Whispered Magics (14 page)

She stepped down into the conservatory and put her present on
the side table with other gifts.

A plump girl in a very expensive party dress stood at the
window. When she heard Cynthia’s steps she looked up, her expression changing
from hope to disappointment. Then, just as quick, she smiled a fake smile.

“Cynthia!”

“Hi.”

Courtney Nabor acted glad to see her, but that was only
because she was alone. That meant the maid had also said to her, “Ze party’s
dair,” instead of greeting her by name and sending her up to Wallace’s room.

Courtney fingered her hair, then carefully tossed it back.
Cynthia realized it had been cut and styled since she’d seen Courtney last at
school, and she wondered if she was supposed to say something about it. Except
she’d learned never to say anything about people’s appearances—if you weren’t
popular, no matter what you said was wrong.

“Cody’s still upstairs getting ready,” Courtney said with
another hair toss, and then giggled.

Cynthia nodded and smiled, though she was sure that Courtney
could hear as well as she could the shrieks of laughter echoing down the marble
stairs from above. Wishing that Courtney would move away from the window, she
wandered over to the table to inspect the decorations for later description to
her mother.

Courtney said, still fiddling with her hair, “Everybody stayed
up late last night, working on that stupid statistics thing for Social
Studies.”

Cynthia nodded again, guessing that some of the girls upstairs
had already spent one night, and Courtney had found out by calling on some
pretext or other.

“Cody says that Maddy will probably be here, if she doesn’t
have jetlag too bad,” Courtney added, giggling again.

Cynthia was surprised. Madeleine Devereux, the richest girl in
the school, almost never came to the birthday parties. In fact, half the time
she wasn’t even at school—she flew around the world a lot and had a private
tutor to keep her up with their class.

“Cody says—” Courtney turned quickly toward the door, but the
newcomer was only a servant who put a big chunk of dry ice in the punch.

That’s the third ‘Cody’, Cynthia thought, knowing that
Courtney wouldn’t dare use the nickname to Wallace’s face. Sometimes Wallace
permitted wanna-be followers to use her nickname, but often she’d make her eyes
big and say, “You talkin’ to me?” while all her pals laughed.

Cynthia never used any names, never addressed anyone first. As
Courtney wandered over to the table and started picking at the chips and dip,
Cynthia wondered if she knew that Wallace’s gang called her Whale Nabor behind
her back.

Now that Courtney was busy with the food, Cynthia went to the
window and looked out. Some of the dread in her stomach eased. There was the
garden—it had not been changed. But a hatted head bobbed close to the pond.
Digging. A gardener? As soon as he, or she, left, Cynthia could escape to the
garden.

Clattering and thumping and high-pitched giggles preceded the
arrival of Wallace and her shadow, Ashleigh Sullivan, and the rest of her
satellites.

They were all in shades of blue. Courtney started cooing and
cawing over how cool Wallace looked, and how cute her hair was. Wallace grinned
and flounced to the head of the table. “Books isn’t coming?” she asked, looking
around, her blue gaze flicking Cynthia and away.

Cynthia said nothing, knowing she’d already been dismissed.
But Courtney said in a hurry, her voice gossipy and eager, “She said she won’t
come. Neither are her three musketeers. Books said they’d rather be at the libe
all day.” She giggled.

Wallace and her gang snickered, too. Taylor
Tomlinson-Ferguson, nicknamed Books, was Wallace’s rival in the classroom.
Taylor cared passionately about grades, and Wallace ignored them. Cynthia
didn’t see any difference between the girls for meanness.

Cynthia wondered what Courtney had said about Wallace to
Taylor in order to get that gossip. As if Wallace was thinking the same thing,
she said, “Well, Maddy will be here any time. Send her upstairs, okay?”

The gang ran out again, the giggles giving way to screams of
laughter.

Courtney’s face was pale except for two red spots. Cynthia
turned away quickly, pretending not to notice—pretending it was just a request
and not a horrible putdown. But it was a putdown, and Cynthia saw in Courtney’s
stiff smile that she knew it. They were not welcome upstairs, but Maddy was. Of
course the maid would catch Madeleine at the door so they would never even get
the chance to tell her anything, but the hint—I don’t want you—was there.

