Broken Homes

stalls I thought.
    I heard Abigail laughing somewhere out in the mist – it’s a very distinctive laugh. I wondered if I should go get her.
    ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ said a voice behind us.
    ‘Hi Zach,’ said Lesley. ‘I thought you were persona non grata.’
    ‘I was,’ said Zach. He was a skinny white boy with damp brown hair and a big mouth in a thin face. He was dressed in genuinely un-prewashed faded jeans and a grey hoodie that was going at the elbows. He bowed theatrically.
    ‘But this is the Spring Court,’ he said. ‘The seasons have turned and cruel winter has passed. Lambs are gambolling, birds build their nests and the hardy bankers get their bonus. It is a time of forgiveness and second chances.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Lesley and fished a tenner out of her jacket and waved it at Zach. ‘Go get us some dinner then.’
    Zach swiped the tenner out of her hand.
    ‘Your sternest command,’ he said and legged it.
    ‘He really does have no self-respect,’ I said.
    ‘None whatsoever,’ said Lesley.
    While we were waiting, I suggested I do a perimeter check.
    ‘That way you can round up Abigail while you’re at it,’ she said.
    My dad had started in on what had recently become his signature piece, an arrangement of the ‘Love Theme from Spartacus’. The rest of the band faded down to almost nothing while my dad did his best Bill Evans impression – except hopefully without the untreated hepatitis. His piano followed me into the mist, fading in and out behind the hawkers and the mechanical organ on the carousel. It was frustrating in the way my dad’s music always frustrates me – going off the melody just when I was enjoying it and going to places that I couldn’t follow.
    I found Abigail standing in front of a tall thin stall shaped like an outsized Punch and Judy booth. The edges of the proscenium arch were decorated with carved owls, quarter moons and occult symbols and it must have been very fine once. Now the gold and blue paint was chipped and the yellow curtain that hid the interior was washed thin and dingy. A carved sign at the top of the arch proclaimed, Artemis Vance: Purveyor of Genuine Charms, Cantrips, Fairy Lures and Spells . Pinned just below were the words, written in sharpie on an index card, No Refunds!
    ‘Lend us a fiver,’ said Abigail.
    I was curious enough about the booth to hand over the money.
    Abigail knocked on the side of the stall which shuddered alarmingly. The curtain flew open to reveal a hook-nosed young man whose hair was silver white and stuck out at all angles like punk candyfloss. He was wearing a maroon velvet jacket with a tall collar over a ruffed lilac shirt.
    He peered suspiciously at me and then even more suspiciously at Abigail – at least he had his priorities right.
    ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
    ‘I want to buy a fairy lure,’ she said.
    ‘Sorry,’ said the man. ‘We don’t do fairy lures any more.’
    ‘Why not?’ asked Abigail tilting her head to one side. ‘Because fairy hunting has been deemed unlawful under the ECHR,’ he said. ‘No fairy hunting, no fairy lures. Mind you, technically, I could sell you a fairy lure providing you didn’t actually use it to lure fairies. That’s if I could still make them.’
    ‘Why can’t you make them?’
    ‘Because you have to use real fairy,’ said the man. ‘Otherwise it won’t work.’
    ‘But if I’m not going to use it to hunt fairies, why can’t you make one without any fairy in it?’ asked Abigail. ‘A fake fairy lure.’
    ‘Don’t be absurd, young lady,’ said the man. ‘Only a mountebank would think to purvey a fairy lure that failed in its most requisite aspect. Even to suggest such a thing stretches absurdity to the point of effrontery.’
    ‘How about a spell then?’ I asked.
    ‘Alas,’ said the man. ‘I would not presume to disgrace myself by offering the pathetic outpourings of my own craft to one such as you, a gentleman if I am not mistaken, and I never am, already schooled in the high and puissant arts of the Newtonian practitioner.’
    ‘What about me then?’ asked Abigail.
    ‘Underage,’ said the man.
    ‘What about a cantrip?’ asked Abigail.
    ‘Alas cantrip is merely a synonym for spell, and thus my previous answer must suffice,’ said the man and glanced up at his sign. ‘Its inclusion is merely there to facilitate a more attractive rhythm to our advertisement and thus engage the jaded attentions of the common ruck.’
    ‘Do you actually