The Boy Who Lost Fairyland Read Online Free PDF

cheekbones and graceful deer-legs, protested as the Red Wind, along with her cat and her troll, sailed past them toward that tall counter half buried in flurries of paper and clanking machinery.
    At the top of the towering teak desk, more like a judge’s bench than a shop counter, loomed an enormous and terrifying creature. It took all of Hawthorn’s strength not to hide behind the Red Wind’s skirts. The thing had one head, and that was well enough, and two arms and two legs, which is a more or less average number in Hawthorn’s experience. But such a plain face! Such a tiny mouth! And no wings or antlers or bits of jewel peeking through the skin. No mad, curving nose, just a snub, button affair stuck onto the middle of the creature’s face. It was a lady-creature. She had long brown hair tied up in a braid around her head, anyway. And spots of rouge on her cheeks. Her hands looked scrubbed and clean, but the troll would eat his own heart if they had ever held a wand or a sword or even a crystal ball. Such things leave marks. Hawthorn himself already had a splendid callus between his thumb and his first finger where his wand (a bone rattle with red ribbon and a silver bell in) had begun already to settle snugly into place.
    â€œPARCEL?” the creature barked thunderously.
    â€œWhat is that?” whispered Hawthorn.
    The Red Wind smiled slowly, her whole face filling up with wicked delight. “Why that, my excitable little emerald, is a human. I should get acquainted, if I were you. I daresay you’ll be seeing more of them.”
    â€œCan I touch it?”
    The human scowled. “I’ve never heard the like!” she snapped. “How would you like it if I asked to touch you?”
    Hawthorn shrugged. “You can touch me if you want,” he said softly. And reached up his hand.
    The human narrowed her eyes. She puffed out her cheeks like a great fish. Then she gave a short, hard laugh like a stamp marking a form and touched his fingers with hers. Her skin was soft and warm. His was hard and cold as stone—but for a troll, as hard and cold as stone is just the warmest and most wonderful thing to be.
    â€œPleased to meet you,” said the human. “I am the Postmaster General for the Commonwealth of Australia. You may call me Mr. Benjamin Franklin. Everyone does.”
    â€œYou don’t look like a Mr. Benjamin,” Hawthorn ventured.
    The Postmaster General shuffled several envelopes together and tied them with twine before chucking them behind her into a large canvas bin.
    â€œLong ago,” the Red Wind explained, “a wizard called Benjamin Franklin became so powerful, by means of a magical lightning-wand and an excellent wig and a fell familiar in the shape of a kite, that he was made Postmaster of a vast kingdom. Using his monstrous magics, he, the kite, and the wig founded the Grand Society of the Golden Postilion, of which all Postmasters are members. That is why they are called Masters, you know. Each and every one of them is a great Master of Questing Physicks. How else could a magical sword find its way to the bottom of a lake just in time for a little baby kinglet to wander by? Or a coat of many colors to a shepherd’s shoulders, or spinning wheel to a locked and hidden room, or a girl in the shell of a hazelnut to an elderly couple longing for children? The Post is how the end of a story gets shipped safely to the beginning.”
    â€œCouldn’t you do it?” Hawthorn asked bashfully. The Red Wind scowled.
    â€œSure, if you want your pretty English sword to end up stuck in a stump in a Louisiana swamp and the poor croc who signed for it wondering what to do with the enclosed glittering samite gown and Welsh dictionary,” chuckled the Postmaster. “Nobody knows a neighborhood like a Postman. If you let Fairies handle their own shipping and handling you’ll end up with the whole world marked Return to Sender, Cash on