frowned. "That ends with a Y. 'Y' names are always short for something in Genie culture. Eury is short for Eurydice and Ray is really Raymond, Audrey is short for Audrelica, and so on. Do you perchance have any other names?"

Gary looked at Sanderson. "Just Gary."

Anti-Cosmo twitched his ears. "I do hope you wouldn't lie to me, Gary. I only want to be your friend. I can hear it when your heart rate nervously picks up, you know."

"It's Garrett," Sanderson supplied, maintaining his usual even and cool tone. "Garrett Cabrera. The name is Spanish."

Gary blinked in alarm, but Sanderson stayed still. You had to pick your battles, and he preferred to fight ones where he held the element of surprise.

Finished with his physical examination, Anti-Cosmo bobbed back and gave Gary a quizzical look. "Hmm. Most curious. To the best of my knowledge, no one has ever documented an orange witch before. Your pupils are certainly much smaller than I would have anticipated, so your Genie heritage, if there is any, must be awfully watered down. You're prepubescent, so that makes it difficult to determine whether you're going to develop a few more feminine characteristics of the body. Of course, your age is of no help to me. And you definitely don't sound as though you could be part genie. You're not at all what I was expecting."

"So he's not a witch?" Talon's face fell.

Anti-Cosmo turned around and floated away without answering. Sanderson's eyes tracked the scrap of orange hair between his thumb and index claw. Talon flew after the older anti-fairy, demanding answers; absentmindedly, Anti-Cosmo said, "Yes, yes, ask your mother," and whisked them both out of there with a wave of his black wand and a foop of smoke.

"He got my hair," Gary said, his voice quiet. "He's going to test my DNA."

As the other pixies dispersed in silence, Sanderson placed his hand to the small of Gary's back. "I'll see to it that he won't later tonight. He's on pilgrimage to Pixie World this week and has no super fancy tech to read your DNA with. Even when he does work something out, it takes a pixie familiar with the technology at least an hour to run the information through. Anti-Fairies know nothing about electricity or complex machines, Anti-Cosmo especially, so it will take him longer. We have time. First, let's get you down to bed. Are you hungry?"

"No," he murmured. "No thanks. I had magic pizza. Where do we all sleep?"

Sanderson opened the door to Apartment 002 and motioned Gary inside with a flick of his hand. Wilcox followed them in. Hawkins was standing near the counter, messing with his buttons, and must have already gotten Kenny down in the other room. "Kenny will be with Wilcox and Longwood. Wilcox likes to turn into a rabbit, so he'll stay in his hutch tonight. You're down the hall, in my bed. Betty is in Hawkins' bed."

"What?" Gary turned to him and frowned. "Where will you sleep?"

Sanderson gestured to the square couch. "Out here with Hawkins. I don't mind."

Gary's eyes moved from him to Hawkins and Wilcox. "Oh. You can use magic to make a bed though, right?"

Sanderson tilted his head. "I could, but it's tiresome."

"Good thing you're going to sleep, then."

"Yes. Head down to the bathroom over there. There should be pajamas and a toothbrush waiting for you. I'll be there to assist you in just a minute." He frowned at the window. "I wonder where Longwood is. It isn't usual for him to be out at this time of evening."

Gary coughed. "Okay. Thanks, Mr. Sanderson. Tell Kenny goodnight for me, Mr. Wilcox. See you guys in the morning, I guess."

Wilcox bobbed his head. "Later, kiddo."

"I always have such trouble with these buttons," Hawkins muttered, fumbling with the front of his suit.

Sanderson turned to him as Gary straightened his shoulders and wandered off. "I know you do. Here, let me help…"

As Sanderson had promised, Gary found an orange toothbrush and gray button-up pajamas waiting for him in the bathroom. Everything, except the gray towels beside the shower, was shiny white and perfectly orderly. Gary should have felt crazy out of place being in a magical building and all, but apart from the low ceiling and the tile instead of linoleum floor, he felt pretty much at home. Standing at the clean sink, he could even pretend he had arrived at one of his mom's new fancy houses for the weekend, and just hadn't started unpacking yet.

A trickle of guilt crept down Gary's spine like dripping blood when he thought about his mom. After he took a deep breath and almost looked his reflection in the eyes, he found himself covering his face.

His mom thought he was dead. And his dad really was dead. He'd begged to spend Christmas with his dad, and now his mom would be waiting for him to show up at her big fancy house, all alone. Did she have a Christmas tree set up? Did she have presents waiting for him? Presents he would never open now? Gary didn't feel bad just because he wanted presents or anything, but thinking about his mom sitting quietly in her big fancy living room holding a mug of hot chocolate, staring and staring at the twinkling lights, upset his stomach deep down.

Maybe… this wasn't okay. Maybe he should tell H.P. he changed his mind, and he wanted to live with his mom after all. She had a nice house. Gary hadn't seen it yet, but she'd told him on the phone that it was beautiful, with a really big garden that got lots of sun every day. Gary wasn't sure why she needed a bigger and fancier house, since her old house seemed big and fancy already, but he hadn't said anything when she'd told him about it. He couldn't control what happened when he snapped his fingers, and neither could she. Sometimes, Gary knew, they both lost control when they got too excited. Like when they'd visited the circus and Gary got to see real elephants for the first time, and accidentally dressed half the audience like clowns in an instant. Sometimes they lost control when they were scared, like when they found out that guy with the chainsaw in the corn maze didn't actually work there. Sometimes they lost control when they were just too sad.

There was a window on the bathroom ceiling. What were those called? Skylights. Gary slid his hands down to the counter and gazed up through the skylight. The glass was frosted, so there really wasn't much sky to see. But he wondered if his mom was looking out a window right now and wondering when he and his dad were going to drive up through the light dusting of snow. But they weren't coming. She'd only look out and see a police car chugging through the dark to break the bad news.

