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 racing. 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 smiled back. Courtney looked away, tossing her hair. "Ugh," she said. "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, she saw the delicate fronds wavering up toward the surface, and dancing between them were the fairies. Cynthia leaned against the bridge rail, watching.
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 divebombed the water, and the figures darted away, then regathered, swimming in dizzying circles. Along the sides of the water, tiny houses made of sand and bright pebbles and moss were cleverly hidden among the ferns. Trails no wider than a finger's breadth 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 said, picking 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 came 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 said. "Disgusting." She dropped her stone and 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 sparrowlike. "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.
)
