Fairy Godmothers, Inc.

by Jenniffer Wardell

  “Okay. ‘As such, the shoes should not in any way be dictated by the dress—its style is, to a certain extent, dictated by the client, and our tastes are far more trustworthy than hers will no doubt prove to be.’”

  Kate looked down at her poufy blue skirt, wincing a little at the irony.

  “The shoes should, as described earlier, have all the qualities of the jewels which they will em . . . emulate. As such, they should be clear like the facets of a diamond, sparkling with each step the girl should take. Though the Fairy Godmother may tint the shoes to match the client’s dress, the shoes should be made out of glass—”

  “Glass?” Kate interrupted. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Reaching over, she snatched the file out of Rellie’s hand and started scanning, hoping the girl had somehow misread something. “No, you’re not kidding me, are you? Geez, do these people have any contact with reality?” Groaning, she rubbed her eyes. “Okay, okay. I’m sure there’s a way I can work around this. Plastic, maybe, though the sparkle would be harder and I don’t know how much fun that would be for you. Maybe they would consider a shimmer close enough to a sparkle—”

  “Wait, they actually want me to walk around in glass shoes?” Kate didn’t even get the chance to respond before the girl’s eyes widened in horror. “What if I want to start jumping up and down or something? The shoes would get smashed and make my feet all cut up and bloody and disgusting!”

  “Which is why I will figure out how to take care of this,” Kate said, trying her best to sound soothing. “I just . . . need a little while to work out the details.” Stretch details out to mean “a plan of any kind,” and she could actually claim the last statement had been honest.

  “I’m sure Mr. Assistant Guy could help. He looks kind of like that cute guy who shows up on the coins sometimes—it’d probably be more fun with him, too.” Distracted from her sudden fear of dangerous footwear, Rellie stopped playing with one of her new bows and glanced up at Kate. “You sure do blush an awful lot, you know that?”

  “It’s been a recent development,” Kate muttered, closing the client folder and stuffing it back in her waistband. Then, more loudly, “I’ll be back tomorrow, and you’d better hope I can change management’s mind about glass footwear by then.” She waved her wand for what would hopefully be her last transportation spell of the night. “Because if I can’t, there’s going to be a four-foot stack of liability forms in your future.”

  Rellie gave Kate a little wave as the glow kicked in. “Why?”

  Kate turned to step into the spell. “Do you know how much you could sue us for if the prince ends up stepping on your toes?”

  SIX

  Family Dynamics

  Lawton pressed a hand to his friend’s forehead as if checking for fever. “Seriously, Jon, you’re beginning to frighten me. And I am far too sober to be forced to deal with genuine emotion right now.”

  Jon inclined his head toward the glass Lawton had set down. “Should I come back in fifteen minutes?” When it became clear the other man wasn’t about to be distracted by a mere joke, Jon rolled his eyes and stepped away from his friend’s hand. “It’s not like I want to entrust Rupert with all my worldly possessions, Lawton. I just need to ask him something.”

  “And if that was how you had introduced the situation, I would have simply responded with a bit of witty repartee and happily moved on to a far more interesting topic of conversation.” Lawton shook his head and took a quick, bracing drink of his abandoned brandy. “But what you actually said was that you needed Rupert’s assistance with something, implying that you have slid so far into derangement that you feel your daily activities would actually be improved by the involvement of your idiotic elder brother.”

  Jon sighed, forced to acknowledge that Lawton actually had the shadow of a point. “I need us to squeeze in one more fancy dress ball before the start of banquet season,” he explained. “But last time I tried to talk to Madame Stewart, she chased me around the kitchens with a serving fork. I thought Rupert would probably have better luck.”

  For a long moment, all Lawton could do was stare at him. “Are you actually planning on attending this ball, and thereby volunteering for what you consider to be an evening of unspeakable torture?” he asked finally. “Or, as I am profoundly hoping, is this part of some sort of complex psychological torture you plan to inflict on the unsuspecting? Be warned—if you do not answer properly I will feel it my duty to force the attentions of the nearest medical professional on you.”

  Jon raised an eyebrow, a little surprised at the genuine worry he heard in Lawton’s voice. “I’d probably be there for at least part of it, just to make sure everything starts smoothly,” he conceded, working out the details in his mind. “After everyone is sufficiently distracted, however, I plan to slip out and enjoy the rest of my evening far away from the palace.” And, ideally, convince Kate to spend the evening with him. They could find a nice little restaurant somewhere on the far edge of town, take some time to just enjoy one another’s company.

