Free The Fairy Doll by Rumer Godden

Chapter 1
    Nobody knew where she came from.
    ‘She must have belonged to Mother when Mother was a little girl,’ said Father, but Mother did not remember it.
    ‘She must have come from Father’s house, with the Christmas decorations,’ said Mother, but Father did not remember it.
    As long as the children could remember, at Christmas every year, the fairy doll had been there at the top of the Christmas tree.
    She was six inches high and dressed in a white gauze dress with beads that sparkled; she had silver wings, and a narrow silver crown on her dark hair, with a glass dewdrop in front that sparkled
too; in one of her hands she had a silver wand, and on her feet were silver shoes – not painted, stitched. ‘Fairies must have sewn those,’ said Mother.

    ‘Or mice,’ said Christabel, who was the eldest.
    Elizabeth, the youngest, was examining the stitches.
    ‘Fairy mice,’ said Elizabeth.
    You may think it is a lucky thing to be the youngest, but for Elizabeth it was not lucky at all; she was told what to do – or what not to do – by her sisters and brother all day
long, and she was always being left out or made to stay behind.
    ‘You can’t come, you’re too young,’ said Christabel.
    ‘You can’t reach. You’re too small,’ said Godfrey, who was the only boy.
    ‘You can’t play. You’re too little,’ said Josie. Josie was only two years older than Elizabeth, but she ordered her about most of all.
    Christabel was eight, Godfrey was seven, Josie was six, but Elizabeth was only four and she was different from the others: they were thin, she was fat; their legs were long, hers were short;
their hair was curly, hers was straight; their eyes were blue, hers were grey and easily filled with tears. They rode bicycles; Christabel’s was green, Godfrey’s was red, Josie’s
dark blue. Elizabeth rode the old tricycle; the paint had come off, and its wheels went ‘Wh-ee-ze, wh-ee-ze, wh-ee-ze.’
    ‘Slowpoke,’ said Christabel, whizzing past.
    ‘Tortoise,’ said Godfrey.
    ‘Baby,’ said Josie.
    ‘Not a slowpoke, tortoise, baby,’ said Elizabeth but they did not hear; they were far away, spinning down the hill. ‘Wh-ee-ze, wh-ee-ze, wh-ee-ze,’ went the tricycle, and
Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears.

    ‘Cry-baby,’ said Josie, who had come pedalling back, and the tears spilled over. Then that Christmas, Elizabeth saw the fairy doll.
    She had seen her before, of course, but, ‘Not really,’ said Elizabeth; not properly, as you shall hear.
    Every year there were wonderful things on the Christmas tree: tinsel and icicles of frosted glass that had been Father’s when he was a little boy; witch balls in colours like jewels and a
trumpet of golden glass – it had been Father’s as well – and bells that were glass too but coloured silver and red. Have you ever rung a glass bell? Its clapper gives out a
‘ting’ that is like the clearest, smallest, sweetest voice.
    There were silvered nuts and little net stockings filled with gold and silver coins. Can you guess what the coins were? They were chocolate. There were transparent boxes of rose petals and
violets and mimosa. Can you guess what they were? They were sweets.
    There were Christmas crackers and coloured lights and candles.
    When the lights were lit, they shone in the dewdrop on the fairy doll’s crown, making a bead of light; it twinkled when anybody walked across the room or touched the tree, and the wand
stirred in the fairy doll’s hand. ‘She’s alive!’ said Elizabeth.
    ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Christabel, and she said scornfully, ‘ What a little silly you are!’
    Thwack. A hard small box of sweets fell off the tree and hit Christabel on the head.
    The fairy doll looked straight in front of her, but the wand stirred gently, very gently, in her hand.
    In the children’s house, on the landing, was a big chest carved of cedar wood; blankets were stored in it, and spare clothes. The Christmas things were kept