But if he had the choice, did he really want to go back to his mom? She was nice, but her houses always felt too big and empty for just the two of them to live there alone. Maybe she'd gotten him a puppy for Christmas. Maybe if he told her they were part genie, she wouldn't think their ability to change things was scary. Maybe she'd think it was cool.

But he knew she wouldn't. His mother was a strict woman who preferred dressing in nice clothes to playing outside, and reading thick books to entertaining visitors. Gary didn't mind if she liked those things, but he still wished she'd act like she cared about the things he liked every once in awhile. He didn't know much about the Pixies, but so far, they'd already paid attention to him for longer in one sitting than his mom ever had. That was a good sign, right?

Well. He wouldn't worry about that now. For now, he was yawning and sleepy and ready for bed. After getting dressed, of course. Out of curiosity, Gary checked the back of the pajama shirt collar for a tag. There wasn't one, although he found what looked like a stamp on the fabric, shaped like a little black music note. Hm. Maybe Mr. Sanderson had whipped the pajamas up with magic. The fabric did tingle when he touched it with his fingertips. It felt soft.

"Huh." Gary studied the folded pajamas, then looked at himself in the mirror. He pressed his fingers to his cheeks. He'd already started to forget, but underneath his familiar red jacket, he still wore his fancy orange vest. Fingering his zipper, he sighed. Well. Maybe the next time excitement took control of his body, he'd snap his fingers and his monster shirt would come back. Maybe he'd never see it again. He wondered if Mr. Sanderson could use magic to make him a new shirt that looked just like it. This was a magical world, right? Did somebody make magic-resistant clothes for young witches like him who couldn't control themselves?

Witches.

He was a witch all of a sudden now.

Undressing was difficult. Gary had a hard time figuring out the snaps on his new vest. He shook his head. How did he know how to make clothes that he didn't even understand? But eventually he got them all off, and the pajamas on. Gary brushed his teeth and set his toothbrush carefully beside a fresh-looking yellow one that still had damp bristles and probably belonged to Betty. It was the same color as her hair. He left his fancy clothes in the bathroom, after folding them up at least sort of nice for Mr. Sanderson to find and figure out where to put somewhere. Then he turned off the lights and headed into the bedroom.

"Betty?" he whispered, cracking open the door. "Are you still awake?"

Her voice was half-muffled when she said, "I thought you might like the bed next to the window, but Sanderson said you should have his bed."

Gary looked around the dark room. It was hard to see, but he could sort of make out the shapes of leafy plants all around, including all over the floor and hanging from the ceiling. Across from the door were two simple beds, separated by a wide nightstand with a lamp that wasn't glowing. Betty lay in the farthest one. Her back was facing him, her arms around the pillow.

"Hi, Betty," Gary said, turning down the covers on the closer bed. Suddenly, it struck him that just yesterday, he'd been getting into his bed at his dad's house. And today was the same day he'd been packing up the last of his things. Where were those anyway? Destroyed in the car crash, or had the pixies managed to save them? He tried to remember what might have been lost, then shook his head. He could think about that later. "Wow. Today was crazy, huh?"

"That… that describes it."

Gary climbed into Mr. Sanderson's bed. It was just his size, and the blankets were plain, but soft. He couldn't wait to lay down–his neck had been sore ever since he woke up on H.P.'s couch. "You know, Betty, it's kind of scary to be living with the Pixies now. It probably won't be easy all the time. The magical world might be scary. There might be dragons and all sorts of monsters. I'm really sorry about what happened to your parents… but even though it's sad, I'm glad that you and Kenny can be here to go through this with me. It's nice not having to be alone. I hope we can all grow up together and be good friends."

Betty didn't roll all the way over, but she twisted a little bit so she could see him over her shoulder. "You still want to be my friend?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Gary asked, drawing the covers up to his chest. The room was cold. The whole building was cold. It was even cold underneath the blankets.

Betty shrugged and rolled away. "I dunno. You're all cool and magicky and stuff. I'm just a normal human."

"Well." Gary looked up at a spider plant in a basket swinging above his head. "You know, I'm not reeeaaally that special. Actually, I kind of hope you just treat me like a regular human."

"Gary?"

"Oh?"

All of a sudden, Betty was sitting up with her arms wrapped around her knees. "Do you think I'll still be able to see magic stuff in the morning? What if that dust H.P. blew in my eyes washes off while I sleep, and everything goes back to normal?" She looked over at him, the whites of her eyes accented in the dark. "What if when I wake up, I think all of this has been a dream?"

Gary propped himself up on his elbow. "That's a good question. I don't think you need to worry, though. H.P. said that Fairies sweat magic dust that makes them look like whatever non-magical people are expecting to see when they look at them. But, now you've seen them, so when you see H.P. and Mr. Sanderson again, you'll be expecting them to be pixies, and so you'll still know they're magic."

"But what if I forget everything?" she whispered. "I don't want to forget."

"Then… I guess you'll still have me." He stretched his hand towards the ceiling, opening and closing his fingers. "You could see me before H.P. blew the dust in your eyes, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then we can always still be friends, even if the dust does wash off or something. Even if you stop expecting to see pixies around. You'll still have me."

"Gary?"

"What?" Gary rolled over and squinted at Betty again, who wouldn't look at him. She squeezed her arms more tightly around her knees, making a steep mountain in her bed covers. Her gaze stayed focused on the wall.

"H.P. said he was over 740,000 years old. He's magic. If you're part genie, do you think you'll live that long too? Even longer than me?"

"No," he said quickly. "You heard Mr. Sanderson–even Anti-Cosmo acted like he couldn't tell if I was a witch without a DNA test. There's too much human in me and not enough genie. Everyone else in my family died when they were old."

"Even your witch grandparents and great-grandparents?"

"Um." He looked down at his thumbs. "Actually I don't know."

Betty shifted, making her bed squeak. She lay down again. "Sanderson said orange genies are rare and special."

Gary thought about that. Then he slid out of the bed. There were slippers on the floor, too big for his feet. He walked over and stood next to her. "Betty, look at me."

