Page 16 of Dreams Come True at the Fairytale Museum

‘You should know that this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done in my life!’

‘Oh, really, I would never have guessed.’ I huff under the weight of the pumpkin carriage, which Warren and I are in the process of rescuing from the riverbank, after it’s gone off on a jolly all by itself.

I got in early this morning, hoping to make it before Warren, but annoyingly he was ahead of me and I caught up to him walking down the road from the car park.

When we arrived, there was no sign of forced entry and nothing was out of the ordinary, until I did my usual pre-opening checks and discovered that Cinderella’s life-size pumpkin carriage was missing.

Before we could call the police to report it stolen, Sadie phoned to say that she and Witt could see a pumpkin carriage down by the river.

‘No wonder the Fairy Godmother turned lizards into horses to pull this thing!’ Warren pants through gritted teeth.

‘Mice. She turned lizards into footmen and mice into horses.’

I’d been wondering if Warren’s early arrival this morning was a cover and I’d accidentally caught him on the way back from dumping it by the river, but I’d forgotten how heavy it is.

This is, at best, a two-person job, and even with the two of us, we’re struggling. If I’d caught him in the act, even if he is hiding super-size muscles under those sharp suits, he’d have been sweaty and dishevelled and out of breath.

As sweaty and dishevelled and out of breath as he is now, actually.

‘All right, let’s take a break,’ I say because he looks hot.

In both the sweaty sense and the not totally unattractive sense.

It’s hard to deny how good-looking he is, even if I want to, because I’m fairly sure I shouldn’t be seeing a property developer who’s considering demolishing my museum in that way.

Piercingly light-blue eyes, dark stubble tinged with the tiniest hint of grey, wide-set features, and dark bouncy-looking hair that would defy gravity if it wasn’t swept backwards and tamed with product.

We’ve taken a shortcut around the side of the castle and now we’ve reached the edge of Ever After Street and the birch trees give us some shade from the blazing mid-autumn sun before we have to tackle getting the pumpkin carriage up the steps to the museum.

Warren leans against a tree, bending over with his hands on his knees, panting for breath. ‘I always enjoy an opportunity to showcase how unfit I am.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that…’ I clear my throat and tear my eyes away from the way his chest is heaving. ‘I mean, yes, me too, obviously. I don’t have time for… fitness things.’

‘Same. I sit at a desk all day and…’ As he looks up, the wind blows and a snowstorm of yellowing birch leaves float down around us, making him laugh and bat them away from his face.

‘…hadn’t realised how long it’s been since I’ve been outside in nature or done anything that didn’t involve staring at a screen. ’

It doesn’t sound like the way he intended to end that sentence, and it’s something I can’t imagine ever finding any joy in.

The creative side of the museum is what I love.

The fact that it’s varied, that you never know who’s going to turn up next or what you’re going to be faced with on any given day.

He hasn’t mentioned our discussion of his clothing choices again since the other day, but he’s ditched the tie and the suit jacket, and now he’s wearing perfectly pressed suit trousers and a long-sleeve office-type shirt with a button open at the collar, and when we got to the riverbank, he rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, putting his forearms on full display.

And he is knackered. He’s leaning against the tree and we’re both still breathing hard and sweat is glistening on his neck. I thought he was responsible for taking the glass shoes and starting up the spinning wheel the other day, but this is something different.

‘Did you really not do this?’ I didn’t intend to let him in on my train of thought, but I blurt it out anyway.

He looks up and meets my eyes. ‘No.’

I’m never sure whether I can trust him or not, but in that one simple answer, I believe him.

It brings to mind all sorts of questions about who did do this, and how they got in to the museum in the first place, or why.

I know Mickey’s got the spare key, but there’s no way she could have got this out either, and there’s certainly no reason for her to go into the museum at night without telling me.

There has to be something else at play here, I just don’t know what it is yet.

‘You didn’t either, I’m guessing.’

I swipe the back of my hand across my forehead to wipe away sweat and shake my head.

He nods like he believes me too. ‘Now we can’t say that nothing’s been taken. We’re calling the police as soon as we get back.’

Something doesn’t fit quite right about this.

The pumpkin carriage was taken from the museum, yes.

It was left on the edge of the riverbank, yes, but it isn’t damaged.

It didn’t look like it had been dumped there, it looked artfully arranged, its own image reflecting on the water, and I feel like I’m missing something. ‘What happened to sitting tight?’

‘We’re in the middle of hauling an extraordinarily heavy pumpkin carriage up from a riverbank. That’s where sitting tight ends for me. I can entertain the joyous thought of sentient exhibits to a degree, but this… This did not get down there on its own.’

