by Jeff Rosen
“NO!” Caley shouted. “They’re from my perfect prince!”
“Perfect … prince?” repeated Kip.
“Show Caley what you brought!” Neive said before Caley could say anything else.
Kip thrust the wooden box at Caley awkwardly. “Mom finished your gown.”
Caley wobbled past Kip with barely a glance at the box and stood at the mirror admiring herself some more.
Neive took the box from Kip and opened it in front of Caley to reveal a shimmering clothes-rose floating in water.
“Mom was up all night making sure it was growing properly,” Kip said. “She told me to say she mixed in sea-beam that ripples like waves. She wants you to try it on right away, and if it needs any adjustment she’ll still have time to fix it before tomorrow.”
Caley turned from the mirror and started to shake her head, but her leaden locks made her knees buckle. Neive and Kip grabbed her and managed to sit her down, but she kept swaying, like Humpty Dumpty.
“I can’t wear a peasant dress to my ball,” said Caley.
“Peasant?” repeated Kip.
“Is there an echo in here?” Caley tapped her head and heard “echo in here” echoing around in it. “Princess Ithica is having a more suitable gown grown for me. I have to look posh for my perfect prince.”
Kip stared at Caley uncomprehendingly, then at Neive, who stared at Caley with a look of mild horror.
“Who’s this ‘perfect prince’?” demanded Kip.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’m going to the ball with Prince Ferren.”
Kip’s face had that dense look it got when he was thinking too hard.
“I can’t go to my ball with a mixed-breed mutt,” Caley went on.
“That’s … a bit … harsh,” Kip said slowly.
“Caley,” said Neive, “something’s wrong with you.”
“Everything’s perfect!” shouted Caley. “I’m going to a ball with a perfect prince, and my life is perfect for once, and you’re both just trying to ruin it!”
“We’re not trying to ruin anything.” Kip glared at Caley. “And by the way, your life isn’t perfect. Or did you forget about Olpheist and that Hideous Drop around your neck?”
“Hadeon,” corrected Neive.
“Plus, I don’t care who you go to your stupid ball with,” Kip concluded.
“Perfect,” said Caley lazily.
“Perfect!” snapped Kip. He stomped out, only stopping to grab a few animal crackers on a table.
“That was cruel,” said Neive. “Kip’s your friend.”
“You don’t even like Kip,” replied Caley.
“We’re all friends,” Neive continued. “Your real friends. Unlike Ithica Blight. She’s been filling your head with nonsense. I just can’t figure out how it’s managed to stay stuck in there. Maybe it’s all that cement.”
“You’re not my friend. You’re a servant. And servants need to know their proper place.”
“I’ll always be your friend,” Neive replied evenly, “but you can find yourself another servant.”
As she turned to leave, Neive caught sight of the crow. It saw her looking and flew off unsteadily, its metal wing glinting in the sun. Neive’s eyes narrowed on it; then she hurried off without another word.
“You may go,” Caley said, waving to the empty room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Ball
The morning of the ball, Caley woke from the poshest dream. She and Prince Ferren were married with a whole bunch of perfectly posh blond children with sideswept bangs. They were born with tiaras and braces, so there was almost no work involved in raising them. Everything was perfect, except for the athrucruth chained up in Doctor Lemenecky’s Animals and Botanicals lab, who occasionally got loose and ate one of the children. Aside from that, her head was completely quiet—but for the faint sound of a solitary goldfish bumping into its bowl.
Caley lounged in bed and waited for Neive to come help her get ready. There was a knock on the door, but instead of Neive, it was Kip, holding a bouquet of lilies.
“Just thought I’d pop by to say no hard feelings.” Kip held out the flowers. “And I brought these. For your big day.”
“Just set them down with the others, Mr. Gorsebrooke.” Caley limp-fish waved in the direction of Ferren’s flowers.
“Whatever you say.” Kip set the lilies down. “Good luck. Oh, and make sure you water him. It!”
Kip began to head out.
“Mr. Gorsebrooke.”
Kip turned back to Caley.
“Do you know where Miss Olander is?”
“Who? Oh … Neive? No idea. She told me she quit.”
“That’s too bad.”
