by Sarah Noffke
Christine shook her head, appearing impressed. “I’ve never so much as given someone a dirty look for doing something awful. That’s pretty amazing that you stand up to people like that.”
“Yeah, well, if it were amazing, I wouldn’t be here,” Paris remarked. “It’s apparently not my job and gets me in trouble more than it gets me accolades.”
“Being here isn’t so bad though,” Christine urged. “I know we all must seem like a bunch of goody-two-shoes compared to you and the types you’re around, but we’re fun. On Saturday nights we stay up late and watch romantic comedies and have pillow fights.”
“I’ll politely bow out of competing in the pillow fights since I suspect that I’ll turn it into a gross form of warfare,” Paris muttered.
“I think you’d have us all beat,” Christine concluded.
Paris wasn’t sure that watching romantic comedy and pillow fights were something she’d find herself doing. Maybe she could convince the women to have a casino night instead or a murder mystery night. Sure, they were supposed to be about creating romance, but that didn’t mean she had to stomach movies about two airheads blindly falling in love. The fairy godmothers deserved to have a life too, which meant a little adventure.
Convincing the fairy godmothers and professors to change would be a challenge, but one that Paris was up for. She glanced down the table, her eyes connecting with Professor Butcher, who was shooting visual daggers at her.
Still holding her fully buttered roll, Paris crammed half of it into her mouth, disgracefully tearing off a chunk and chewing with her mouth open, eating very much against the rules of etiquette and loving every bit of it.
Chapter Forty
The heathen was mocking her now, Shannon thought, watching as Paris Westbridge tore into her dinner roll like a savage. She’d seen many things at the college in her time, but nothing like the rude fairy who sat farther down the table chewing with her mouth open.
This rebel might have gotten into Happily Ever After College, but there was no way that she would stick around. That morning’s debacle was a rarity and had caught Shannon Butcher off guard. It wouldn’t happen again. Paris might fool the headmistress and Mae Ling and maybe some of the staff, but her antics wouldn’t blind Shannon.
She didn’t know how, but the Cotillion professor was certain that strange spell work had been employed for Paris to pass the quiz that morning. Many spells might have worked, but Shannon couldn’t figure out how Paris had successfully pulled it off.
Fairies had magic but many times needed an object to harness it, like a wand or a stone or an elemental force. Fairy godmothers often turned birds into vehicles or flowers into dresses, pulling on the object’s powers. However, Paris didn’t appear to have anything she was drawing on when using what Shannon thought was an osmosis spell to study the textbook's contents.
That was beyond bizarre. It wasn’t like fairy magic at all, but rather like the brand of magic that a magician used. That didn’t make any sense at all, which was why Shannon Butcher would have to do some investigating on her own. She would find out who this fairy was who was disrespecting their tried and true ways at Happily Ever After College. Once the fairy godmother learned who Paris Westbridge really was, she would expose her and hopefully get her kicked out of the college.
Chapter Forty-One
Hemingway was propped up against the wall in the hallway outside the dining hall when Paris exited. He straightened to attention when he saw her.
“Hey there,” he greeted her with a wide smile. “I figured I would walk you to the greenhouse for your next class.”
“Thanks,” Paris said awkwardly, wondering if the Jack-of-All-Trades for the college had heard she was a criminal and was keeping an eye on her. “Yeah, I have Gardening, which makes about as much sense as me learning how to tango.”
He laughed, and a dimple surfaced on his cheek. “I don’t think Wilfred teaches the tango in ballroom dancing, but you could always request it.”
She shook her head. “I don’t get what good playing in the dirt will be for helping me to match lovers.”
“From my perspective, which isn’t remotely close to being a fairy godmother,” he began while leading her out onto the sunny Enchanted Grounds. “Much like ballroom dancing, gardening is a skill and a discipline, which doesn’t hurt to learn and understand. I believe the skills we learn lend themselves to other things. Yes, the headmistress does expect Cinderellas to know the fundamentals of gardening, and therefore you must learn them.”
“Right.” Paris grunted. “Before I can help a gal land a catch, I have to teach her how to prune roses. Makes total sense.”
He nodded understandingly. “I get how it seems strange. But also, in gardening, you’ll learn lessons that hopefully relate to the matters of the heart. Growing things is very much about love. At least it is for me. There’s a unique passion that goes into gardening. Well, and also, you aren’t only going to learn how to plant regular old seeds and trim back topiaries. In this class, the instructor also likes to dabble in magical gardening, which fairy godmothers can use to create herbs, flowers, and unique plants for potions and all sorts of other uses.”
Paris found herself smiling at this. “Hey, this might be the first class I’ve taken all day that’s useful. I like the sound of this. I hope the professor isn’t some snobby jerk with a gardening hoe up their butt.”
Hemingway threw back his head and chuckled. “I hope you don’t think that about them. I hear they’re pretty down to Earth.”
Paris shook her head and rolled her eyes at him. “Did you just make that terrible pun?”
