Birdieâs visit. Perhaps Queen Patchouli knew I had eaten a hot cross bun with cider before I fell asleep.
Queen Patchouli waited patiently, but when I swallowed the last bit of cake, she stood up. Gossamer swooshed, and the mist unraveled fromher shoulders and drifted to the ground. A flurry of bees buzzed about in momentary disarray.
âWe donât have another minute to lose,â the queen said. âYou must hurry, Kerka. Taking your time is not an option.â
âWhat do you mean? How much time do I have?â I asked.
âI donât know. Follow me.â Queen Patchouliâs response left me no choice but to walk in her wake and trust that my questions would be answered when the queen was ready.
We swept to the center of the clearing on a path of fairy-flung rose petals. A grassy mound rose as we approached. Birdie and I had sat on willow chairs and eaten dinner at a table set atop a larger version of this rise. Only one woven willow chair stood by the table on the mound now, and the large leather-bound bookâ
The Book of Dreams
âwas already in place.
Fairies came out of the willows as we walked, so that when I reached the chair, they hovered to my left and right, conveying the same sense of urgency I felt in Queen Patchouliâs brisk pace. Without waiting to be told, I sat down and stared at the ancient book. The silver lettering on the cover seemed cast in the blue light of moonbeams even though the sun was now spilling over the tops of the trees intothe clearing. Morning had come quickly.
âItâs
time to write your dreams, Kerka,â Queen Patchouli said solemnly. She flicked her wrist, and the massive book opened to a blank page.
A fairy wearing a golden gown and a goldenrod wreath on her blond hair brought a peacock feather and a shell to the table. The feather was a quill pen. The shell had a blue lid made of fish scales. Inside was a pool of silvery blue ink.
âReading the dreams of your ancestors is a privilege we usually bestow on our fairy-godmothers-in-the-making, but time is an important factor for you, Kerka.â Sighing, Queen Patchouli looked uncharacteristically apologetic. âWe dare not dally, and thus we will forego the ritual of writing your dream within a dream.â Queen Patchouli bowed her head slightly. âYou may begin.â
I knew what the queen meant about dreams within dreams. I was a little disappointed not to get to read my familyâs dreams, but if there wasnât time, complaining wouldnât help. Hoping that if I wrote fast, there would be enough time to at least see my motherâs entry, I picked up the quill pen. Dipping the pen in the ink, I wrote my dream, which was simply:
My handwriting was bold in the center of the page. I signed my name at the bottom and dated the page at the top.
I set down the pen. Birdie had told me that drawings, glitter stars, and lace had magically appeared on her page when she finished. My page remained as I had written itâa single, unadorned sentence. A twinge of disappointment faded when I realized that the presentation of my dream described me perfectly: to the point, with no frills.
âFinished already?â Sounding surprised, Queen Patchouli stepped closer. The fairies sitting on toadstools murmured softly and exchanged glances.
I held up my hand when a small picture of a squirrel appeared on a corner of the page. Suddenly drawings of fall leaves and acorns scrolled across the top of the page to a gray wolf in the other corner. The autumn foliage design changed into evergreen sprigs and pinecones down the outer edge of the page to a reindeer in the bottom corner. Green holly with red berries linked the reindeer to an elf wearing a red cap in the opposite corner, and interlaced blue icicles completed the border along the inside edge. Perhaps I wasnât so plain after all. When nothing else appeared, I lowered my hand.
âNow
itâs