‘But it doesn’t feel malicious…’

‘It feels like someone is breaking in at night and having a laugh at our expense. It’s probably teenagers who have either managed to pick the lock or stolen a key and are going there to hide out, drink, take drugs, and whatever other illegal things teenagers do when they get together to do things they shouldn’t do. Of course, if you had CCTV…’

It’s not the first time he’s lambasted my lack of CCTV, but it’s yet another expense that I can’t afford, and now I’m wishing I’d made it a priority because it would soon sort out what’s going on at Colours of the Wind while our backs are turned.

‘Do any of the other shops have CCTV that might cover a part of the street?’

‘I doubt it. Most people around here are traditional and CCTV feels like too much of an intrusion. The council have cameras covering the main street and the car par—’

‘The council! Lissa, you’re a genius!’ He pushes himself upright and darts out onto Ever After Street and I watch him stalking up and down the cobblestones, taking stock of where the CCTV cameras are.

One of them covers the area around the carousel at the base of my steps, so there’s a small chance that it might have picked something up and probably an even smaller chance that the council would willingly share it with us.

He points out all four cameras when he comes back, looking excitable. ‘That’s got to have captured something. One of us can stop by the council building later and see what they’ve got.’

I don’t mention my not-so-wonderful relationship with the local council, but if anyone’s going to try, it will need to be him. ‘I think there’s about as much chance as us getting this back up to the museum without one of us dying, but I’m surprised you’re such an optimist.’

‘I am.’ His grin changes his whole face from its usual default semi-frown look and makes his eyes gleam like a kid again. ‘I don’t think we’ll die. Maybe rupture something and be hospitalised for weeks though? And you think I don’t know how to look on the bright side.’

It makes me laugh as we set off again, alternately pushing and pulling the pumpkin carriage across the bumpy cobblestones of Ever After Street, ignoring the very strange looks we’re getting from families visiting the street.

‘How did you even get this thing anyway?’ Warren wheezes.

‘Mickey found the frame at an antiques fair and knew I’d be able to do something with it. So I bought it, scrubbed it and sanded it down, added some rounded wooden panels to make it pumpkin shaped, painted it, and voila.’

‘That’s… pretty impressive.’

‘Thanks.’ If my face wasn’t already red enough to rival the spot on Jupiter, I’d be blushing at how sincere he sounds. ‘Visitors love that they can actually sit in Cinderella’s carriage. It’s a great photo opportunity.’

He goes to speak but I interrupt him before he has a chance. ‘And no, we can’t start charging for photos.’

‘Actually, I was going to say that we need more photo opportunities. I’ve noticed that your visitors like them.’

I appreciate his perspective and it is true. People love a photo op. ‘And more opportunities for photos people can share on social media would be a good thing.’

‘Good thinking. We’ll make a businesswoman out of you yet!’

We’re both as embarrassingly out of breath as each other while we push the pumpkin carriage up the grassy verge beside the steps leading to the museum’s door.

‘I am impressed, you know,’ he says as we reach the top of the hill, gasping, and stop outside the doors and look back at the climb we’ve done. ‘That you make pretty much everything yourself. That’s a lot of time and dedication. I can’t imagine giving that much of myself to anything.’

‘Your job?’ I ask, and it makes me realise that I know next to nothing about him, despite him getting under my feet for many days now.

He hasn’t revealed anything about himself, his life, his likes and dislikes, any hobbies.

There’s keeping a professional distance and there’s just being distant, and I still get the feeling that he’s not being honest about something, and maybe it’s part of that.

If he’s trying to keep something hidden, maybe it’s easier to keep everything hidden?

Or maybe it’s my fault. I haven’t been as welcoming as I could have been.

I haven’t asked him any questions or been particularly friendly.

I haven’t embraced the ‘working with him’ aspect that he suggested, despite his insights being right on the mark.

Maybe he’d have been more open if I had been more open too?

He shrugs and makes a noise of indifference. ‘A job is a job. I could live without it. Unfortunately, I couldn’t pay my bills without it, so it’s a necessary evil.’

I’m surprised by his apathy. Since he’s been here, his job is the only thing I thought he was dedicated to.

The only thing that’s broken through his wholly professional facade is the possibility of exhibits coming to life, and I’m determined to find out more about him.

If I knew more about him, maybe I’d have a clue about what he might be hiding.

‘Well, that was a fun morning I’d like to not repeat in a hurry.

’ He looks back down the steps behind us and then jerks his head to one side to make me look too, because we’ve got a small audience of people, watching us haul, lug, and heave the pumpkin carriage, and now waiting to come in and see it in its rightful home.

‘Two minutes, folks!’ I call down. ‘Just wrangling the exhibits that have escaped again!’

The small audience laughs and I flash my eyebrows at Warren. ‘Tell you what, I bet Cinderella never had this much trouble.’

He laughs, but it gives me another pause for thought. We’ve attracted a bit of attention in dragging this along the street. I don’t know how the pumpkin carriage got down to the river, but getting it back up hasn’t been an entirely bad thing. It might even have helped business.

Warren’s forearms flex in my view. Yeah, it hasn’t been an entirely bad thing at all.