When Libby Met the Fairies and her Whole Life Went Fae Read Free Page B

had long since moved out.
    Libby walked upstairs. And found Maisey in the wrong room—the one Libby was planning to turn into her office.
    She braced herself against the door frame and took a deep breath. “Maisey, you’re in the wrong room. I said the bedroom on the left.”
    “But . . . I like this room. And it was empty.”
    “Please, Maisey? I was planning to put my office in this one.”
    “Can’t you put it there?” Maisey pointed past Libby to the room across the hall.
    “Please? This one’s a bit bigger . . . I need room for my desk and file cabinets and stuff.”
    Maisey scowled and re-zipped her duffel bag.
    Libby watched her hoist it back up over her shoulder and stood aside to let her pass. Then she thought of something else.
    “One other thing, please, Maisey—no drugs.”
    Maise wasn’t a bad kid, mind you. But Libby was no dummy, either
    Maisey jutted out her chin. “I don’t do drugs, Aunt Libby. I haven’t in ages .”
    “Good for you. Good for you, Maise. Thank you. I’m glad to hear it.”
    Maisey crossed the hall and dropped her duffel bag into the smaller bedroom.
    Libby leaned against the doorframe and rubbed her forehead. A small victory. But a victory nonetheless. And who knows, maybe she wouldn’t be there long. Maybe she’d decide to enroll in college or something.
    Suddenly a pounding on the door thudded through the house. A loud pounding.
    “Who’s that ?” Maisey had re-entered the room to collect one of her boxes. “Sounds like someone’s plenty pissed at you!”
    The jacket.
    Libby had forgotten to take it off. Forgotten the whole plan to leave it on the doorknob, to avoid having to stand face-to-face with that man again.
    She jumped toward the stairs, too freaked out to answer Maisey. The pounding had sounded pretty loud. Can you tell if someone’s pissed at you by how they knock on the door? Of course not. And it could be enthusiastic pounding . . . except that Libby’s doorbell was broken. Which meant the guy had been out there, standing in the drizzle, pressing the button for goodness knows how long.
    Who wouldn’t be tempted to pound pretty hard after standing in the drizzle pressing a broken doorbell for awhile?
    Libby yanked the door open.
    “Haven’t left yet, I see.”
    She pulled the jacket off and held it out to him. He took it, but slowly. He was looking over her shoulder.
    Libby turned and there was Maisey, big grin on her face.
    “So it’s your jacket,” she said and then squealed and practically knocked Libby over as she pushed past through the door and out onto the stoop, where she knelt and threw her arms around Bo’s neck.
    “Maisey! Hadn’t you better ask first?”
    Maisey appeared not to hear. She stroked Bo’s head, crooning ecstatically, while the man looked down at her, apparently amused. Maybe because of her piercings. And the tattoo—a dandelion head with a few seeds blowing away—visible on the back of her neck. Not that people who live in the country don’t know about the whole piercing and tattooing thing.
    Libby pushed open the storm door again. “Maisey, the man wants to leave now.”
    “What’s his name?” Maisey meant the dog. And was asking the neighbor, not Libby. Maisey instinctively goes for the person most likely to indulge her.
    “The dog’s name is Bo,” Libby said. “Now please finish moving your stuff into your room, Maise.”
    The teen stood up, rolling her eyes for the benefit of her audience and saying, “Bye, Bo,” in a dramatically regret-filled voice.
    Libby thought about asking the man whether he moved all the signs—like telling Maisey which room was hers, it would have helped to re-establish where everyone stood. But her manners won out. Of course they were all moved. No point in suggesting he wasn’t acting, now, in good faith. Plus, she could always check them, later.
    “Thanks for lending me the coat.”
    “Your doorbell’s broken.”
    “I know.”
    “And there’s something in your