Page 19 of Dreams Come True at the Fairytale Museum

Warren is a conundrum, and despite working together for a few weeks now, I feel like I know hardly anything more about him than I did on the day he arrived, and I keep thinking of what Mickey said – about finding his wish and granting it.

He seems to love the idea of the exhibits coming to life, and I wonder if he’d be more open to the possibility of wishes coming true than I thought at first. It has been a couple of weeks since I collected wishes from the well, so it’s as good an excuse as any to go down there and just have a little look…

The basement has an access door through Ariel’s grotto, and I listen at the bottom of the stairs but it doesn’t sound like Warren’s going to move anytime soon, so I grab a torch, and click open the lock that allows one side of the cave to be pushed inwards, and venture down the long, hollow, freezing corridor that runs underneath the garden.

This is an old building that’s had many uses over the centuries it’s stood here, and this part of it must’ve been some sort of dungeon once, because I’m fairly sure that I can still hear the distant sound of ghostly, rattling chains every time I come down here.

The basement door creaks as I unlock it and push it open with my shoulder, and flick on the light that Darcy got working for me a couple of years ago, which is the only thing that allows me to come here without having a fear-induced heart attack.

The other end of the room is directly underneath the wishing well in the garden, and although it was probably used for water once, many moons ago, by now, the old stone has crumbled and fallen away, and the well opens out directly into this room, and all the colourful pieces of paper that children have pushed through the grate above now litter the floor in here, waiting to be granted.

Warren’s wish was written on blue paper, and I bend over and rifle through the scattered wishes, picking up every blue one I can find and discarding it when it’s not the right one.

There aren’t as many as there once were – testament to my declining visitor numbers and, I think, a declining number of children who believe in magic, but there’s still a good few all over the uneven stone floor, and I keep looking for that one piece of blue paper, until I find it…

…and wish I hadn’t.

Warren, 41, Bromsgrove.

I wish to find some meaning in this miserable life.

It feels so raw and vulnerable and I can feel my throat constricting.

After the first joke of a wish he wrote down, I wasn’t expecting something so personal and honest. I was expecting him to have written something superficial, the kind of thing any guy would wish for – a new car or the latest games console or something, but this…

This is much, much deeper. His life is miserable?

He doesn’t find any meaning in it? I think about what I thought the other day when we talked about autumnal jumpers and cuddly, cosy clothing – he doesn’t seem to enjoy much at all.

‘So that’s how you’re doing it.’

The sound of my own scream takes me by surprise at a voice in the silence, and I don’t think I would have jumped so much if an actual ghost had materialised in front of me.

I spin around and turn to face Warren where he’s standing in the doorway, and then quickly hide my hand behind my back and let his wish flutter to the floor like I’d never picked it up. The last thing I want him to know is that I’ve seen that.

‘What are you doing down here?’ I demand, a hand on my chest which is still heaving from the shock. ‘You can’t sneak up on someone in a haunted basement!’

‘Haunted, really?’ He raises a sceptical eyebrow as he pushes the door fully open and ducks in.

‘Oh, you can believe in exhibits that move of their own accord but you don’t believe in ghosts?’

‘Didn’t say I don’t believe in ’em. Just thought that most ghosts would choose somewhere more inspiring than this to haunt.’

‘All right, it’s not the best basement in the world, but it’s mine and I love it. You don’t get to come down here and insult my basement.’

‘You’re terrified of it. I can almost guarantee that you get your friend to come down here with you every time.’

‘I do not!’ I lie. How the heck did he get to know me this well when I know so little about him?

‘So…?’ I ask again, trying to redirect him back to my earlier question.

‘I have the floor plans, Lissa. I could see there was a room beneath the wishing well and I’ve heard too much talk about wishes being granted in this place for it to be coincidental.

Plus the information harvesting was very, very weird, even by your exceptionally strange standards.

I knew something was going on and figured you’d enlighten me sooner or later.

I was just leaving and you were suspiciously missing.

