Where Fairies Dwell

By Miranda Simon

Twelve-year-old Libby's family is struggling to make ends meet. When they park their camper in the woods, Libby discovers a startling secret -- tiny creatures, miniature humans with wings, living in the shelter of a massive tree tree. Protected by the old woman who owns the land, the fairies can give their human friends extraordinary magical powers. But their secret brings danger, too. How much is Libby willing to sacrifice to keep them safe?

Recommended for ages 10 and up.

EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK

Perhaps the cat understood her, because it growled again, swiped at her leg, missed, and backed away. Libby felt on the ground for a second rock. With one last, venomous hiss the black tomcat disappeared into the bushes. Libby hurried forward to examine the creature he had dropped.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh. Oh. Oh.”

Gently, so gently, she picked it up. In her cupped hands she held a miniature child, a perfectly formed little boy of about eight or nine. He was just about the size of a sparrow. His skin was warm and slightly sticky, a silvery gray color undercut with green, like the thin shining bark of an alder tree. On his head was a white fuzz of hair like a dandelion gone to seed. And on his back -- from between his shoulder blades -- grew a set of tiny wings. They seemed to be made of crisp browned paper, almost transparent, slender and fragile like the wings of a termite, and dusted with flakes of silver.

The wings now hung at an impossible angle, crushed and broken in a dozen places. The child was bleeding, too, from puncture wounds on its arms and legs. Such an alarming amount of blood, smeared on pale skin! His lips were bluish and his eyes were closed. But he was still alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miranda Simon
• Release date: Jun 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311172037

Book preview

Where Fairies Dwell

By Miranda Simon

CAPUCHIN BOOKS

Copyright © 2012 Miranda Simon

Other novels by Miranda Simon:

Wolf Moon Rising

Becoming Sarah

The Sea King’s Daughter

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, are purely coincidental. All characters and events in this work are figments of the author’s imagination.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Free First Chapter: Wolf Moon Rising

Other novels by Miranda Simon

CHAPTER ONE

The air inside the tent smelled of earwigs and loamy dirt. As Libby tossed and turned, tree-branch shadows played against the slanting blue nylon sides. Sleep tugged at Libby’s eyelids as she waited for Nico’s breathing to grow soft and even. When she was sure her younger brother was asleep, she wriggled out of her sleeping bag and unzipped the front of the tent. She held her breath and glanced back at Nico. He snored lightly, his mouth open, his lashes casting spidery shadows against plump toddler cheeks.

Outside in the clearing, the stars were so bright they smacked Libby between the eyes. She searched for a moon but couldn’t find one. The camper’s windows were dark. Inside, her mother and stepfather would be sound asleep, baby Dylan wedged between them like the filling in a sandwich cookie.

Libby slipped away toward the patch of Himalayan blackberries where she had hidden her treasure box earlier in the afternoon. She needed a safer place for it, a place where Nico wouldn’t find it. At three and a half, he was an obnoxious brat who couldn’t keep his hands off Libby’s things.

She slipped her feet into a pair of rubber flip-flops and crossed the clearing to the blackberry thicket where she’d hidden the box earlier that day. Hugging the box to her chest, she slipped into the woods. After the starlit clearing, the blackness under the trees stole her breath away. Her pulse thudded in her neck like the frantic heartbeat of a parakeet she’d once cupped in her hands.

Libby took a deep breath and forced herself to plunge on into the shadows. A night wind ruffled the fronds of a beech fern. Libby jumped away, startled, then laughed at herself. She wasn’t usually such a scaredy cat.

A wood lily glowed ghostly pale against the dark ground. Something rustled deep in the tangle of grasses and vines. Far away, an owl cried. Then she saw it: a spot where cracked, ancient bark split to make a hollow at the base of a pine tree, a hollow just big enough for her treasure box. Libby knelt on a damp pillow of leaves and needles. She wedged her box into the empty space. Libby grabbed a handful of soil and leaves and stuffed it into the hollow, then stood back. The box still glinted green, so she added a few more handfuls of dirt. Finally, satisfied, she turned to go.

A shiver shook her shoulders and rattled her teeth. She froze, then – ever so slowly – turned around.

