The Fairest Kind of Love Page 9

  “This is the kind of crap she has to put up with,” she fumes. “This is why we do Matchmaker Magic!, to show her there is more to life than this.”

  I know how Jane feels. I’ve walked in her shoes. I vow, right then and there, to be her ally in whatever ways I can. “It’ll be okay,” I whisper. “Things will get better.” Sad brown eyes look up at me.

  “You promise?” she asks.

  “I promise.”

  Rose runs her fingers through her fauxhawk, trying to shake off the confrontation. “What a terrible first impression of our farm!” She sighs. “Welcome, I guess?”

  “It is incredibly beautiful here,” Amani says, trying to help ease the tension.

  “And isn’t this where fairy dust comes from?” Ivy asks, not subtle at all.

  The fairy nods. “I mean, it’s not the only place. There are other farms. But see those flowers?” Rose points up, but really, how could you not see them? “They are called coruscents. Their pollen is the dust.” I shake my head, feeling stupid. I guess when I thought we were coming to her family’s farm, there’d be, like, chickens or strawberries or some kind of market-worthy produce. I didn’t realize fairy dust was their crop. “Coruscents grow about thirty feet up in the air, so only someone with wings can access them easily.” Her face falls slightly, another example of how her little cousin doesn’t fit in here.

  Ivy trudges over to a barrel nearby, its glittery contents close to spilling over onto the ground. The dust casts a warm glow on her pale skin, and she leans in, eyes hungry. It’s the most animated I’ve seen her all day, but before she can dive in, I pull her back.

  “You shouldn’t touch,” I forbid in a whisper. “Let’s see if we can get a fairy to make the wish first.” I explained the whole “dusty consequences” thing in the car ride here, but while I know for sure Amani heard me, I’m not sure if Ivy listened to—or cared about—what I had to say.

  “But I thought that’s why you brought me here!” Ivy sneers in my direction. “To help me! Remember?”

  “I know. But trust me, we have to take the proper steps.”

  She grunts, crossing her arms in frustration. The sooner we can help her the better, because I’m not sure how I’m supposed to divide my attention between babysitting an ex-siren and nurturing a young matchmaker.

  “Jane,” I say, turning back to my little pal. “Let me introduce you to my friends. You already know Amani”—my BFF gives a cheery wave—“and this is Ivy.”

  The two lock eyes, and after a few seconds, Jane gasps, eyebrows meeting her minty hairline. She looks like she’s just seen a ghost and not because of how pale Ivy is. But Ivy doesn’t even notice.

  “Hey,” Ivy manages, before laying her security blanket out on the ground. “If we aren’t doing this dust thing now, I’m just gonna lie down for a bit.” Not waiting for approval, she sprawls out at our feet as Jane tugs on my shirt.

  “Amber, what’s wrong with her?” she whispers, light brown eyes full of worry. I wrap an arm around her shoulders, guiding her away from the slumbering siren.

  “She’s . . . not well,” I say, unsure of what kind of details an eight-year-old can handle.

  “Tell me everything you know about her.”

  Everything? Yikes. Is there a PG version of Ivy’s existence? “What do you want to know?” I ask. “Is this about her match? I know you just saw him.”

  “Just . . . tell me,” she pleads.

  What can I say? “Well, she used up all her magic trying to save her sister, and now she’s . . .”

  “Sick?”

  “Um, worse than sick . . .”

  “Dying?!” Jane’s hands fly up to her face. “No! She can’t die!” While it’s sweet that she’s so concerned, her sudden intensity puzzles me.

  “Seriously, Jane—what did you see when you looked at her?” I demand.

  “I can help her,” Jane responds, two moves ahead.

  “Help her what?”

  “Get her powers back. Get healthy again!”

  Since Jane’s relationship with her family seems iffy at best, I can’t imagine she has much pull in granting magical wishes. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know her.” And if she did, I don’t think she’d be making an offer like this.

  “Helping her would . . . help me too.” She bites her lip.

  Okay, now I’m completely confused. “Because . . . ?”

  Her face flushes underneath her freckles. “I have to help her. Ivy is my brother’s match.”