Courtney still grinned, but her eyes looked sick. It was those
eyes that made Cynthia brave enough to speak first. “I’d like to look at the
garden until they come back.”

Courtney could be as mean as Wallace or Taylor, but she only
seemed to do it when the leaders were there to approve. Now she giggled. “Why
not?” Another giggle. “It’s stuffy in here.”

The hazy sunshine carried scents from the flowers, all nodding
bright heads in the breeze. Courtney headed straight for the pond. Cynthia
followed, her heart thumping against her ribs. Before, she had gone to the pond
both times alone, once on a sunny warm day like this, and once when it was
drizzling.

“Did you know that her grandmother owns this place?” Courtney
said.

Cynthia shook her head, noticing the lack of ‘Cody.’

“Her dad’s been fired from two places. Not like they need the
money, with this house to live in,” Courtney went on. “Did you know it’s
practically the oldest house in Beverly Hills? But Wallace’s parents don’t own
it, though they talk like they do. It belongs to Wallace’s grandmother. Her
name is Mathilde Oslossen. Mathilde! Oslossen! What dorky names! We don’t know
where they got their money.”

They were very near the little bridge. The broad hat moving
among the shrubs indicated the gardener still at work. As the girls reached the
bridge, the hat lifted, revealing an old, seamed face. Two bird-bright eyes
studied them, and then the gardener smiled.

Cynthia politely smiled back. Courtney turned away. “Ugh.” She
tossed her hair. “That gross algae! You’d think they could clear this pool
out.”

Cynthia looked down, holding her breath in case the figures
were gone, that she had imagined them after all. Courtney certainly saw
nothing. But when she stared down into the cool green water, there were the
fragile fronds wavering up toward the surface, and dancing between them, the
fairies. Still here! And real. Cynthia leaned against the bridge rail,
enthralled.

As delicate as figures on etched glass, the graceful little
sprites swooped and whirled in the water, eyes slanting and laughter bubbles
rising from open mouths. A bird dive-bombed the water, and the figures darted
away, then regathered, swimming in dizzying circles. Tiny houses made of sand
and bright pebbles and moss were cleverly hidden among the ferns along the
bank. Trails no wider than a finger wound up and down little mounds,
disappearing into tiny tunnels under sheltering fronds.

Cynthia drew in a deep breath. How could Wallace’s family live
here and not want to spend all their time at this pond?

“Watch how many times I can skip.” Courtney picked up a
pebble. She cocked her wrist back.

“Oh, don’t!” Cynthia yelled.

Courtney gaped, almost dropping the stone.

“Don’t you see them?” Cynthia asked, pointing at the pond.

Courtney hopped back up on the bridge and wrinkled her nose.
“Some kind of silver fish. So what?”

“The algae,” Cynthia said quickly. “It’ll stink if you stir it
up.”

“Ugh.” Courtney dropped the stone. “Disgusting.” She wandered
back down the bridge toward the house.

Cynthia lingered, unwilling to leave the fascinating creatures
unless she had to. So she was startled when a husky voice said right next to
her, “Do you see them?”

Cynthia whirled around, found the old gardener standing there.
“See what?” she asked cautiously.

“Them.” A gnarled hand pointed down at the dancing figures.
Rainbow patterns shifted across the water as they swam upward, touched the
surface, then dove down.

“The fairies?”

The gardener cackled in delight. “You do see them!”

“I’ve seen them three times now,” Cynthia breathed. “But—you
mean everybody doesn’t see them?”

The gardener pointed her trowel. “Your friend didn’t, did
she?”

“You mean Courtney? No, I guess she didn’t.”

The old woman laughed, then squinted up at Cynthia, her bright
blue eyes and cocked head sparrow-like. “Who are you?” she asked. “One of the
girls here for my granddaughter’s party?”

Cynthia blinked at the old woman in the rough clothes and
ratty hat, trying to equate her with the formidable image of a white-haired
lady in diamonds and black lace, with a cruel face like Wallace’s, but old.

“You must go to that school, then.” The grandmother jerked her
trowel over her shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Never seen you around.”

Not sure how to interpret this, Cynthia said defensively,
“I’ve been here for two of Wallace’s other birthday parties. That’s when I saw
them.” She pointed at the pond. “I thought Wallace knew about them, but just
didn’t care.”