“No kidding,” Kip said sourly.
“Who’s going to help me get my hair ready for my ball?”
Caley padded over to the mirror. Some cement had flaked off her hairdo overnight, and a few curly red bits were starting to poke out like weeds in a sidewalk.
“Actually, I don’t need Neive,” Caley said dreamily. “Everything is perfect.”
“Whatever you say.”
Kip opened the door, almost bumping into Ithica Blight, flanked by the Pingintees.
“Getting more perfect around here by the minute,” Kip sniped, shoving his way past them.
“Princess Caley,” began Ithica, “I brought your special ball gown. Give it to her, Lumpy.”
Pansy Pingintee held out a gold box to Caley.
“Try it on; try it on.” Ithica clapped lifelessly.
Caley stared vacantly in the mirror, picking at her hair.
Pansy turned to Ithica. “I don’t think she can hear us.” Ithica limp-fish waved between Caley’s face and the mirror. Caley didn’t blink.
Ithica turned to the Pingintees with a vile smile. “The flowers worked just like I said they would. She’s a vegetable.” She pointed to the rotting blue flowers. “Dumpy, toss those in a trash-toad. Get rid of the evidence.”
Petunia lumbered off with the flowers.
“I still don’t get what’s going on,” said Pansy, scratching her fat forehead.
“I told you, dimwit,” replied Ithica. “The flowers you stole from that bogger Pim’s garden were Forget-Me-Lots. They make you forget who you are.”
“Ohhhh! Like … what do you call it … amnesty?”
“Amnesia. And once she forgot who she was—a horrid little Earth worm—I made her think she was a perfect posh princess. Only she’s not a perfect posh princess, is she, because there is only one perfect posh princess. And at the ball, everyone’s going to see who the number one royal really is: me. The effects of the Forget-Me-Lots will have worn off by then. Just in time for my surprise.”
“So … then … if Princess Caley’s not posh … does that mean there’s room for us in the Princess Pen?” asked Pansy hopefully.
“Wait … I’m confused.” Petunia clomped back into the room. “Who’s posh and who’s not?”
There was one thing in Caley’s head. A phrase came to her from out of nowhere: Watch out for the Forget-Me-Lots …
Who had said that, and what did it mean? Being blond was harder than it looked.
Ithica grabbed the gold box from Petunia and opened it in front of Caley. Inside was a blindingly gold clothes-rose.
“Time to get dressed for your big day.”
“My big perfect posh princess day,” Caley said dully.
She picked up the clothes-rose and blew on it. It sparkled dazzlingly, and the sparkles spread all over her, forming a gown constructed, head-to-toe, of little gold mirrors. It was so tight at the waist she could barely breathe, and then it ballooned into an enormous skirt the size of a prize pumpkin. It was like wearing a colossal disco ball made of bullion. The shoes were mirrored gold, too, with foot-long stiletto heels. She stood there, wobbling and winded.
The Pingintees started to snigger-snort, but Ithica silenced them with a “Shush!”
“These heels … are a bit … high,” said Ca
ley, attempting to keep her balance.
“They’re perfect princess pumps,” insisted Ithica. “You have to be the tallest princess because you’re the poshest.”
That certainly made sense, thought Caley (if anything did).
“Lumpy! Where’s the special corsage?” prompted Ithica.
Pansy handed over some flowers, and Ithica attached them to Caley’s gown.
“It needs one more thing,” said Ithica. She placed a tinfoil tiara the size of a teacup on Caley’s head. “Now you look like a proper posh princess!”
Ithica and the Pingintees headed out, cackling gleefully.
“Is that flower snoring?” asked Petunia, glancing back at the bouquet of lilies.
CALEY stood there for a long time, admiring herself in the mirror. Her gown was so gold and so bright she began to get a tan—or possibly a first-degree burn—from her own reflection.
“What on Erinath are you wearing, child?”
Caley looked around. Duchess Odeli was staring at her, aghast.
“I have been knocking and knocking. I thought something had happened to you, and now I see that it has. Someone has imprisoned you in some sort of torture device!”
“It’s my perfect posh princess gown.”
“Well, I certainly don’t understand today’s fashion. You’re quite red. Do you have a rash?”
