The afternoon sun was hot, and easing my car door shut, I gave it a bump with my hip to latch it. My fingers were sticky from the pastry I’d eaten en route, and I scanned the sparrow-noisy grounds while I dug a tissue out of my bag. Wiping my fingers clean, I wondered if I should have taken five minutes to change into a more professional outfit than shorts and a top—professionalism being something I desperately needed, seeing as I was skulking around the mausoleum that I’d parked my car behind.

Jenks had run vanguard for me as I took the back roads to Spring Grove. If I had driven the interstate, the I.S. would have nailed my butt to a broomstick. It had made for slow travel—driving three blocks, parking, waiting for Jenks to do some recon, then moving forward another three blocks—but I couldn’t stomach the idea of taking a cab. And as I hiked my shoulder bag higher and headed across the grass, I again thanked God I had friends.

“Thanks, Jenks,” I said, stumbling when my sandal hit a dip the mower had hidden. His wings tickled my neck, and I added, “I appreciate you running rabbit for me with the I.S.”

“Hey, it’s my job.”

There was more than a hint of annoyance to it, and, feeling guilty for having asked him to fly twice what I had driven, I said, “It’s not your job to make sure my butt stays out of traffic court,” then added softly, “I’ll go to driver’s-ed class tonight. I promise.”

Jenks laughed. The tinkling sound brought out three pixies from the nearby bank of evergreens, but upon seeing Jenks’s red bandanna, they vanished. The obvious color was his first line of defense against territorial pixies and fairies, a sign of good intentions and a promise not to poach. They’d watch us but wouldn’t start catapulting thorns unless Jenks sampled the meager pollen or nectar sources. I’d rather have pixies watching me than fairies, though, and I liked the idea that pixies had Spring Grove. They must be well structured, since the grounds were huge.