“Voltmaster hates visitors!” The Hermit growled. “Cautions to you!”
Sir Arthur nodded. “Wear my magic helmet, Lucy.”
For hours they walked through Grimwood.
Then, they came to a clearing.
Within, Voltmaster’s Watchtower stretched into the stormy sky.
“Shall I knock?” said Arthur.
“Is it safe?” asked Lucy.
Before Arthur could respond, lightning struck the tower, shattering the battlements and raining stones on the couple.
“I guess not,” said Lucy. “Arthur?”
He lay dead on the ground, skull crushed.
Safe at home, she put a penny in the fusebox.
Up in the North, no faerie can resist the call. The blazing sun sings to them, leaving other merriment to the all-too-brief night.
But down in Tierra del Fuego, unlucky faeries toss newspaper scraps in their tiny fire pit and huddle around the flames.
“This is s-s-s-s-s-stupid,” chattered Mugwort, rubbing his hands.
“Let’s dance,” said Flitwicket. “It might warm us up.”
“Eurocentric b-b-b-b-b-bastards,” grumbled Mugwort. “Why’d they change the schedule?”
“Something about a bulk discount on Pixie Dust,” said Flitwicket. “Thank bureaucracy. Someone needs to frolic his frowns away.”
Eyes narrowed. Delicate throats growled.
Flitwicket sparked nicely on the flame.