“I did.” He feigned hurt. “I thought it was pretty good. It appears I’ll have to step up my comedy routine to get a laugh out of you.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I’m not stealing your material to get a laugh out of Wilfred.”
Hemingway gave her a look of surprise. “I don’t think there’s any joke that can get him to laugh. He’s not wired for it.”
Paris shook her head, undeterred. “I have a mission. I’m going to get that man to laugh if it’s the last thing I do at this place—or the only thing.”
After opening the door to the greenhouse, Hemingway held out a hand for Paris to enter first. “You might be the first student here ever to have that as a goal. Usually, they want Wilfred to polish their shoes and tell them the latest gossip in the manor. That butler sees and hears everything.”
Paris discovered that the greenhouse was humid and pulled off her leather jacket once inside. “No thanks. I polish my boots, and gossip is super boring. I’d prefer the challenge of getting a magitech AI to laugh.”
“I like it. As Eleanor Roosevelt said, ‘Great minds discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, and small minds discuss people.’”
Chatting students filled the greenhouse, and they all hushed at the sight of the two when they entered. Planters lined the perimeter and baskets with flowers hung from the ceiling. In rows were individual workstations with a flat surface and drawers of supplies and tools underneath. Paris took the first empty one at the back and looked around for the instructor as Hemingway breezed past her to the front.
Once there, he turned and looked out at the class. “Hello, class. Let’s go ahead and get started on today’s lesson.”
Paris froze, never having considered that the professor for this class was none other than the gardener for Happily Ever After—Hemingway Noble.
Chapter Forty-Two
Hemingway slapped his palms together and rubbed them back and forth with an eager look on his face. “Who’s ready to get their hands dirty today?”
The students all nodded, but none of them seemed as excited about this as him. Paris had a hard time picturing any of the pretty and neat women in blue gowns getting their manicured hands dirty.
“All right. First two rows,” Hemingway began and motioned to the set of students at the front. “I want you in the Bewilder Forest today extracting the red juice from the Dragon
’s Blood Tree. For twenty extra points, who can tell me what benefits the juice offers, besides looking like real blood and being great makeup for Halloween?”
A few hands shot up into the air. Hemingway pointed at a woman at the front. “Go ahead and indulge us, Moondrop.”
Moondrop, Paris thought. Did most of the students here have hippie names like Rainbow and Moondrop? Thankfully her maybe new friend Christine had a normal name. Paris realized that she couldn’t really talk since hers was unique.
“The juice of the Dragon’s Blood Tree can be extracted and used to heal various ailments and improve mood if used in elixirs. Taken in too high a dose, it can cause euphoria,” Moonbeam answered in a rehearsed manner as if she’d memorized the textbook.
“Correct,” Hemingway praised. “Why is euphoria a bad thing?”
The students all looked around at each other as though searching for the answer. When no one said anything, Paris dared to raise her hand.
“In the back there.” Hemingway pointed at her with an intrigued smile on his face.
“Well, although euphoria sounds like a nice state of being,” Paris began, her voice low at first but rising as the students turned to look at her and leaned in her direction like they couldn’t hear her well. “It’s an extreme on the emotional scale, and it doesn’t seem that rational judgment could be used when in such a state.”
She had never heard herself talk that way, as if she was all educated or something, but the words had all flowed effortlessly. Maybe reading one book had exponentially raised my IQ, Paris thought and wondered where she came up with the word “exponentially.”
The room was silent, all eyes on her. Hemingway blinked at her, also seeming as surprised by her answer as she was.
Finally, he grinned and threw his hand into the air. “Ding, ding, ding! Ten points for you. Since you’re new, please note that points are only used for bragging rights. They aren’t transferable, have no monetary value, and expire after an hour. So use them right away. That’s my advice.”
Paris discovered she was smiling again. Maybe the gardening class wouldn’t be as dull as the others. So far, so good.
“You were correct as well, Moonbeam.” Hemingway looked at the student at the front of the class. “There are tons of healing qualities that the Dragon’s Blood Tree is used for. Incidentally, it also can strip paint if used in concentrated form and is a clever cleaning agent for hard to eliminate stains.”
He then swept his arm to the side of the greenhouse where there was a row of plants with fuzzy pink blossoms. “My middle row, I want you all to work with the shame plants. Talk to them, tell them jokes, play them music, give them your life story. The point of today’s lesson is that you must spend the entirety of the class with them without them folding in their leaves or bowing down. If they do, who wants to tell me what that means?”
Most of the class raised their hands. Hemingway indicated a tall woman toward the back. “Yes, you, Queen.”
Paris nearly laughed. There was a student named Queen. She’d heard it all now.
“If a shame plant folds in its leaves or bows,” the student began, “it means that you’ve hurt its feelings, offended it, or made it upset in some way. They’re sensitive plants that pick up on the emotions and moods of others who are in proximity to them and respond in kind.”
Paris eyed the strange plants on the far side of the greenhouse, suddenly fascinated that such flowers existed.