  Lawton once again picked up his brandy, seeming somewhat soothed by the calculation hinted in Jon’s explanation. Plotting, he understood. “You know, if you had used the word ‘scheming’ from the beginning you could have saved us both a terrible headache.” Taking a drink, his eyebrows drew together speculatively as he studied Jon over the top edge of his glass. “Though the question of why still remains. Have you become a masochist while I wasn’t looking? Because if you have, at least have the good sense to practice it in a more amusing field of interest. I know some women who can do marvelous things with velvet whips and chains.”

  Jon’s eyebrows lifted as his brain attempted to fit Lawton, whips, and chains into the same picture. “I am quite certain that wasn’t something I wanted to know about you.”

  Lawton shrugged before moving on. “Did you lose a bet of some sort?”

  Jon narrowed his eyes. “You were kind enough to cure me of that, remember?”

  Lawton’s face burst into a smile at the happy memory. “Ah, yes. It was a pleasure watching you wear those animated trousers for an entire week. The speculative look returned to his face. “What is it, then? Other gambling debts, perhaps? Some form of ludicrously elaborate repayment?”

  Jon sighed. Apparently, this was going to be a full interrogation. “When was the last time you saw me anywhere near a gambling table? Rupert does that enough for both of us.”

  “True.” Lawton nodded in acknowledgement. “A duke’s wife you’re suddenly desperate to see again?”

  Jon raised an eyebrow. “Which one—the black widow who’s on husband number nine, the woman who’s convinced she’s an elfin princess, or the former frog who still croaks when she thinks no one is looking?”

  Lawton brushed aside Jon’s impatience with a dismissive gesture. “There are only three reasons for a sensible man to do anything at all—money, power, and women. You have more than enough of the first already, along with a distinct unwillingness to be a decent human being and spend it on the same trash as the rest of us. If this was one of those dull, political plays you do so well you would have confessed before we even started simply to get me off your back, and I’ve heard no sign of—” He cut off abruptly as his gaze snapped to Jon’s, one eyebrow shooting upward. “If I remember correctly, you were out almost obscenely late last night.”

  “Which means that I’m tired.” Jon took a deep breath, fighting for patience. “And the idea of decking you is sounding better by the second. Do I have any chance of finding out whether or not you’ve seen Rupert lately?”

  “Don’t interrupt me while I’m having a brilliant insight. If it helps, you’re perfectly free to deck someone else once I’ve left the room.” Even as he spoke, a supremely self-satisfied smile made its way onto Lawton’s face. “For the moment, though, I am far too intrigued to go anywhere.”

  No. No, no, no. He trusted Lawton with nearly everything, but there were still far too many parts of this that could go wrong to let
anyone else get involved. “I was walking,” Jon explained, voice calm. “And thinking. We brooding, younger son types have been known to do that on occasion, you know.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Lawton took a ruminative sip in order to extend the moment. “The question that springs to mind, however, is whom were you walking and thinking with?”

  Jon hesitated for a fraction of an instant before responding. “A large, balding man named Richard, if you must know. I’m holding interviews for a new best friend.”

  Lawton’s smile remained in place. “I’ve always admired your ability to lie with a straight face.” Setting down his nearly empty glass, Lawton slung a companionable, confining arm around Jon’s shoulders as they walked. “So, am I familiar with this fetching creature?”

  Jon sighed, giving in. “No, and you won’t be until I’m absolutely certain she won’t run away screaming.”

  Lawton’s smile slid into a delighted grin. “Which suggests, happily, that you have found a woman you actually consider worth holding on to. And, given the fact that music and dancing appear to be involved in the lady’s wooing, my guess is that you have discovered her someplace livelier than one of your dusty political meetings.”

  “Actually, she needs it for work.”

  That stopped Lawton in place, both eyebrows shooting up. “Really?” He digested this. “Tell me you’re not trying to free one of Madame Stewart’s scuttling assistants. Not only would you be forced to face her wrath, but your mother would have an absolute fit—”

  The sound of someone crying started in the distance.

  Both men stood listening, then Jon squeezed his eyes shut as if fighting off an impending headache. “That doesn’t sound like my mother, does it?” When there was no response, Jon opened his eyes. “Please tell me that doesn’t sound like my mother.”

  “Actually, I don’t believe it does.” Lawton cocked his head thoughtfully. “The queen tends to have a more fluttery edge to her sobbing, and if she were the culprit it would have likely evolved into a wail by this point.” He shook his head. “I can’t recognize it.”

  Jon sighed, moving away from Lawton toward the sound. “If it’s not her, then she probably still caused it somehow.” Which was worse, in a way—the maids’ big tearful eyes always ended up making him feel guilty they’d had to deal with his mother in the first place. He paid the queen’s personal staff ludicrously high wages—hazard pay—but at times it still didn’t seem like enough. “For pity’s sake, I told Mother she can’t have one of her nervous breakdowns in front of anyone who hasn’t been cleared for hazard pay.”