I wondered if you’d been kidnapped by one of the exhibits and thought you might need a Prince Charming-type to rescue you. ’

It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow, and he laughs. ‘God knows where I’d have found one at this time of night so I came looking for you myself instead.’

‘Surprisingly chivalrous of you.’ I laugh, but I’m still breathing hard from the shock and I feel shaky and unbalanced at being caught looking for his wish, which I’m sure he’s realised.

I step away from the scattered wish papers and try to look innocent as he comes closer, the footsteps of his shiny shoes echoing around the hollow room.

He crouches down and does exactly what I did – picks up a few pieces of blue paper and discards them until he finds the right one, then he folds it again and puts it in his trouser pocket without a word.

‘So what did you wish for?’ I say breezily, trying to pretend I didn’t find it.

‘The usual. New socks, nice cologne, the latest PlayStation. Like putting in an order with Santa and not having to wait for the hassle of Christmas.’ His voice is just as breezy as mine as he pats his pocket and stands upright again, looking down at the rainbow of coloured papers littering the floor around him.

‘So, what is this? Is it pure nosiness or are you throwing the budget away on every entitled little blighter who puts a piece of paper down that well wishing for games and laptops and smart phones and I-something-or-others, and anything else their greedy little minds can come up with?’

‘No! Of course not!’ I say indignantly. ‘This is nothing to do with children who want things. There are families who are struggling to get by, and Ever After Street comes together to help them. Anyone with such a cynical attitude has no business being surrounded by the magic of children’s wishes.

Go on, out!’ I’ve turned around mid-sentence and started marching towards the door to order him away, but his fingers clamp around my shoulder and force me to turn back to him.

‘Sorry.’ He drops his hand and steps away instantly. ‘But don’t turn your back on me when you’re talking. I can’t…’ He sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. ‘If I’m being talked to, I want to be talked to.’

‘As opposed to the more time-efficient multitasking of walking and talking?’

‘Exactly,’ he mutters, which is surprising for someone who seems to value nothing more than efficiency.

‘So you have spoilt only-child syndrome then? Used to having undivided attention?’

‘Something like that.’

There’s something in his tone that suggests it’s nothing like that, and I’m once again certain that there’s something I’m missing here, and I don’t know where to begin in finding out.

‘Tell me, please,’ he says in a gentle, curious tone. ‘You’re not just some year-round Santa who delivers endless expensive presents to demanding children?’

‘Children wish for the most heartbreaking things. Things you can’t imagine any child ever needing, never mind needing so badly that they have to wish for it, but they do…

’ I stop myself saying anything further, because it’s the kind of thing he’s never going to understand.

He’ll tell me it’s not my responsibility and I shouldn’t be wasting the budget on something so frivolous and unrelated to the business.

‘Like what?’ he prompts.

‘Things that someone who can afford your suits and your car could never comprehend. Just forget—’

‘They’re work suits. It’s a company-issued car to make sure all employees look the part and impress potential clients. I’m just a normal guy with normal struggles… who never usually lets the professional front slip this much.’

A professional front. In those few words, he answers so much about himself.

I’m not used to people who are all-business.

On Ever After Street, everyone’s businesses are run from the depths of their hearts, and everyone is emotionally invested in everything we do, but Warren has always seemed aloof and determined to keep a professional distance at all times.

Is that front exactly why I don’t know much about him?

In fact, the only moment it’s cracked even slightly is when he’s been intrigued by something the exhibits have done, and unable to hide the little boy buried deep down inside.

I relent and answer his question. ‘Like food. Enough food to have breakfast as well as dinner. Enough food that Mummy can eat too. Clothes without holes in them. Clothes warm enough to keep out the winter chill. Blankets warm enough that their parents don’t have to worry about putting the heating on. ’

‘Wow.’ He’s chewing his lower lip as he looks at me, making me self-conscious of how intently he’s focusing on my mouth again. ‘That’s… unthinkable.’