She did, and Gary pretended not to notice the tears soaking her cheeks and hair. He put both hands over his chest.

"H.P. and Mr. Sanderson are thousands and thousands of years old, but they're not so old that they need canes and wheelchairs to get around, and they aren't blind or deaf, and they still have their teeth. I mean, H.P. has wrinkles and white hair and looks a little old, but he can still move around and do things. They're just regular grown-ups. The only thing is, they age more slowly than humans do. I'm eight years old, just like you. If I were going to age super duper slowly like a magical person instead of a human, wouldn't I still be a baby right now, at age eight?"

"I don't know," she said.

Gary patted her arm. "Hey, we can turn that frown around! Even if it turns out one day that I do age differently than you do, that doesn't mean I don't want to be your friend."

"Really?"

"Why, of course!"

Bolting upright with a gasp, Betty wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tight. Gary stiffened with a small squeak.

"What's wrong?" she asked, leaning her head back.

"Please get your arms off me," he said softly. "It makes me nervous."

'Nervous' was an understatement. Gary's breath became a knot in his throat. His fingers twisted together, not quite ready to snap but tensing up anyway. He placed his right heel on top of the toes on his left foot and pushed down hard. It wasn't as bad as being in the elevator, but Gary had his limits anyway.

Even in the dark, he could see Betty frown. But, like he asked, she let him go. "Oh. Sorry. Why don't you like hugs?"

"I'unno." Gary rubbed his cheek with his hand. "I just don't like people I don't know touching me like that. When I can't move my arms… I don't know. I feel trapped, and I get scared."

"But we're friends now," she protested. "You don't think I would hurt you, do you?"

That was a tough question. Gary chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Well, I mean, I guess not, when you say it like that."

Betty pushed some hair behind her ear, then more hair behind her other ear. "What if I just hugged you very softly?"

Um… Gary sat back on his own bed, bracing his hands against his knees. "Oh boy. Ohh boy. My my my… oh boy. Please don't, Betty. I don't like that."

"You don't trust me?" She sounded like it hurt her feelings. Gary shifted his legs, kicking them like scissors for a second.

"I just don't want hugs right now. Maybe another day."

Betty paused for a minute, mulling over his words. Maybe he hadn't sounded as interested in figuring out when "another day" was going to be as he should have, because Betty said, "Okay, then fine." She lay down and turned her head away, cuddling up in her blankets. It was quiet.

"Betty," he said softly, apologetically.

Betty pretended to be asleep.

Contrary to popular belief, including his own sometimes, the Head Pixie did not hate fun. He actually loved to have fun, and did so all the time. Why, just last Tuesday he'd waited outside Dr. Rip Studwell's office building for over an hour before the distracted doctor remembered he owned a practice and came to let him in the waiting room, where he waited for a while more. It had only taken a few minutes' flirting with the receptionist to get her to let him in the records room, with its forgotten heap of paperwork on the floor, and he'd alphabetized everything in color-coded file folders before lunch. That was fun.

And on Monday, someone (not naming names, but Rosencrantz) had broken the coffee machine on the third floor. The resulting chaotic panic called for a strong, cool-headed leader—a hero—to guide frantic pixies upstairs. That was fun.

Then there was Sunday. Anti-Cosmo had arrived in Pixie World on Sunday to visit the Water Temple, and H.P. had slipped Talon twenty bucks to ignore the mortified High Count in favor of the High Countess all day. That was a simple and boring prank, and it was fun.

Today was Friday. H.P. had already orchestrated the deaths of a few human adults and the kidnapping of several children, so he was about ready to retire to his penthouse when he detected the thin trail of smoke rocketing from the Onyx Hotel towards the Rapunzel Tower. The humans were in there. Welp. Unless Anti-Cosmo had taken up cheating on his wife with pixies a hundred thousand years younger than him, he'd have to come out again sooner or later. H.P. positioned himself on the nearest balcony with the starzooka he kept in reserve for situations like this. Skipping stars with it had never been one of his favorite pastimes. Now, shooting stars, that was fun. And shooting his friends out of the sky with stars was even more fun. And when the rapid spiral of smoke flew from the top of the tower again, that's exactly what he did.

The instant the star collided with the trail of smoke, Anti-Cosmo and (Oops) Talon turned back to their natural states thirty feet above cloudlevel. Disoriented and stunned by the incorrect destination, the pair of them pinwheeled all their limbs in opposite directions and plummeted towards the cloudstones below at top speed. Leaning his starzooka against the railing, H.P. took an idle moment to calculate their precise landing points, being sure to take wind resistance and horizontal movements resulting from their rapid flailing into account when he did so. At this rate, Talon's arms would bring him close enough to the street light that his instincts would kick in and catch the top, allowing him an elegant and painless perch from which he could slide down easily. Anti-Cosmo was due to smack head-first into the ground. Hmm.

H.P. pinged himself off the balcony in a cloud of dust. This should be good for a little fun.

"Did he just shoot me?" Anti-Cosmo screeched, beating his wings as he flipped over and over in the air. His wings were fired up and ready to go, but he hadn't prepared for flight either mentally or magically. He may as well have been trying to swim up a waterfall merely by kicking his legs. His hand tightened around his screaming shoulder. "He shot me!"

Granted, he wasn't precisely sure who "he" was, only that using the pronoun "he" in Pixie World seemed as though it would be the best option. At this speed, and arm aching, Anti-Cosmo wasn't aware of much. Only that Talon managed to snag the head of a streetlight with an "Oof!" and that a second later, he himself landed belly-first in a pair of thick arms.

"I see someone's out past their curfew," drawled a horrifyingly, irritatingly familiar voice. It scraped against Anti-Cosmo's twitching ears like rocks in a tumbling machine.

"You shot me," he protested, limp and muttering.

The Head Pixie shrugged. "Get the kid to kiss it better. He's a Breath year on the zodiac, right? So he's got magical healing kisses."

Anti-Cosmo lifted his head. "That's not how it works."