“Well put,” Hemingway commended. “Twenty points. Yes, that’s correct. The shame plant is extremely sensitive, and we use its extract to create mood rings that sense real feelings. However, as fairy godmothers, you’re going to need to present yourself lovingly in stressful situations. Your charges will be like the shame plant, and your job will often be to keep them from wilting. So grab a plant and pretend it’s a brokenhearted Cinderella and make it smile. Or at least keep it from bowing.”
Many of the students got up and rushed for the plants as if they were eager to get a specific one.
“My back rows,” Hemingway said over the shuffle, “today you’re going to be in charge of finding, collecting, and trimming the roots of the living stone plant and tending to it. Who can tell me why trimming the roots of this plant is difficult?”
A set of hands shot up.
Hemingway smiled, the participation making him happy. “Yes, Tilly?”
“The living stone plants grow in rocks and have invisible root systems,” a woman explained.
“Correct,” Hemingway chirped. “The plants blend into their surroundings, so finding them in the Bewilder Forest will be your first challenge. Then you’ll need to collect them by carefully trimming these invisible roots so we can replant them in the greenhouse. Trim too much of the roots, and the plants will die, so you’ll need to be careful. The only way I know to uproot one is to feel for the invisible roots and trim using touch. In this way, you’re going to have to rely on this sense. Delicacy is the key—also an important characteristic for a fairy godmother.”
Hemingway clapped as he buzzed with excitement. “Okay, without further ado, go and garden.”
Encouraged by his enthusiasm, the students all animatedly started in various directions. Paris was in the back row, which meant that she had to go foraging through this Bewilder Forest, searching for a plant that she had no idea what it was. Trying to hide her reluctance, Paris kept her head down as many students filed past her for the door.
She was about to follow them out, hoping one of them could explain what she was looking for when Hemingway strode in her direction, carrying a large green book.
He plopped it down in front of her with a sideways smile, showing his perfectly straight top teeth and crooked bottom row. It made for a cute combination. “I have a different task for you, Paris.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Paris eyed the book in front of her. It was entitled: Magical Gardening. “Do you want me to read that book?”
“Eventually,” he answered. “Since it’s your first day, I want you to start with basics. Under your station, you’ll find everything that you need: pots, soil, and some starter seeds. Your task today will be to plant six seeds and nurture them to grow.”
Paris angled her head, looking under the workstation briefly, pulling out several packets of seeds. “What magical properties do these have?”
“None. They’re regular old sunflower seeds,” Hemingway explained. “New students always start with planting those and tending to them over their first year. Hopefully, in twelve months, you’ve transferred them successfully to the outside of the greenhouse, and they are towering over it. That’s the idea, and I like that it represents the growth that students make during that period.”
Paris deflated. “That doesn’t sound as fun as milking a Dragon’s Blood Tree.”
He offered her a sympathetic look. “I get it. You have to start with the basics. You’ll progress to magical gardening, but only once you’ve mastered the mortal way of doing things. It’s important to know the fundamentals, which aren’t as glamourous as trimming invisible roots, but critical.”
“Okay.” Paris tried to keep the disappointment off her face.
Hemingway glanced over to where the students were interacting with the Shame Plants. “Becky, what did you do to yours?”
In front of Becky, her plant had fallen over, looking entirely lifeless.
“I didn’t do anything to it.” Becky scowled. “I just told it about my day.”
Hemingway shook his head, rushing over. “Maybe you should have sung to it instead. I’m not sure we can rescue this one.”
Paris kept her laughter locked away as she pulled out the soil and pots. She’d never gardened before. Then again, she didn’t recall ever playing in the dirt. Growing up on Roya Lane didn’t offer tree climbing or mud cake-making opportunities. The streets were cobbled, and there wasn’t much nature around, but there were fun shops and tons of places for Paris to get into trouble.
When sh
e plunged her hand into the bag of moist soil, Paris instantly enjoyed the way it felt against her fingers. She found the task of filling up the pots and patting sunflower seeds into the dirt to be very meditative. It was also super easy, and she had six pots done within a few minutes.
With nothing else to do, Paris opened the textbook that Hemingway had given her, reading about various spells that could be used to enhance and speed up growing. Fueled from lunch, Paris used the studying spell she’d learned that morning to read most of the book in a matter of minutes. It was a brilliant spell, she thought but was still confused why all of a sudden reading was so easy for her. Even without using the spell to speed read, she found the task simple whereas it had been painfully difficult before.
Paris was looking around for a watering can for the new seeds when right on cue, a tiny pixie fairy flew over with a small watering can and sprinkled liquid onto the pots.
“Thanks.” Paris smiled at the little female fairy, who was about the size of the small pots with gossamer pink wings and long green hair. The creature squeaked and flew off with the watering can in tow.
Paris hadn’t been around many different types of fairies. Now and then she’d see a fae on Roya Lane, but she avoided them because Uncle John said they were so dumb a conversation with them killed brain cells. They were beautiful though, and it was often difficult not to stare when she saw one. Pixies were mostly in nature, tending to gardens and buzzing around forests. It made sense to find them at Happily Ever After College.