  THERE WAS A TIME when this would have made me laugh, when just the thought of being matched with Ivy would seem like some sort of cosmic joke. Something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, which is . . . Ivy. Although that’s not true anymore. My worst enemy is probably broccoli.

  “I’ve been seeing Ivy my whole life,” Jane says, sneaking a peek back at the sleeping former beauty behind her. “But seeing her now . . . she is not what I expected. In my visions she’s fierce, tough; in person, I almost didn’t recognize her until I saw my brother, Peter, in her eyes.” Her face scrunches up, trying to reconcile the two different Ivy images. “I want him to be happy; she’s gonna make him happy.”

  If I wasn’t a matchmaker, I’d assume a siren like Ivy could only really ever love herself. But I’ve had the visions, I’ve seen this boy of hers, and I know it’s meant to be.

  “Well, I am not one to stand in the way of true love,” I tell Jane, who looks at me optimistically. “It’s against the Matchmaker Code of Ethics, after all.”

  “There’s a code of ethics?” she asks eagerly.

  “Ha, I don’t know. Sure? We can write them together.”

  “Thank you,” she sighs. “I can’t use the dust, but if I talk to Rose—” Her plotting is cut off by the arrival of a male fairy with bright orange wings, swooping down. I instantly recognize him as Peter, Jane’s brother, and—holy crap—Ivy’s match. He looks just like I’ve always envisioned, with short peachy hair and kind brown eyes, and looking at him now, I see Ivy echoed back to me, though the picture starts to swirl like batter in a mixer, twisting from the center and radiating out until I can barely make out the image. It doesn’t matter; I know it’s him. I geek out a little, instinctively looking over at Ivy to see if she’s noticed her future beau, but she’s still napping. Peter hasn’t taken note of her either, focused entirely on greeting his little sister, but I’m hoping to spy the moment they spot each other for the first time. It’s a magical thing, seeing two halves of a whole come together, and so rare to witness for the first time. I can count on one hand the number of couples I’ve personally introduced, and the results have varied from instant attraction to immediate repulsion (like with Amani and Vincent).

  “Finally!” Rose exclaims, giving Peter a shove. “I texted you like ten minutes ago!”

  “Sorry, I was dealing with a difficult coruscent that was sputtering dust everywhere,” he says, brushing sparkly remnants off his overalls with thick gloves. “Is everything okay?”

  “I handled it. Again.” The two share a charged glance, Peter sheepishly turning back to Jane.

  “I got here as quickly as I could. I’m sorry those kids were bothering you again,” he says gently. She shrugs, trying to be brave for her big brother. “You know you’re my favorite sister, right?”

  “I’m your only sister,” she says with a giggle.

  “Then you win in a landslide!” He picks her up and twirls her around, wings spinning the pair a few inches off the ground. Jane squeals with laughter, all happiness and light, a changed girl when she lands. Peter takes notice of Amani, Ivy, and me for the first time, blushing over his lack of manners.

  “Janey, you made some friends?” He smiles warmly.

  “Yes!” She bounces on her heels. It’s the first time I’ve seen her genuinely happy and I love it. “This is Amber—she’s a matchmaker, like me!”

  Peter breaks into a toothy grin. “Really? That’s wonderful!” He removes his gloves to shake my hand, clasping my
palm like a clamshell. “How exciting to meet another matchmaker!” Orange wings flap happily behind him, intricate swirls shining in the sunlight.

  “Likewise!” I say in a high-pitched voice, unaccustomed to being greeted with such enthusiasm. “And this is my best friend, Amani, and our friend Ivy, who is . . . very tired from our trip.” Peter takes a quick look at the sleeping girl beside us, but in all the excitement, I don’t think her bundled-up form registers.

  “Well, this is truly something!” Peter beams. “And you came all this way to visit Jane! You must be hungry. I was just going to grab something at Mama and Papa’s. You should join me!”

  Rose holds up a hand in protest. “Whoa, you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” He blinks in innocence.

  “Peter, don’t be dense. Did you not hear that Amber is a matchmaker?”

  “Of course I did!”

  Her jaw drops in a “Hello? What are you thinking?” expression that makes me feel super comfortable for whatever situation we’re about to walk in on. “And you think they’re just going to be fine with that?”