“Everything is perfect …” said Caley, scratching at her face, which was seriously stinging now. “I might need some sunscreen …”
“The ball is about to begin. Please, Your Highness, quickly …”
Caley took one step on her stilt-shoes and went skittering sideways past the duchess like a crazed crab.
“Not that quickly!” the duchess called, whooshing after her. “Royalty never runs!”
BY the time she reached the ballroom, the goldfish bumping back and forth inside Caley’s brain had turned into a shark, shredding her head into little chunks of free-floating thoughts. It was nearly impossible to make sense of any of them: Perfect posh potty princess in a Princess Pen … Forget-Me-Lots … Pretty bird …
Caley gazed around blurredly. She was seated on a throne at the head of the ballroom. The once-magnificent room was crumbling, like the rest of the castle. The roots, holding up the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, were rotting off the walls. There were gaping holes where the ceiling was supposed to be, and you could see the cold autumn sky and menacing storm clouds closing in. Below the cornices, the carved cherubs holding musical instruments looked like pieces of parched driftwood. Everyone was in tuxedos and gowns, or military uniforms, milling around punch bowls and an enormous coronation cake. A liveried man announced couples as they entered.
“Princess Fenistera Fardsarrage and Prince Wilhelm Poting-Sackson.”
Caley felt uncomfortable and tried to move, but she seemed to be wedged in tight to the throne. She caught her reflection in a mirror and was mortified to see she was packed into some sort of hideous golden getup, like the world’s biggest bonbon. And what was up with her hair? As ridiculous as it usually looked, this was a whole other level. People were gawking at her with appalled expressions, and the tiara twits and their dates—who were all in some sort of velvet-roped-off pen—snickered and pointed.
“Why am I wearing this?” Caley turned to the duchess, who was seated beside her throne. “Am I going to outer space?”
“That is the gown you chose,” replied the duchess.
“Kip’s mom made me a gown. Where is Kip? And Neive …?”
Caley scanned around the ballroom.
The duchess regarded her with growing alarm. “Your rash is getting worse.”
Caley felt her face. Something hot and nasty seemed to be bubbling beneath her skin.
“Princess Ithica Blight and Prince Ferren Quik,” said the announcer.
Caley rubbed her eyes. No, she wasn’t seeing things. Ithica Blight was walking into the ballroom with Ferren Quik. Despite her shark-shredded head, she remembered she was supposed to go to the ball with Ferren. Wasn’t she?
“Princess Caley Cross will dance the first dance,” said the announcer.
The cherubs on the ceiling began to play a creaky waltz, and everyone stopped talking and turned their attention to Caley.
“Where’s your date?” a tiara twit taunted.
“Who would dance with her?” another twit teased.
Caley felt her face grow hotter, and now her hands were heating up too.
“I am putting a stop to this right now,” the duchess told Caley firmly, taking her hand to lead her out.
Caley managed to wrench herself to her feet, alarmed to find she was at least a foot taller than usual. She had on hideously high heels, which made her look like a buffalo balancing on pogo sticks. One of the stilettos snapped, and the weight of her gown sent her toppling onto the dance floor. She landed with a thud that shook the chandeliers and shattered her gown. Her cement head cracked completely apart, and her curls sprang out like a bunch of springs from a busted cuckoo clock. The tiara twits, led by Ithica Blight, began laughing at her with a sound like jackals. Caley rolled around on the floor under the weight of her smashed gown, her legs kicking helplessly, like a turned-over tortoise. Just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, the hot nastiness on her face began to break the surface of her skin … like little volcanoes … and burst. She glanced at herself in the mirrors and saw her face was covered in enormous pimples, which were erupting like mini Mount Vesuviuses: great gushing geysers. A tiara twit took a picture with her bee. No doubt the post on Bee-Me would break the record for the most honeycomb emojis anyone ever got. The tiara twits’ cruel laughter grew louder and louder while Caley continued tortoising and face-volcanoing, reflected infinite times in the ballroom mirrors—infinite infinitely humiliated Caley Crosses.
A hand held out a handkerchief. Caley looked up, surprised to see Ferren Quik. She wiped off her volcano-face as he helped her to her feet.