"Sure. And you don't have Water powers."

"We're magic, you gigantic buffoon. We can all wield power over the elements if we want to."

"Yes. As I have just demonstrated, my favorite element is the element of surprise." H.P. flicked his eyes up to the anti-fairy dangling from the streetlight overhead. His fingers tightened. "Talon, why are you out of bed?"

Talon pointed an instant claw down at Anti-Cosmo. "He was!"

"High Count privileges. Now go to roost. No grown-ups like having kids around when it's late and they want to talk about private stuff."

Anti-Cosmo groaned. Wriggling his foot free, he twisted around and pushed it into the Head Pixie's shoulder. "For Rhoswen's sake, Talon, do as he says. Before he starts pretending to make mushy with me to chase you off."

H.P. looked at him. "Without dinner first? I have class."

"Oh, don't give me that. You are closer to being on fire than you are to having class."

"That's not how zingers work."

"I'll have you-"

"No." Dropping Anti-Cosmo's legs, H.P. mashed a finger to his lips. "Shh. You're done. Talon, go home. My city. My rules."

Slinging out his wings, Talon took off towards the Onyx Hotel with a grumble of, "Adults ruin everything". Anti-Cosmo clenched his teeth together.

"Well, now wasn't this a lovely little reunion you shepherded us all into? Put. Me. Down."

"Sure." H.P. took hold of Anti-Cosmo's ankles and flipped him over with a shake. That did nothing for his stinging arm. The hem of his nightshirt flapped closer to his shoulders. His monocle tumbled from his eye and smacked against the cloudstones.

"Hey!"

"Oh, come on. You anti-fairies are supposed to like being upside-down. Aha. There we are." When H.P. saw the tuft of orange hair fall from Anti-Cosmo's hand to the ground, he released Anti-Cosmo's feet and let him flop over on his side.

"Oof. Ow. Ow. Mm…" How did one even argue with such a dominant figure as him? 90,000 years or more, and Anti-Cosmo still hadn't figured that out. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, slowly, and puffed his cheeks. "So you know why I'm here, I imagine. You realize you just confirmed my witch hypothesis by jumping me like that."

H.P. scooped the scrap of ginger hair up in his fingers and placed it in the pocket of his wallet. He shut the wallet one-handed with a snap. It went into his coat. "I'm aware. But you were going to find out anyway. I enjoy this more."

"You and your power moves," Anti-Cosmo groaned, popping his monocle back into place. At least it hadn't broken. His fingers tightened around his face. "You're so fortunate I'm not the vengeful type where you Pixies are concerned. One of these days, I'm going to demand you show me my due respect, you know. I daresay I preferred you back when we weren't friends."

"You're terrified of me when we're not friends. I'm the worst best friend you have, but at least this way, you know you're under my protection." H.P. reached down and took his chin. "And you wouldn't want to lose that, would you, speck?"

Anti-Cosmo's face grew a little colder. He wrenched his head away, leaving the pixie's fingers clasping open air, and clutched his arm. "Well, if you really think of me as a friend, I need you to stop doing… this. It's incredibly invalidating."

"Noted. Now that you point it out, that was incredibly rude of me. Next time I catch you sneaking around my place of business and messing with my things behind my back, I won't shoot you out of the sky as a form of discipline. Because we're such good friends. You have my word."

"Do I?"

H.P.'s fingers went to his chest. The other arm went behind his back. He bowed, very slightly and never losing his light dusting of a smirk. "As long as Gary and Betty remain unharmed by Anti-Fairies, you're off limits where my magic is concerned. I swear it."

When the word "swear" left H.P.'s lips, a sharp swiping sound went off in the magical energy field around them like a stabbing spear. H.P. couldn't hear it, of course, but Anti-Cosmo was an Anti-Fairy. His people were nothing if not known for their incredible hearing. His eyes widened very slightly. He'd been trained as an acolyte in the Zodiac Temples for half his life. Bound himself to Sunnie, Prince of Water, for what often felt like longer. He knew the Zodii ways, and he knew a magical oath when he caught one.

For one glorious instant, the world around him flashed with colors that belonged on the 23rd Plane of Existence. Luminescent masses of what appeared to be yarn hung suspended in the air around them. Thinner here, thicker there. The glowing threads were clumped especially tight near the two of them, as twirled around their bodies as pasta around a pair of forks. H.P.'s weave was amazing, obviously, because some people were wealthy where both cash and good karma were concerned. What the bloody ever. Centuries upon centuries and millennia upon millennia of honest business transactions across all the cloudlands—nay, across the universe!—had granted the Head Pixie the most elaborate karmic weave Anti-Cosmo had ever known. A cape of brilliant pastel rainbows waves washed down from his shoulders like a whirlwind, pooling on the floor behind him in a spiraled river. The white collar, tremendously fluffy and speckled with dashes of black, curled around his neck. Gold and diamond tassels dangled from the front. His spiky headdress captured the perfect desire of a crowned crane. Scooping sleeves reached nearly to the floor. Sentient trails of yarn wrapped lovingly about his feet. Even the clothes underneath his cape were to die for, layered and decorated and bound in whimsical ways. You could practically taste a phoenix-feathered fan fluttering in his hand on a parallel plane of existence.

On top of Pixies Inc., the largest shipping and delivery company known to the magical universe, came the influence of the therapeutic help offered by his family business of Wish Fixers. And on top of that, Anti-Cosmo suspected H.P. had inherited at least half that weave from his ancestors without putting in any of his own efforts at all. Anti-Fairies drooled over all that tasty, bleeding energy whenever he came near (Oh, to be so perfect). Imagine how many sturdy empires across the cosmos he could topple if he bit into the Head Pixie's neck and drained his karma dry.

Sigh. He'd channeled that power before. Once.