There, in the tree – eyes, unblinking eyes, in a pale white face the size of a thumbnail.

Libby stared. The creature in the tree smiled at her. It winked. Then it disappeared.

For a moment, Libby couldn’t move. She stood and stared at the empty air where the creature had appeared. Somewhere above her came the sound of – laughter? Faint, bell-like laughter, and it set her free. She whirled and ran, stumbling, catching her feet on bushes and mossy tree limbs. When she tumbled out into the clearing, her breath rasped in her throat. She squinted back into the inky blackness. A squirrel? A mouse? But mice didn’t climb trees, and no squirrel had ever winked at her before.

She rubbed the goose bumps on her bare arms and cocked her head to listen. Above the thrum of the frogs and the high-pitched music of cicadas, she heard singing. It came to her, carried on the breeze, from high on the hill above the clearing. Libby couldn’t make out the words, but there were voices – high, clear voices, mournful at first but then quickening with hope and even a sort of inhuman joy.

Libby stood listening for a long time, until at last the voices faded and died. She should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. There was magic in this place. Good magic.

She crawled into the tent. Nico was dreaming. He whimpered in his sleep. As Libby slipped back into the nest of her sleeping bag, his arm struck her shoulder. She reached out to comfort him. His cheeks were flushed and warm, his breath sweet.

It’s okay, Nico, Libby whispered. We’re safe here. I can feel it.

They had arrived in the clearing earlier that same day. We’ll pitch the tent right here, Libby’s mother had said, as she jounced the baby on her hip and tilted her face to catch the sun. We can park the camper under that Douglas fir. What do you think, honey? Isn’t this perfect?

It’s pretty nice, Libby admitted. It was, especially compared to the last place they’d lived, in California. That was a trailer park that smelled like pee and frying meat. The man in the trailer to the right blasted rap music day and night. The couple to the left battled like guests on Jerry Springer. Now Libby stood in a field inhaling the scent of rain and greenness. The trees around the clearing grew so high it made Libby dizzy to look up at them. Daisies decorated the clearing like sprinkles on a cookie. Nico had already wandered off to taste one.

Didn’t I say we should head north? Didn’t I? her mother demanded.

Libby couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother so happy. She scraped at her lower lip with her teeth, a bad habit that left her mouth raw and chapped. But – but we can’t stay here, can we?

Her mother’s smile made her face shine like a bright new penny. Don’t be such a worrywart, Liberty. Do you see anyone living here? There’s not a house in sight. We’ll be happy here. We will, you’ll see! And she pushed Dylan into Libby’s arms, ignoring the baby’s wail of surprise. She spun around, her arms stretched to the sky. Her red and gold cotton blouse flared, and sparks jumped from her copper hair. The amber beads around her neck made a sound like clicking teeth.

As she watched her mother catch fire in the afternoon sun, Libby’s heart gave a little jump of envy. She would have given anything to be half as pretty. She was plain as pudding, though: a pudgy 12-year-old with eyes forever trying to decide between gray-blue and blue-gray. Libby had masses of hair -- it hung down to the small of her back -- but it was the same color as the water in the bucket where her mother washed their dishes. In the mirror, Libby saw a girl with a turned-down mouth and an anxious wrinkle on her forehead.

There was a rustling in the huckleberry bushes and Morgan Bell, Libby’s stepfather, burst out into the clearing. There’s a creek just down the bank over here, he announced as he slapped dark, loamy earth from the knees of his jeans. He took Libby’s mother’s hand and twirled her around again, then pulled her to his chest with his arms around her waist. Come on, babe, I’ll show you where it gets real deep, deep enough to swim.

You really like it here? Really?

You bet I do. He gave her a great smacking kiss on the mouth.

Libby looked away, embarrassed, but she felt happy, too. Her mother and Morgan fought a lot these days. Maybe, here, in a new state, things would be different. It would be like when her mother and Morgan first met, when Libby was eight and long before Nico and Dylan were even born. Lately Libby had spent too many nights curled up in her cubbyhole, listening to the two of them shout and slam things around.

Maybe the arguments were over with now. Libby’s mother was smiling as Morgan dragged her toward the creek. Libby, honey, keep an eye on the boys, she called over her shoulder.