  He considers this. “I think they’ll be happy Jane has made some friends, especially considering what happened to her today.”

  Rose takes a quick flight around us, cursing under her breath. I wonder if, when fairies get mad at each other, their arguments escalate not only in intensity but distance aboveground. Do insults hurt more at higher altitudes? “Fine! Whatever,” she concedes. She takes off, hovering above us to cool down, while Jane and Peter lead the way, hand in hand. I rustle Ivy as we head off to what I’m sure will be a very awkward meal.

  I turn to Amani. “So, how are we feeling about things?”

  “Not great.” She shakes her head, long lashes blinking thoughtfully. “I mean, Peter seems psyched to have us here, but Rose’s reaction makes me think his parents will be less so.”

  “What are the chances they agree to grant some wishes and we’ll be on our way tonight?”

  Amani snorts. “Something tells me it won’t be that easy.”

  “It would be nice, for once, if something was.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not that lucky.”

  “Hey!” I feign resentment.

  “It’s okay. Challenge builds character. Or something.”

  “I think I have enough character, thank you.”

  The Wisterias’ cottage is at the end of the path, almost identical to the others we’ve passed, with large heads of hydrangea nearly engulfing the front door. As we pass through the entry, I realize the home is much like the farm itself: deceptively small from the outside, but surprisingly expansive within. Rose holds me back at the door.

  “Just so you know, my aunt and uncle are not over Jane’s trip to the city,” she warns, stating the obvious.

  “Yeah, I picked up on that.”

  “It’d be great if you could help me on the ‘matchmaking is not a horrible life profession’ campaign,” she continues. “They don’t listen to me, but even though they don’t trust outsiders, maybe you can change their minds.”

  Gee, no pressure at all! But since I need her to like me, I flash her some pearly whites and find a seat, already self-editing in an attempt to present as pleasantly as possible. I comb through my choppy peacock hair with my fingers, smoothing it down as much as sweaty palms can, and retie my Converse, because I don’t know what else to do.

  Everything in the Wisteria living room is just a pinch smaller than common measurements. Not Tinker Bell–sized or any-thing (it’s not like the house is made of acorns and mushroom caps), but enough to make my limbs feel out of proportion with my surroundings. The wicker coffee table sits lower than most; my butt is extra cozy in a compact armchair. Sunlight pours in from multiple windows, and we settle in as Peter disappears into the kitchen, where the familiar sounds of meal prep greet my ears.

  “Amber, do you want to see my room?” Jane asks, full of excitement. Tiny fingers clutch the arm of my chair, begging me to come play.

  “Totally,” I answer. “Let’s say hi to your parents first, though, okay?” I don’t want them to think they have a random eighteen-year-old home intruder roaming the halls. She nods, pulling over a mini pink polka-dotted bean bag chair next to mine that must be her special seat. Just as she plops into the pouf, dishes clatter from the other room in a not-happy way. Amani shoots me a worried look as Rose’s wings rise in defense, a woodland creature sensing danger.

  Papa Wisteria enters the room, icy-blue brows stern. He leans on a wooden cane, taking in the bunch of misfits loitering in his living room, both hands clutching the walking device as if it might reveal what is going on here. Mama shuffles in behind him, carrying a tea tray across her plump body, as Peter peeks in over them, grimacing in the doorway. What the trio before us lacks in height, they make up in splendor, wings towering high above their frames. They all have Jane’s same smattering of freckles down the bridge of their noses, each with hair in a different shade of sherbet.

  Peter wiggles past them, unknowingly taking a seat next to his match, Ivy, and I hold my breath as the two exchange their first glance. Peter, with his peachy-orange fuzz and gawky, lanky frame, is the perfect male specimen for a meet-cute: he is just destined to fumble with his teacup, turn three shades of red, and get all flustered offering Ivy sugar. Normally, the ex-siren would have spotted him immediately, preening like a peacock and turning his boy brain to mush, but today, when he gives her a shy grin, she doesn’t immediately pounce. Instead, Ivy self-consciously smiles back, tucking a lackluster curl behind a pink-tinged ear. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ivy do anything without total confidence before, so the bashful behavior is truly telling. They both look down at their feet, suppressing smiles, and it’s so precious I want to scream. Jane looks up at me, smiling extra wide and bouncing slightly in her seat as we watch the two of them awkwardly squirm.