“She hasn’t seen them. At least, she couldn’t when she was small.
Now neither the kid nor those shrieking brats come out here.” The grandmother
still eyed Cynthia. Then she grunted softly. “Tell me. What’s she like at
school?”

The blue eyes were steady. Cynthia formed a polite lie in her
mind, but when she opened her mouth, out came the word “Mean.”

Mrs. Oslossen pursed her lips. “Thought so.” Her tone was
matter-of-fact, but Cynthia could tell in the way the old woman’s gaze went
aside and then down that she felt badly.

Cynthia mumbled, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

“Never mind,” Mrs. Oslossen said.

For a time they stood there on the bridge, watching the
fairies in their continual whirl of activity below the surface of the glinting
water. Big silver fish swam slowly among them, unnoticed, unnoticing.

“Which girl are you?” the old lady asked presently.

Cynthia hesitated. The way the question was phrased indicated
that Mrs. Oslossen already knew the names of the girls in Wallace’s class.

Cynthia thought about how Wallace probably talked about her
classmates, if she mentioned them at all, and she said, “They call me
Synthetica.” She was glad her voice sounded as matter-of-fact as Wallace’s
grandmother had sounded after Cynthia called the granddaughter mean.

Mrs. Oslossen nodded, her eyes steady but kind. “It seems the
only sin you’ve committed is pretending to be wealthy.”

Cynthia stayed silent. She thought of Open House, the one
night a year her mother came to school, and how she’d go from group to group of
the adults with her big smile, talking loudly about the film industry, and
trips to New York and London, new cars, and high-fashion label clothes. None of
it was outright lies—Cynthia’s father did work in the film industry, but he was
just a sound editor, and Cynthia’s mother did arrange trips to New York and
London, but for other people at the travel agency where she worked, and she
certainly knew all about expensive cars and clothes. But everything was
exaggerated to make it seem bigger and nicer and richer and more important.

“Ah,” the old lady said. “Yours must be the Stella Dallas
mother.”

Cynthia’s lips parted. She was about to say that her mother
was Toni Deal, then she realized that adults would have their own nicknames.
Her face and neck went hot.

The old lady patted her arm with her brown, knuckley fingers.
“A strange world we live in, child.” Her voice was warm with sympathy and
humor. She held out her gnarled hand and gripped Cynthia’s. “I am Tilda
Oslossen. Tell me your real name.”

“Cynthia Deal. Have—have the fairies always been here?”

“Near as I know.” Mrs. Oslossen waved the trowel in a little
circle. “My grandfather built this place, long before it was fashionable. He
planned the house around this pond. My sister and I both saw the fairies. My
grandmother didn’t, nor my parents or either of my brothers. My grandfather did
all the gardening, and when he died, it was I who inherited the place. Now I do
the gardening. I can’t risk having some blind fellow trample one of the houses
or kill a family with his big boot.” She bent and plucked a pale pink petal
from a rose, and dropped it. The petal drifted down, landed on the water, and
tiny fairy children darted up and swam round and round it.

What will happen after she’s gone? Cynthia thought. She stole
a look sideways. The old lady’s lips were pursed as she watched the fairies in
the water. She’s thinking the same thing, Cynthia realized.

“My sister died young,” the old lady said. “Polio.”

“I’m sorry,” Cynthia whispered.

“So am I—still. It was her idea to travel over the world and
try to find more places like this. We couldn’t believe it was the only one in
the world. After she died, I lost interest. Maybe this is the only one, and not
everyone can see it. Do you think it is?”

Cynthia shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said, then added
in a burst, “I don’t want it to be. I want there to be lots and lots of them,
and I want to find one that—” She stopped.

“That’s yours,” Mrs. Oslossen finished, her smile turning wry.
“I work every day to keep their surroundings congenial, but most of them don’t
see me any more than my family sees them. A couple of them do, I think.
Sometimes I kneel on the edge, right over there where the flat rock is, and
there are three or four tiny faces just below the surface, round and sweet as
flowers, looking up at me. Like little children with their faces pressed
against glass.” She plucked another rose and tossed the petals down. “You can’t
own them, any more than you can own your children. The most you can do is try
to keep them safe, but it takes constant vigilance. And when we’re gone—”