She needs help getting organized. Even sprites have paperwork to file. Carabosse advises her to get rid of the clutter; while some ballast is good for pixies, too much and you can feel bogged down.
Fairy does feel a little bogged down. Carabosse thinks squirrels are old-fashioned; she insists they call in the local expert. A lovely English woman they are certain is half-pixie. Gaily she leads them on a merry march through the tree house in search of things they no longer need or want.
Some hours later, the paperwork has all gone to its proper place and ten cardboard boxes filled with clothing and other assorted items have being whisked away in Paula Pop-ins' car.
Elf comes home to find Fairy and Carabosse dancing around the fire pit.
“Oh, darling, it’s lovely. And a bargain, too. We saved a fortune in late fees.”
Carabosse can be a very clever fairy when she puts her mind to it.
Elf made whitings in white wine for dinner. He cooked them in a casserole with kosher sea salt, pepper and chopped mushrooms in butter. He used Sauterne; a glassful poured over them, and baked them in a moderate oven for about twenty minutes and served them with grilled baby zucchini and summer squash.
Long after everyone else has gone to bed, Fairy lies awake in a white mist, fragrant with late blooming jasmine and cold with no stars, no moon, not even the shadows of branches across the sky. Somewhere in the brume, the owls are calling.
She lives over again the heart felt conversations they have had this week. Her dear friend Carabosse wants to find Princess Thunderthighs and tell her the truth. Fairy does not think this will turn out well.
Carabosse has softened with age and experience. She still has a sharp tongue but she is no match for the bellicose creature that has conspired with the magician to cause them so much pain.
The despairing, hungry yaps of the coyotes haunt the calm of the canyon. It is too dismal for Fairy to sleep. She goes through the wood down to the waterfall to collect ferns for transplanting in gullies more barren. She cuts down dead swords for the little boys to find in their morning play.
With damp grubby hands, a basket of curling young fronds for other sandy beds and a queer sort of exultation in her heart, she strolls home at dawn along silent, roundabout roads.
In the afternoon she will mulch the new pear tree and fill the flowers along Fernwood Pacific with nectar for the hummingbirds. It is obvious that she must support her old friend, but she means to avoid that magician at all cost. They must find an ally, a mediator, a therapist, a miracle worker.
Brynhildr! Of course! It’s obvious, she says out loud, of course. Look how well she has tidied up her little troll! An extremely weary Fairy climbs into bed with her good idea.
If the coyotes would go to sleep!
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