Free Perchance to Dream by Lisa Mantchev

they’re waiting in the wings with pitchforks and flaming torches.” The air elemental turned his head and gave the sneak-thief a pointed look. “Have you anything in your pockets they might be missing?”
    “This is not a place riddled with unwanted things,” Waschbär answered. “Each item has a purpose, each tool used daily and put away clean, every scrap of food hard-won from earth and animal.”
    “That’s good to hear.” Especially since Bertie had spotted several farmwives swarming around the open village square. The crowd cleared a bit to reveal laden banquet tables, and Bertie pointed a finger in triumph. “You see? The journal did conjure food! Just not quite the way we expected it.”
    “I suppose you never imagined it was appearing elsewhere,” Ariel said. “Nor that the fairies will probably be knee-deep in it by now.”
    The villagers approached the caravan, their expressions a varied study in Grim, Ominous, and Disapproving. “Something’s run through the raspberry blancmange,” the closest of them shouted.
    Another chimed in. “Two cold cabinet puddings in moulds completely ruined!”
    “What in the blue blazes is cabinet pudding?” Bertie asked.
    But “do those small, obnoxious creatures belong to you?” was not the answer she was looking for.
    For a moment, Bertie was tempted to say, “Why, no!” and set the whip to the mechanical horses, but her sense of duty—and a horrible curiosity—won out. “Yes, I’m afraid they do.”
    Fanned out across the road, the villagers gave Ariel the choice between stopping or trampling someone. He brought the caravan to a halt, and Bertie braced herself, expecting a pull upon her that didn’t come. Peering up at the ballerina clouds in gray-edged tutus, the blue of the backdrop faded somewhat, it was easier to spot the Scrimshander weaving through the overcast like a needle through cloth.
    Surrounding the caravan, the village women continued listing the damages. “Every drop of the whipped syllabub …”
    “Bites taken out of the candied ginger.”
    “There’s a debt to be settled!”
    “We haven’t any money,” Bertie said, prompting a low rumble from the irate crowd. “Perhaps we can offer something in exchange?” With a glance at the sky, she added, “I’m afraid we’re in a terrible rush—”
    A man in a drab-colored uniform, apparently the constable, pushed his way to the front. “Come this way, please.”
    His expression was the same worn by Mrs. Edith and the Theater Manager when they would not be budged. Wondering if the connection to her father was still intact, Bertie unbuckled the leather strap binding her to the caravan. Seconds later, she was heaved from the wagon. The villagers stared as Bertie swung to and fro like a trapeze performer, carefully clutching the journal to her chest as she slowly drifted to the ground like a bit of thistledown.
    “One of our many illusions.” Ariel mimicked her elaborate dismount with the aid of his winds.
    “Never mind your illusions!” A woman wearing daisy-sprigged green silk and the darkest of the frowns immediately seized Bertie by the elbow and dragged her toward a collection of trestle tables. “How will you compensate for such damage? Have you any idea how long it takes to prepare a wedding feast?”
    Ariel caught up with them. “Longer, I would guess, than it takes my young friend here to write ‘a veritable wedding feast.’”
    “Surely there wasn’t that much damage done …” Bertie’s voice trailed off when they reached the trestle tables. Horror deprived her of her own words, so she borrowed some of Mr. Tibbs’s. “How in the name of the sweet god’s suspenders did you wreak so much havoc so quickly?!”
    Three fairies sat in the wrack and ruin, heads hanging in shame. “We’re sorry, Bertie, honest.”
    “But there was the pigeon pie—”
    “The cheesecakes—”
    “The fruit turnovers …”
    “You treated these tables like the ones in the Green Room!