Anti-Cosmo himself had given up protesting that his own weave had manifested into a ballgown ages ago. Stupid overpowered tunic. Anti-Wanda said it made him look dashing, and really, so long as he didn't trip over his own frustrating skirts while inside the Temples or if other rare circumstances required him to manifest his weave visually, it didn't really matter, did it? He at least knew how to use the individual threads in combat rather than merely for show. That was one thing he and the rest of his people could lord over the Pixies to date.

As he watched, three cords from H.P.'s karmic weave snapped out and wrapped around his own hands. Yellow for Communication, blue for Acceptance, brown for Devotion, knotting his wrists and H.P.'s together in the energy field like a friendship bracelet. Or a set of handcuffs. The noise and colors faded back into the invisible, intangible energy field less than a second later. If he wanted a longer look, he'd have to nip the old boy's neck. Anti-Cosmo blinked and decided not to bring the matter of what he'd just seen to H.P.'s attention. He tightened his fists. The part of him that had spent so many years working with genies threw his mind into overdrive, scanning H.P.'s words for loopholes. Don't harm Gary and Betty? Which Gary and Betty did that comment necessarily apply to? What constituted as harm? Did being "off limits" from the Head Pixie's magic include teleportation and healing as well? Was that the plural form of "you're"?

H.P. spread apart his hands, looking for all the world like he had no idea what all had just shot through Anti-Cosmo's awareness, and maybe he didn't; not really. Not like Anti-Fairies did. "Okay. You got me. Gary's a witch. Who tipped you off? Bayard? Rosencrantz?"

"… Abernathy."

"Not Abernathy. Mullins? Tolbert? Jake? Smith? Bell?"

Anti-Cosmo wondered how many names H.P. would list off before he got bored. Actually… silly question. He picked himself up in slow motion and tentatively brushed at the soreness in his arm.

"Never mind who squealed, old chap. In fact, no one did. None of your pixies, anyway. Talon passed them in the elevator on their way down, and he told me his suspicions."

H.P. grimaced. His hands lingered in his pockets, thumbs poking out. "However you found out, the point is, you know now. Well. Pitch to me what you are going to do with this information. You have ten seconds."

Anti-Cosmo tightened his grip on his arm. He filled his cheeks, then let them deflate. Somehow, he managed to force his eyes to stay locked with the Head Pixie's. "I wasn't really going to do anything important, I assure you. I was only curious. Why, an orange witch isn't a matter that crosses your path every day, you know. I wanted to know if he might be descended from one of mine."

"Right. Your genie conservation efforts. I figured." H.P. reached into his suit coat and withdrew a folded piece of paper from an inner pocket. "Here. Don't bother spending all night trying to sneak over to my machine with that little bit of Gary's hair. I know your tricks, and you and your wife will find some way to take my pixies out of commission, no matter how many defenses I set up. You're annoying like that. Let me just save you the trouble, and me the expenses. Here's the full scan on Gary's DNA."

Warily, Anti-Cosmo took it. "I know this can't be the real, H.P., or you wouldn't be giving it to me so easily. You haven't the foggiest idea what I'm capable of doing with it."

"It's real. You could have just asked me if I'd already run the results, you know. I was going to hand them over to you anyway; I never intended to hide them from you. I only just found out about his witchhood myself. So, that's the real deal, right there. I trust you."

Anti-Cosmo dropped his gaze to the scrap of paper. He tongued the inside of his cheek. The memory of H.P.'s oath refused to leave his mind. Social convention, not magic, demanded a two-way promise here. After a few seconds of silence passed, H.P. smirked.

"Thought so. The magic of guilt will prevent you from betraying my trust over something as small as a witch."

"Hmph." Anti-Cosmo unfolded the document, flattening the crease against his thigh. "Let me see what we have here. Well." He tapped his claw against the page's bottom corner. "Sure enough, there we are. Three chromosomes, XYZ. If this is legitimate, then he's a witch, all right."

"It's legit."

"Absolutely fascinating. He really is of the Genie tribe, isn't he? Do tell! We'll definitely want to have him documented; you'll enjoy the paperwork on that end. Oh, this is wonderful! An orange witch–Can you even believe it, H.P.?" Anti-Cosmo thrummed his wings. "Why, we could probably sign him onto talk shows and everything, and my program can sponsor him. This could be just the publicity I need to captivate the interest of the masses when it comes to genie conservation! H.P.!" Tossing Gary's report aside, Anti-Cosmo latched both his fists into the front of the Head Pixie's suit coat. "Think of the pizazz! The drama! The merchandising rights! Ohhh, isn't this wonderful? Why, we could procure the funds and efforts to take genies off the critically endangered species list before the decade is out!"

H.P. raised his eyebrow. "First, let go of my shirt. You'll wrinkle it. Then look at how little Genie blood is in him."

"… Oh."

They stood together in silence for a moment, Anti-Cosmo staring half-blankly at the creased paper in his hand. He beat his wings once.

"Hmm," he said. He flipped the paper to the back, then checked its front again. "Well, well, well. All right, then. Until I get a good look at him, it's impossible to determine what level of magic is running in his veins. Even the slightest drop of Fomorian blood can lend itself to extreme powers in witches, you know. Of course, the power level varies by the individual. Has he exhibited any signs that you've noticed?"

"He seems to be some kind of siren. Once he was in the zone, his Genie instincts kicked in and he started snapping his fingers."

"He's a siren!" Anti-Cosmo clapped his hands a few times. "Oooh, in what way? Poetry? Animal whispering? Flirtation? Spontaneous musical numbers? A mixture, or something more? When can I meet him?"

H.P. rubbed his chin. "There was singing and choreography today. I'm not sure about the others. Not poetry. But flirtation would be a welcome trait. I've heard that if you raise humans together after the age of six, they'll fall for one another instead of seeing each other as siblings. I do have a drake and a damsel. Humans multiply young, and multiply a lot within their lifetimes. It's about time I followed in your footsteps and started playing matchmaker."

Anti-Cosmo looked at him, hands still clasped. They started to slip apart. "Oh… You don't know, do you? About male witches?"

H.P.'s expression remained blank, but he tilted his head very slightly. "Don't know what?"