  “This is so great,” Jane whispers. I beam down at her, sharing the joy of our secret knowledge.

  “I have to admit, they are pretty dang cute,” I whisper back.

  Mama sets down the tea tray, silently pouring herself a cup. It’s not exactly the warmest welcome, but they didn’t immediately chase us away with brooms or anything, so . . . good start?

  “Uncle, I want you to meet—” Rose starts, but Papa Wisteria stoically holds out a palm to silence her. His expression gives no indication of his thoughts; he could just as easily throw us out for trespassing as pour us a cup of tea.

  “Jane, are these your friends?” he asks. His cold treatment of Rose is as icy as his hair, but he seems open to his daughter’s words, face softening as he looks at her.

  “Yes, Papa.” She stands up from her beanbag, hands clutched in front of her. “They came to visit me.”

  Papa glowers at us, as if he’s using heat vision to determine the worthiness of our souls. I don’t help the matter by twitching like a guilty perp, but the tension of it all is killing me. Obviously we’re not fairies, and since I get the sense Jane doesn’t leave the farm very often, there’s only one place she could have met us. Does he recognize us from the Matchmaking Magic! set? That exchange happened so quickly, and their attention was solely on Jane, but it’s not a huge intuitive leap.

  “You met on your little . . . excursion, then?” he asks, throwing Rose additional shade. She grits her teeth, doing her best to stay calm. Starting an argument won’t help anyone right now.

  “Yes, they are good people,” Jane continues, voice soft as a feather. “I’m really happy they’re here.”

  Mama Wisteria pipes up. “That’s so nice, dear, but—and I don’t mean to be rude—aren’t these girls a bit old to be your friends?” Pink curls bob as she sips her tea. I try not to take offense—it’s not like I’m seconds from the grave or anything—but from a parent’s perspective, I guess it would be weird if a teenager suddenly befriended your second-grade child.

  Jane looks back at us, not bothered by the age gap. “I don’t think so.
We have a lot in common.”

  “Such as?” Mama asks hopefully. “Why don’t you tell us more about our guests, sweetheart?”

  “Of course, Mama.” Jane beams. It’s clear this poor little sprite has never invited friends over before, and she’s relishing the moment. After witnessing how that pack of demon children treated her, I wonder if she’s ever successfully made a fairy friend her own age. It saddens me that I think I know the answer. “This is Amani; she’s a precog.”

  At this, the parents’ wings stand straight at attention, heads snapping toward my bestie. “You can . . . see the future?” Jane’s mom asks, worry in her throat.

  “Um, sometimes,” Amani tentatively responds, sensing the sudden shift in the room. “It’s kind of unpredictable. My visions choose when to reveal themselves, not the other way around.” A nervous grimace crosses her face as Mama and Papa exchange a suspicious glance. As magical powers go, Amani’s are very tame: cool, but not “you will crumble under my whim” or anything. As far as I know, none of her visions have altered the course of humanity. Being fearful of a precog is like getting worked up over a Magic 8 Ball: pretty pointless.

  “How interesting that you happened to find such a unique friend,” Mama says, words taking on a shadowy tone as Papa remains silent at her side.

  “All my friends are magical,” her daughter replies, joy seeping out of her like a leaky balloon.

  “All?” Mama reaches for Papa’s hand, and I don’t like the sudden pearl clutching. It’s not like Jane brought serial killers into the house, or worse—telemarketers—and what’s the drama with having magical friends? What’s more magical than a fairy?

  Jane keeps the show moving, fast-forwarding to the main event. “This is Amber. She’s a matchmaker, like me.”

  Mama actually does a spit take, which I didn’t think happened outside of network sitcoms. Apparently Jane just uttered the magic word, but not in a fun-favor kind of way. Her parents go completely white, and for a second, I suspect they’ve frozen to stone.

  “A matchmaker, isn’t that cool?” Peter says tentatively, throwing his sister a lifeline. “I know you always hoped to meet one, Janey.” Her face brightens a shade at his effort, and I do my best to keep the positivity train chugging.