Free The Deavys by Alan Dean Foster

assortment of ambient charms. There was certainly a lot to look forward to besides just catching up with the Crub, Simwan had to admit.
    Distractions all, though, he reminded himself firmly. They weren’t going on a vacation. They were going after the Truth, something that was difficult enough to find in New York at the best of times, even when it wasn’t in the possession of an evil entity like the Crub.
    To an outsider it would have looked as if the dinner table was consumed by chaos, but for the Deavys the frenetic rushing to and fro of bowls, platters, pitchers, glasses, dishes, and silverware was perfectly normal. The Grand Table Spell (which Melinda Mae had learned from her mother and which was passed down from one generation of Deavys to the next) kept everything in a constant state of convenient motion. Conversation was facilitated because no one had to ask anyone else to pass this dish or that; the dishes took care of the passing all by themselves, leaving the family members free to talk about other things.
    â€œHow did the meeting go today, dear?” an obviously concerned Martin asked his spouse.
    As he spooned up salad, molted malted fairy wings adding a nice crunch to the mix, Simwan could tell from the look on his mother’s face that it had not gone well. She didn’t look so good, either, he thought worriedly. The essence of her was too tied to the Truth, and its absence was starting to affect her health.
    â€œHonestly, Martin, some of these people …” Tight-lipped and visibly worn, she broke off for a moment, shaking her head. “Don’t they understand that if they let this project go ahead, not only will we lose the woods, but it will affect the zoning for the entire county? Once the floodgates are opened, they’re almost impossible to close again.” She made an effort to pit an innocent olive. “That Mrs. Pendergast—sometimes she makes me so mad I just want to turn her into a toad!”
    â€œDon’t be too hard on her, hon.” Martin forked up a small bale of spinach and onion. “After all, her husband’s in real estate and they stand to benefit considerably if the development goes ahead. She’s only doing what she thinks is best for her family. Besides, you can’t expect the Pendergasts or anyone else to understand what’s really going on. Not in the absence of Truth.”
    â€œHmph.” Melinda Mae dug absently at the remnants of her salad. She had taken an unusually small portion, and seemed little interested in that. “I’m beginning to wonder if that particular theft might have been engineered by cronies of the developers, just to further confuse people. The whole business has the smell of the Black Arts about it.”
    Simwan looked at Rose, who glanced significantly at Amber, who nodded just once at N/Ice, who rotated in her chair until she was sitting right-side up like the rest of them. But no one said anything. As weary as their mother appeared to be, the last thing they wanted to do was agitate her further.
    As dinner progressed, Simwan kept sneaking looks at his sisters. They, in turn, flashed him one restless glance after another. It was clear that no one wanted to be the first to broach the subject of their proposed trip to their parents, because if the initial asker fouled up the request, that individual would never hear the end of it from the others.
    Main courses gave way to dessert, which consisted of spiced cream topped with meringue. The quartet of spiders who had agreed to spin the meringue (in return for having the run of the kitchen and all the wandering cockroaches they could catch) took several minutes to top off the frozen cream, at which point they were so exhausted from the effort that Martin had to tenderly carry them back to their home beneath the sink. Tonight’s meringue was pistachio, Simwan discovered with one dip of his spoon.
    They were running out of time. Something sharp