At that, Anti-Cosmo cleared his throat and puffed his cheeks once again. "Um, well… Ooh. If Garrett is an XYZ, then he's a male witch. And having an extra chromosomes tends to lead to certain…" He pressed the palm of his right hand down, bending the fingers on his left hand back. "… complications in a male individual. An XYZ is likely to exhibit more, ah, damseline physical traits than normal. I'm sorry to say this, but I guarantee you, he's going to turn out sterile. It doesn't matter if you try to pair him with a damsel or not. Witch heritage only ever comes from the mother. The males can't breed. Not ever. No human babies."

H.P. pressed his teeth into his lower lip and leaned forward. "Mmm. That… is not what I wanted to hear. There was a reason I wanted to raise an unrelated drake and a damsel. I had plans."

Anti-Cosmo took half a step back. "You were hoping for the pitter-patter of little feet in the workplace sooner rather than later, hmm?"

"Considering that half a dozen loyal baby humans might have worked to my advantage in another 47 years, yes." He smoothed his face straight again. "How sure are you about the sterile thing?"

"Very sure. At least 99%. There's never been a recorded buck who wasn't. Male witch," he corrected himself, wringing his hands briefly. "'Buck' is a term best saved for actual genies. I do apologize."

H.P. sighed. "That about figures it. Maybe I'll attempt to breed them anyway. It might work. Stranger things have happened."

"Don't get your hopes up. As I said, historically male witches have always been sterile." Anti-Cosmo scratched behind his ear. "But, I suppose there remains the slightest possibility that he could turn out intact. Fate works in strange ways at strange times, and few things are ever certain. Well, whatever happens, don't force your humans into anything against they don't agree with. If it's meant to happen, it will on its own."

"Sure. I'll just have to make them think it's their idea."

Hearing this, Anti-Cosmo tucked Gary's report into his nightshirt sleeve and grinned. "Ooh-hoo-hoo, that's going to be absolute murder on you, isn't it? Not taking credit for one of your own prrrojects for once?"

"I'll manage. Sanderson arranges my to-do list like a crying river, and then I get over it. Was the genie in Gary's line one of yours?"

"Couldn't be," Anti-Cosmo said. "I don't lose genies."

H.P. slid his eyes sideways. "I find it difficult to believe there's a genie flitting around out there that you don't know about."

"And to be truthful, so am I. Nonetheless, I don't lose genies. I'm not the only breeder in this business, you know. Here." Anti-Cosmo whipped Gary's report out again and squinted. "Your pixie tacked on some extra information he researched here. Let me… identify… It has to be… hidden in here… somewhere… Ah. I have to hand it to you pixies, you do keep things more organized than we do. Hmm. Yes. Her name seems to be Crimsona. This section of muddled jargon means she has a deep scarlet tail. She… started out in India, I think. That makes sense. Then her lamp was bounced around in Indonesia and the Philippines for awhile before gradually making its way to… What's the modern name, what's the modern name–Korea! Korea in the last few decades." He rubbed his chin. "Perhaps I should go and fetch her. I desperately need to introduce new genes into the breeding pool of my program; you know how it is. I can take Garrett. Oh, please let me take Garrett to meet her. It's his heritage."

H.P. clicked his tongue once. "I'll think about it. Impressive work with that Crimsona stuff. I totally deduced that much about her myself. Is there any information about why she would have chosen to mate with a human?"

Anti-Cosmo scratched his finger halfway down the page. "This asterisk here suggests she had to. At some point or another, it seems to have been wished."

"Ah."

The two were silent, one with his hands tight around the paper and the other holding them in a link behind his back. Anti-Cosmo glanced up at H.P. again, who grimaced in response.

"Hmm. For a second there, I thought I felt an actual pang of empathy for another person. On further examination, it was just gas."

"Thanks for sharing," Anti-Cosmo grumbled, and rolled the paper up again like a scroll. He tapped the end against his palm. "You know, H.P., while I have your attention tonight, I think I should like to discuss the arrangements for an upcoming dinner…"

Should she get out of bed? She was so cozy. The blankets were so warm and positioned across her back and shoulder just the way she liked them. If she jumped up then they would shift and she might not be able to get back to sleep for hours. She'd finally found a position where her sore arm didn't hurt so much. And there were so many plants all over the floor. What if she crashed into them in the dark?

How could she get back to sleep, though, when her mind kept rolling over and over back to her parents, dead in the car on the side of the road in the cold December snow? They'd just had Christmas on Wednesday, with its twinkling lights. Mom had sat on the couch while Kenny sucked on two of his fingers, trying to help him open his new present as he shoved her away and protested, "I can do it! Don't help!" He'd finally torn off the wrapping to find a new blue train sitting in his lap. He got a locomotive every Christmas, and two magnetic cars that latched on behind it for his birthdays. And next year he was turning five, so the tiny trains would be upgraded to a whole set of wooden train tracks, with tunnels and bridges and everything.

Betty had gotten a wooden farmhouse from her papa, with twelve horses. He'd carved one every single month just for her. She'd known about a few of them, because she'd caught him a few times and he'd let her pick some of their designs. She had a horse whinnying with its head thrown back, and one rearing up, and most of them running, but one of them grazing quietly on the ground. Some had saddles and some were wild. One horse was a baby with tiny chips of blue eyes.

Were they going to have a funeral? Would they be buried like Blossom was? Would it be raining? Would she even get to go? And if she did, what would she wear? Did she even have any clothes that were all black? Betty tried to picture the faces of everyone who would be there at the funeral. Grandma Bacon, definitely, and Auntie Janice, and Grandpa Bacon only if he had to be.

Was Kenny okay? Betty couldn't believe that Mr. Sanderson had made her and her brother sleep in different rooms. Yeah, she was eight now, but why was she sleeping with Gary when Kenny was her brother? She was so cozy in bed, but maybe she should get up and go check on him in the other room, just to make sure he was okay. He was probably scared to be with so many strangers, especially without her there to sleep with him. Betty didn't know if he really understood that their parents were dead, as in gone, and she really wished she and her brother had had some time alone to think about it.

