Free All is Fair by Emma Newman Page B

and I feel the need to be cheered up.”
    “He has that effect on me too,” Sam muttered. “I’m not the best person to cheer anyone up at the moment.”
    “Oh?” Poppy came closer, swinging the cane ahead of him with each step. “Oh, dear, you do smell rather miserable. Has someone died?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Someone close to you.” Poppy squinted as he peered into Sam’s eyes. “My, what a delightful mess you are. I have just the thing to help.”
    “Me or you?”
    “Both of us, my little grieving one. Sit down.”
    “This is counting towards my debt, isn’t it?”
    “Oh, silly me!” Poppy snapped his fingers and the hourglass appeared. “Well, a minute here and a minute there is nothing between us.”
    Sam had to really stare to catch sight of the grains of sand falling. There was still so much to go. Expecting to sit on the grass, he found himself caught by poppies forming a rudimentary seat beneath him.
    “I want you to draw a picture for me,” Poppy said, reaching behind his back and pulling a pad of paper and a pencil from nowhere. “I have a renewed appetite for art, thanks to my little sunlit one having painted such a masterpiece. Have you seen it?”
    “No. It was rolled up when I delivered it.”
    “Oh. Maybe you will one day, maybe you won’t. I may have an exhibition and reveal it one time only.” He lowered his voice. “Did she tell you what the secret is? The one she painted into it?”
    Sam shook his head, glad Cathy hadn’t told him. It meant he didn’t have to lie. “Nope. I haven’t got a clue. And I can’t draw so can I go home now?”
    “Everyone can draw!” Poppy dropped the paper and pencil into his lap. “Try. Take as long as you need. Well, until I tire of your struggle and find an alternative way for you to be entertaining with a pencil.”
    “I don’t know what to draw.”
    “Not ‘what’ – who. The one who died. Yes, that’s perfect. I want you to draw…” Poppy leaned down to peer into his eyes. “Her? Yes, a woman, I think. Your mother? No. Your wife!”
    Sam stared down at the page, disturbed by how much Poppy could fathom from his face alone. He wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything else, but Poppy was desperate to do something awful, he knew it.
    He started to draw but the face appearing on the page looked like something a six year-old would be ashamed of. He went to turn the paper over but Poppy stopped him with his cane.
    “Keep going. I must see how awful this will be.”
    Sam’s mouth was so dry he could barely swallow. The lines on the paper bore no resemblance to Leanne – they didn’t even resemble a person. Poppy watched every hesitant stroke as the faerie sniggered. Sam just wanted to stick the pencil in Poppy’s chest and bolt.
    “It’s done,” he finally said, unable to make it any worse.
    Poppy took the piece of paper and tipped it from one side to the other before looking at Sam. “Did your wife look like this?”
    “Of course not.”
    “I can make you think she did.” Poppy watched the horror spread across Sam’s face. “No? You’d rather remember her as she was and suffer not being able to draw her?”
    “Of course I bloody would!” Sam chucked the pencil across the clearing and stood up. “This isn’t a fucking game! She’s dead!”
    Poppy’s expression was that of a child at the circus: utterly enthralled by a trapeze artist. He leaned closer, reaching towards his face. “Oh…” he whispered. “It’s exquisite.”
    Sam leaned back but Poppy’s hand was too fast and he felt the gentlest brush across his cheek. Poppy pulled his hand back, a sparkling teardrop balanced perfectly on his fingertip. Sam touched his cheek and found it was wet.
    Poppy lifted the drop to his mouth and tasted it with his horribly long tongue. “What a delicious creation! Grief and guilt and superbly piquant regret. You can go now. I want to enjoy this alone.”
    Sam didn’t need any encouragement and hurried out of the clearing