Page 57

We spend the next hour rebuilding it twice, baiting it with everything from blueberries to a single sock, and arguing about whether fairies would sabotage our mission because of ‘internal frog politics.’

By the time Julie finds us, we’re both covered in leaves and holding hands like secret agents waiting for coded instructions.

“You two look suspicious,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“We’re on frog watch,” Lillian whispers. I nod solemnly.

“Cloud frog. Very rare.” Julie blinks.

“Of course. Carry on.”

As she walks away, I hear her mutter, “That man used to run battlefronts.”

Lillian grins up at me. “You’re fun when you’re dirty.”

“Don’t tell HR.”

She throws a pinecone at me.

Later that evening, I’m chopping vegetables for dinner when Lillian barrels into the kitchen holding three hair ties and a hairbrush like she’s carrying a magical relic.

“Can Julie braid my hair?”

I glance at the clock. “You’re supposed to be getting ready for bed.”

“This is getting ready for bed,” she counters.

“You want me to do it?”

“You always make my braids crooked. Julie does the swoopy ones.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Swoopy?”

She nods solemnly. “Like fairies. You don’t know how.”

Fair enough.

“Go ask her, then.”

She’s gone before I finish wiping my hands. And five minutes later, Julie appears in the doorway, barefoot and smiling.

“Reporting for hair duty.”

“She’s got high standards,” I warn.

Julie steps inside, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “I thrive under pressure.”

We set Lillian on a stool in front of the fireplace. She chatters the whole time—about spell-charmed frogs and how Mr. Groth sneezed so loud he scared off the nymph who runs the juice stand. Julie listens like everything matters.

Every word.

She parts Lillian’s hair with practiced fingers.

“I used to braid my cousin’s hair every weekend,” she says. “It was the only time she sat still.”

“Do I have to sit still?” Lillian asks, squirming.

“Only if you want it to look amazing.”