Could she sneak past Gary to the door without waking him up? He sounded like he was asleep, breathing softly in the other bed, curled up with his blankets only half on him and one of his knees almost hitting his nose. But if he started asking her questions about herself or how she was feeling or if she was okay, Betty didn't think she could handle it.

Would Mr. Sanderson see her if she got up? What would she say if he asked her why she wasn't asleep? Would he understand that she was worried and be nice? Or would he send her back to bed without letting her see Kenny? Was Kenny even awake? He'd napped the longest on the couch, and he didn't usually sleep well at night when he napped. Or what if he was almost asleep, and then when she went in there, she accidentally woke him up? What if he was doing okay right now, but then she tried to tell him about what happened to their parents, and he started crying, and woke everyone else up, and then they were mad at him? She couldn't let anyone be mad at Kenny. He was only four.

What time was it? Betty peeked at the glowing red numbers on the nightstand clock, almost covered by the round leaves of a plant. 11:33. It wasn't even tomorrow yet. It felt like it was tomorrow. Her stomach hurt, and her arm was still sore, and finally Betty decided that she really needed to use the bathroom. If she happened to use the bathroom closest to where Kenny was and she happened to check on him, well, that was just an accident.

Betty slid out of her cozy bed and touched down on the floor. Using her quiet mouse feet, and being careful to step around any plants she thought might be there, she snuck past Gary and made it to the door. She twisted the knob. She opened the door fast instead of slow, hoping that it wouldn't squeal on her. It didn't. It opened perfectly and quietly. So far, so good.

Next was the short hallway. Across from her was Mr. Sanderson's and Mr. Hawkins' bathroom, but Betty ignored it and tiptoed towards the living room. The floor was carpet, so it couldn't really creak, but she kept her steps light just in case. At the end of the hallway, she pressed her back against the wall and dared to risk the sneakiest peek around the corner of her life.

Mr. Sanderson was asleep on the gray couch, both his arms crossed underneath his chin. He had his sunglasses clenched in one fist. The window blinds were shut and it was too dark to tell if he was still wearing his suit, or if he'd gotten into his pajamas. Betty hadn't heard him changing clothes in the bathroom, although he had popped in super quick to check on Gary (and her too) when she was pretending to be asleep.

Another pixie lay at the other end of the couch. The couch was long and they were both pretty short grown-ups, so they could put their heads on opposite arms of the couch without bumping into each other's feet too much. Betty wrinkled her nose. The couch didn't look very comfortable. She liked big round couches with slick cushions, not this square couch with tough fabric that would probably leave a pattern like a waffle on your cheek if you lay down. It looked old. At least the pixies had been nice about giving her and Gary their beds.

Okay. Now what?

Kenny was in the room that Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Longwood shared, if she remembered right. She hadn't met either one of them yet, but she hoped they were nice enough. Betty studied the living room, then decided that the best way to cross it would be super fast. She crouched down on the floor, legs ready, and then she ran. She ran past the kitchen counter on her left, past the TV on her right, past the little table, past the couch–

Couch–

Betty froze beside the couch, tightening her hands. Her feet were on the ground, but she stayed up on her toes.

Mr. Sanderson wasn't asleep. He had opened his eyes when he heard her running, and now he was looking. Right at her.

Betty looked at him, feeling like she'd swallowed her hair. She stayed still, but Mr. Sanderson's eyes didn't shut. A minute passed. Then probably five. Was someone singing on the opposite side of the apartment? She thought she could hear singing, even though she couldn't make out the words. Finally, Betty took another step towards the other hallway. Then another. Mr. Sanderson's purple eyes followed her all the way across the living room, but he didn't say anything.

The further she went down the other hall, the more sure Betty was that she could hear singing. It sounded like it was coming from the right-hand door, which was the bathroom, and she might have giggled if this were another day. Papa liked to sing in the shower, and he was loud about it. When he sang, Mom would scoop Kenny up and waltz around the room with him, singing along. Or if Kenny didn't want to be picked up, then she'd pick up Betty. Sometimes they'd creep up to the bathroom door, which he never locked, and surprise him by bursting in and singing at the top of their lungs, while he shouted playfully at them to get out and give a man some privacy.

Betty turned the handle of the bedroom door. All the lights were off, and it was perfectly silent inside. There weren't plants in this one like in Mr. Sanderson's room, but there was a rabbit hutch near the door. The rabbit inside it was sleeping. Betty hoped it was sleeping and not dead, even though its body didn't rise with its breaths. She didn't really want to go in if it was dead. That was creepy. Then the rabbit twitched its ears, and she knew it was probably alive. Or haunted. Yeah, let's go with alive.

Betty looked around very carefully before she dared to slip in. One of the gray beds was still made. The other was a little rumpled. That was kind of weird. It was past 11:30, and bedtime for grown-ups was 10:00. Maybe Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Longwood hadn't come back to the apartment? She remembered hearing Mr. Madigan say Mr. Wilcox's name on the radio, so maybe he'd be back late tonight. Mr. Longwood too.

So… had Kenny been sent in here to sleep all alone?

Betty looked under the covers of both beds, and even underneath both beds. She checked the closet and the drawers, but she couldn't find Kenny anywhere. That was weird. It wasn't like he could just crawl through the window and fall all the way to the ground or anything.

Wait a minute. Why would someone be softly singing in the middle of the night… unless they were singing a baby to sleep?

Leaving the bedroom behind, plucking at the skin on her scraped-up arm, Betty crossed the hall to the bathroom. Along with the soft singing, she heard footsteps crossing back and forth. The door wasn't locked, so she peeked one eye in.

"Well, I heard they got pinned. I was hoping they would."

A pixie in gray pajamas stood in front of the tall bathroom mirror, holding a four-year-old almost as big as himself. Kenny's face rested on his shoulder, so Betty couldn't see his expression, but her brother wasn't squirming around like he wanted to get down. He sounded pretty quiet. If he wasn't asleep yet, he almost was.

