Page 15 of Fairy Godmothers Aren't Cheap

“Good. Now’s not the time to get tipsy. Canada Dry? It’s my favourite. I adore the little ginger ale bubbles. They tickle my nose.”

“No, thanks.”

“Mind if I do?”

I shrugged, and she got up, opening a mini fridge hunkering under a thick stack of yellowing papers. This office—it wasn’t actually a meeting room like I’d first thought—was unlike the cubicles in the bullpen. It resembled a private investigator’s office more than anything. It was reassuringly very unfairy godmother-like.

It also seemed much too established for a scammer’s headquarters. For example, on the old computer lurking on the desk behind me, there was a thick layer of undisturbed dust. And abandoned on top of the desk’s scattered and faded, dog-eared papers and file folders sat a crystal tumbler containing a finger’s worth of amber liquid and an ashtray holding half of a crumbly cigar. The aluminum blinds to my left were dusty as well, and a few slats were broken, weak, late evening light filtering through. Where did the window look out to? There’d been no windows on the outside of the skinny little strip of a building. Were the neighbouring businesses actually false fronts with Your Fairy Godmother extending deep and wide into what was actually one long building and not several as it had appeared?

In front of me, a tall bookshelf stretched against the entire wall, sporting a cutout to hold the mini fridge where the fairy-claimer clanked around.

I was growing frustrated by the lack of solid clues as to what this invoice was actually about.

“I hope your Friday night is keeping you…occupied.” The redhead ceased her pop can clanking and glanced back at me, her eyes twinkling like we shared a secret.

Considering I’d never met her before, and didn’t have a clue who she was, there was no secret. None that I was in on, anyway.

And why had she put special emphasis on the word ‘occupied’ like it should mean something to me?

She stood, suddenly red-faced. She slammed the fridge door closed and sat in her chair again, expression pinched.

“What?” I asked, clutching the edge of the table, ready to make a run for it.

She gave a sharp shake of her head.

“Is this your office?” Even with this room’s down-on-his-luck, old man décor, it seemed to suit her more than the pink bullpen.

“No.”

“What’s your name?”

She seemed to settle, her earlier happy persona slowly returning. “I suppose you can call me Fairy Godmother, or Miss. F.G. if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“No, what’s yourname?”

“Estelle,” she said quietly, as though unsure what she could reveal about herself.

“Estelle.”

“Yes.”

“Why did I get a bill from you?”

She leaned forward, one elbow on the table with a comfort born from confidence and a solid awareness of exactly where you landed in this world and what your purpose was. I was a bit in awe.

But then it all crumbled like it had been an act, and she half-stood, hands splayed on the table. Her gaze was locked on the bullpen’s window and there, just before she skipped out of sight, was the fairylike woman from earlier gleefully sipping on a can of Canada Dry.

Estelle’s neck flushed red, her jaw set.

“Uh, the bill?” I prompted.

Estelle’s shoulders pushed up and forward and she drew in an impressive breath before letting it out in a rapid flash, her shoulders squaring again. Her focus returned to me, her smile bright and filled with purpose.

“The invoice is because you’ve been making wishes. And they’ve been granted.”

I blinked.

No.

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