Lullaby (The Fable Series, Book 2)

Chapter Thirty Four

"And that's how I ended up vomiting in Madonna's handbag," Ben says proudly, while Alix slaps him on the back, howling with laughter.

The firelight flickers and dances around their faces, sparks flying in the air as they laugh so hard that tears stream from Ben's eyes.

Alix's ultimatum to Zee of only staying an hour turned into two hours, then three, then the whole afternoon and late into the night.

The availability of free beer and champagne might have something to do with it, plus the instant connection he formed with Ben.

The second Ben heard that Alix was a drummer, they got talking about Keith Moon and Ringo Starr and techniques, and it was basically a case of insta-BFF.

The rest of us have been burying Lyall in the sand, telling stupid stories, roasting marshmallows over the fire (even Felix) – all the things you're meant to do when you're camping.

As for a tent, Elliot has it sorted. When the boys were packing for the trip back at the cabin, Elliot went looking in the attic for anything we could bring along.

I've never gone into the attic (I'm sure it's a total spiderfest in there), but Elliot says it's filled with all sorts of weird old things, like a bohemian boudoir from the sixties left to gather dust. Probably Bea's old stuff, and possibly some of gran's too.

Right at the back, folded up neatly behind a tattered sofa, he found a tent. Not a normal tent, with zips and metal poles and a waterproof covering – nothing that sensible.

Tonight, we're sleeping in what looks like something you'd expect to see in a fairytale, not in real life. I can picture an Arabian prince basking on silk cushions in the desert beneath the massive awning.

I still can't believe the guys actually managed to assemble it, or the fact that it hasn't fallen down yet.

A ramshackle framework of wooden poles holds up a vast sheet of thick golden fabric, draped in smooth velvety layers fringed with faded tassels. Every inch of the fabric is embroidered with tiny red roses, every petal perfect, every leaf and thorn accounted for.

The excess fabric spills over the sides onto the sand like a lazy golden ocean, and the material at the front is hitched up to form a makeshift entrance.

There's only one word for it: magical.

Alix and Zee haven't yet said they're spending the night on the beach with us, but it's too late for them to drive back to Portland anyway.

I hope Kitty packed enough blankets.

"I say old chap, how about you be a good sport and pour me some more of the good stuff?" Alix says in a very badly done upper class British accent, reaching his cup out to Alastaire.

"Poppycock. I don't speak like that," Alastaire says, grabbing Alix's cup with a scowl.

"And I'll have some of whatever that is you're eating," Alix adds, eyeing the bow of Christmas Pudding which Alastaire instantly snatches away out of sight.

"This is just for me," Alastaire says. "And Cupcake, if she wants some."

"What is it?" Alix asks, curious now as he leans over.

"Christmas Pudding, if you must know," Alastaire says defensively.

"What? Why?" Alix asks. "I mean, it's July. That's kinda odd, bro."

"Maybe," Alastaire says enigmatically. "But I have my reasons. Besides it being the most delectable food known to man, of course."

"Sure," Alix says. "Whatever you say, goldilocks. Anyway, you're dating... what's her name... Zara Quinn, right? Nice one. You may be a pudding-eating poncy British nutjob, but you have a super hot girlfriend, and I respect that."