"Now they're living at last. Going steady for good. Going steady–"

"Can I come in?"

The pixie's dangling wings sprang up behind him instantly. "Gah! Human." He turned, clutching Kenny tight. His grip only tightened when he saw who it was. He didn't have his sunglasses on, and his eyes were the same pretty purple as Mr. Sanderson's and H.P.'s. He blew out his breath, making the pointy hat floating above him bob around a little. Then he wiped his forehead with the back of one hand. "Oh. Wow. You humans don't understand how startling you can be when you sneak up on us like that. Our magical senses can't identify your kind. I didn't even realize you were there."

"Sorry. I'm Betty." She pointed at Kenny. "That's my little brother Kenny. I was just worried about him and couldn't sleep, so I wanted to check on him."

Slowly, the pixie relaxed. "He's fine," he said. "I'm holding him."

He didn't say anything else. Betty looked to the left, then the right. Then at him again. "Yeah."

"I was singing 'The Telephone Hour'. It's from a movie called 'Bye Bye Birdie'. Have you ever seen it?"

"I don't think so. I don't watch a lot of movies."

"Hmm. Then your parents have deprived you." Carefully, the pixie shifted Kenny in his arms so that he could hold out his hand to her for a shake. "Don't wake your brother. I just got him to sleep, so I'm going to put him to bed now. My name is Longwood. Mr. Longwood, but don't mind the 'Mr.' It's such a pleasure to finally meet you. You are?"

"… Betty." She'd just told him that, right?

"Betty. How are you settling in tonight, Ms. Betty? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Um." She thought for a second. "Oh, yeah. There are no toys here. If we're going to stay here for awhile, then we need more toys."

Longwood nodded. "Toys. I'll take your input into account at next Friday's meeting, thank you."

Betty moved out of his way so he could carry Kenny back into the dark bedroom. Longwood lay the boy down in the rumpled bed by the window. Kenny wasn't quite asleep–he was just awake enough that he kept his arms locked around Longwood's neck, and it took the pixie a minute to figure out how to get them off.

"I liked your singing," Betty told him. "You sing very well."

Longwood glanced over at her, pulling Kenny's blankets up to his shoulder. "Thank you for your response. I wasn't sure I would. It's been centuries since I've sung to a child." He picked a large plush shark up from the nightstand and tucked it under Kenny's arm. Kenny snuggled up to it and instantly went right back to sleep.

"Do you have kids?" She hoped he'd say yes. She hadn't seen any pixie kids yet. True, Sanderson said she and Gary couldn't live in Pixie World forever or else they'd run out of air to breathe, but Betty hoped they'd visit enough that she could make friends with some pixie kids. Did her Earth friends think she was dead? H.P. had made it sound like they did, or would soon enough. She couldn't go back to Kansas. No more friends. No more family. No more horses. No more softball. No more school. Betty was trying not to think about that.

"I… had a kid, yes," Longwood said. "He's gone."

"Where does he live now?"

Longwood looked at her more seriously. "I mean, he's gone. He isn't ever coming back."

"Oh. That kind of gone." Betty looked again at the shark he'd given Kenny. "So is that a dead person's toy?"

"Aspen's not dead," Longwood snapped, and Betty jumped at the shoulders. He inhaled through his teeth. "My apologies for startling you, but I always have to express my disagreement when people state that. Aspen isn't entirely dead. He's still in there. I can recognize tells of it sometimes. He's just… not as alive as he could be." He scratched his wrist, long nails scraping his skin. "I'm sorry. Aspen was my baby. I know it was highly unprofessional of me, but I grew attached to him."

Kenny stirred in the bed, but didn't get up. "I'd be so sad if anything happened to Kenny," Betty murmured. "I'm sorry. Did someone kidnap Aspen? Or did he run away?"

"No. No, he didn't run!" Longwood's throat briefly strangled his voice. "He was so trusting. Sanderson cornered him, and he didn't even–think–when I saw–No." He shook his head. "No. You would need a full lesson in Fairykind anatomy to understand exactly what happened, Ms. Betty. It's black magic stuff. I'm sorry. Anything involving Aspen is very difficult for me to discuss, and I would prefer not to breach the subject with a child I just met, you realize."

"Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel bad." Betty looked up at Longwood, who was looking down at Kenny, and reached out to pat his hand. "I lost my mom and dad today. Maybe it's not exactly the same as losing your baby, but… I think I know a little bit how you feel. It's really hard, isn't it? You don't really want to think about it, but you still do anyway. Especially when it's quiet at night. Gary's my friend, but I don't think he understands, and Kenny's too young to know what happened. It's hard to be the only one, with no one to talk to about your feelings."

"I," Longwood said thickly, "am the vice president of Pixies Incorporated, the third-largest major corporation in the entire cloudlands. We're ranked only after the Amity godparenting program and Kringle Inc. itself. I put the company first and always do what's logically best for the Pixies without hesitation. Feelings lead to illogical favor and unprofessional behavior. Feelings are a distraction. Emotions are pointless. I don't have any."

Betty pressed her lips together. "Everyone has feelings. Like, if I jabbed my fingers in your eyes, you would probably yell or cry about it. That's a feeling."

"That doesn't count," Longwood sighed. "Pain isn't a feeling. It's an automatic reflex of the body, and with dedication, it can be suppressed."

"Okay, but there's still pain inside your brain. You can feel it when you're sad. Like when I think about my parents dying, or you think about Aspen."

His mouth twitched in the dark. "I've learned ways to distract myself from ruminating on mental pain such as the loss of someone I cared for. Meditation. Expressive writing. Guided imagery. Acupuncture. Things that aren't standard education for a pixie, but I had the Anti-Fairies educate me in their ways. It helps me reduce stress."

A sudden new thought popped into Betty's head. She straightened up, her heels bumping together. "Can you teach me how?"