“Don’t listen to them.” Ferren nodded in the tiara twits’ direction. “They’re mean, and they do whatever Ithica tells them to do.”
“Then why did you come to the ball with her?” asked Caley.
“My mother insisted.” Ferren frowned. “I wanted to ask you, but I figured you’d go with Kip.”
“Kip?” repeated Caley. “Kipley Gorsebrooke?”
“You’re always hanging out. I thought you were going out with him.”
“Me?” said Kip.
Caley turned, surprised, to see Kip and Lucas hurrying toward her in tuxedos.
“Sorry, we would have come sooner,” started Lucas, “but Kip forgot to get me again. I think he stopped to eat coronation cake.”
“‘Never save the day on an empty stomach,’” said Kip, licking icing off his lips. “The Gorsebrooke motto. Those flowers your ‘perfect prince’ supposedly sent—” Kip gestured at Ferren, “were Forget-Me-Lots.”
“They shrink your brain and swell your head,” added Lucas.
Watch out for the Forget-Me-Lots. Caley picked out one memory from the swirling shark-sludge of her brain. She remembered who’d said that: Master Pim.
Now if she could just remember who Master Pim was.
“Those are pimple posies, by the way.” Lucas pointed at Caley’s corsage.
Caley tore them off, and her face instantly stopped volcanoing.
“Why would you send me Forget-Me-Lots?” She turned to Ferren.
“I didn’t.” Ferren shook his head blankly.
“Remember we saw the Pingintees outside Master Pim’s garden?” said Kip. “I bet they were getting those flowers. Not hard to guess who for …”
Kip eyed Ithica Blight, who had gathered the tiara twits together: they were all attempting to out jackal-laugh each other at Caley.
“But then, if you didn’t invite me to the ball …” Caley regarded Ferren, then pulled out his leaf-note invitation that she’d been carrying ever since she got it. She saw that each i was dotted with a lame little tiara. “I’m so st
upid,” she said, shaking her head. “I was so excited when I got this I never even noticed …”
Caley turned to Ithica. She felt her chest start to buzz. Her amulet was vibrating loudly.
“Your hand …” said Kip.
Caley looked down. Her hand holding the leaf-note was on fire. The note curled up in flames.
The cherubs suddenly stopped playing with a sound like a needle pulled from a record. Everyone was staring in horror at Caley’s flaming fingers. There was a deafening silence, like a shoreline before a great wave hits; then the dead roots hanging from the walls began to writhe … and wriggle … and from out of the decay new shoots and stems exploded in every direction, fusing together to form giant zombie tree-hands. The zombie hands began clutching and clawing at everyone, and everyone began screaming and scrambling, terrified, from the ballroom. The tiara twits tumbled out of the Princess Pen, but a zombie hand scooped them up and shook them until their tiaras toppled off. Another zombie hand grabbed at Ithica Blight, who began to run around in circles, holding on to her tiara for dear life.
“Lumpy! Dumpy! HELP ME!” Ithica shrieked hysterically at the Pingintees.
The cousins shoved Ithica aside as they stampeded out of the ballroom, squealing at the top of their lungs like pigs in a pit. The zombie tree-hands snatched Ithica up. There was a flurry of wooden fingers in front of her terrified face, and then she was dumped on the floor. The tiaras had been twisted into a set of braces the size of a restaurant sign and attached to Ithica’s regular ones. They spelled out something:
A BIT GLITCHHI.
Ithica bolted from the ballroom, gibbering hysterically through her behemoth braces.
Caley managed a faint smile.
Then she died.
CALEY’S eyes flickered open. Kip’s and Lucas’s faces slowly came into focus, staring down at her, relieved. She managed to sit up, feeling lifeless and like she’d been stung by a million mosquitoes, like she always did after a zombie attack. She couldn’t move a muscle, but her mind was suddenly working triple time. She remembered everything that had happened to her leading up to the ball and who Master Pim was. She also remembered him saying something about not getting angry (*see Olpheist). She had definitely gotten a bit steamed (or a bit bigger than a bit), she had to admit, as she glanced around the barren ballroom and the still-flailing zombie tree-hands.