Are we taking the Subaru?”“No. We’ll run.”Running is not part of my plan. Stopping right here is my plan.“I’m not actually supposed to run,” I try to say. “The arm and everything.”“I’m sorry about your arm.”“Really?”He swoops me up as if I weigh nothing, leans me against his chest, and carries me the way grooms are supposed to carry brides over thresholds. He is cold now, away from the fire. He smells of mushrooms. “Are you afraid of heights?”He keeps my good arm against him, and doesn’t even jostle my cast arm. It’s smooth and quick and I don’t have time to ...He sets me down on the rolling ground in a large clearing in the middle of tall pine trees. My breath whooshes out like I’d been holding it.“Oh, that was amazing,” I say before I realize it.“You’re glowing. I thought you hated me.”“I do. But flying? I don’t hate flying. I read this book once where—”“You read?”“Yeah.”“Good. I like philosophy myself. It’s good to have a daughter who reads.”I swallow, shift my weight on my feet. They won’t be able to follow us here; we left no tracks. I can’t believe we flew. “Can all pixies fly? Because I was totally unprepared for that. I mean, I didn’t read that.”“Only ones with royal blood. You can.
Carrie Jones, Need
arm, father, fly, hate, pixie-king, read, run