  Lawton hurried to catch up. “You do realize, don’t you, that if Rupert is anywhere within earshot he is undoubtedly running away from the sound of sobbing.”

  “Yes, but if I don’t—” Jon stopped. “Wait. You’re coming with me?”

  “It would seem that way, yes.”

  “I thought copious weeping gives you a headache.”

  “True.” Lawton smiled slightly. “But if I let you too far out of my sight, you’ll escape my clutches and I’ll lose my opportunity to pry more information about your new lady love out of you.” He squared his shoulders. “For gossip of that quality, I’m willing to accept the risk.”

  Jon shook his head as the crying stopped for a few seconds before starting up again. “Remind yourself of that once she starts sobbing into your shirt.”

  The crying remained fairly steady as they spent several frustrating minutes attempting to locate the source. Excepting a family curse that needed fulfilling, a secret treasure that needed hiding, or an annoying relative who needed getting rid of, the sheer number of various nooks and crannies found in the average royal castle were extremely annoying.

  “I was wrong,” Lawton finally admitted somewhere in the depths of the fifth floor alternate study. “No gossip could possibly be worth this much exercise. I’m going back to drinking myself to death.”

  “That might be . . . wait.” Jon stopped. “There it is, under the desk. I can still hear the occasional sniffle.” Waving Lawton into silence, Jon placed his hands on the top of the desk and leaned over, almost but not quite able to see the space beneath. “May I ask who’s hiding under there?”

  “A lost soul,” came the response in a decidedly male voice. A decidedly familiar male voice. “Wandering without direction, goals, or the power of positive . . .” There was a pause. “I don’t quite remember that bit, but it’s something I definitely don’t have. Now please go away.”

  After a long moment of silence, broken only by the sound of fresh sniffling from under the desk, Jon slowly turned to look at Lawton. “Please tell me that didn’t sound like my brother.”

  Lawton’s eyes were wide. “If you feel a comforting lie is really what you need right now, then of course.”

  Jon closed his eyes briefly. “That’s what I thought.” Straightening, Jon walked around the desk and reached a hand into the shadowy area beneath. Grabbing the closest convenient bit of what felt like Rupert, he pulled without being too concerned about the possible side effects.

  “I say, Jon, what are you—” Rupert’s head accidentally slammed against the underside of the desk, and any more protests were cut off in a moan of pain as he was dragged out and into the light. Disheveled and completely filthy, Rupert gingerly rubbed the top of his head as Jon stepped back with a glare. “Ow, ow, ow. And just in case you didn’t hear me the first time, ow.”

  “You’ll live,” Jon snapped, folding his arms across his chest. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but what in the world is going on here?”

  Rupert sniffled again, peering up at his brother. “You could have just asked me to come out, you know. It would have been a goal I could have set on the way to enli . . . inli . . . the light thing that philosophers get so excited about.”

  Jon counted slowly to ten before letting himself speak again. “Rupert, I’m serious.”

  “So am I,” Rupert said sadly, pulling a handkerchief from the wreckage of what had been his second-best hunting outfit. “I’m searching for my inner child. It wasn’t in the gardens or the old toy room, and I’ve forgotten where that seamstress’s room was.” He blew his nose, then glanced up at Jon again. “Have you seen it anywhere? My inner child, I mean—I think the seamstress quit years ago. I’m not sure what all the fuss is about, but apparently finding it is very important.”

  Jon just looked at him, completely confused. “Have you been drinking the gardener’s special onion liqueur again? I keep telling you, I’ve seen half a cup of the stuff make giants get tipsy.”

  “I know that.” Rupert rolled his eyes, looking disgusted. “Besides, I’ve decided to give up drinking entirely. It was a . . . a . . .” He hesitated again, looking up at Jon. “It’s that word that means holding back too hard. People use it to talk about underwear sometimes.”

  “Repressive?” Lawton chimed in helpfully, clearly fighting hard not to laugh. Unfortunately, Jon had absolutely no time at the moment to think up a suitable retribution.

  “That’s it! A repressive tool used to trap me into an unhealthy situation. There was something else in there about this thing called an id, too.” Rupert’s brow furrowed. “I really didn’t understand that bit.”

  Keeping a death grip on his patience, Jon crouched down in front of Rupert and took a hold of Rupert’s shoulders. “If you do not start making sense this instant,” he told his older brother very solemnly, “I will tell Father you’ve heard the call and want to devote the rest of your life to becoming a priest.” A pause. “A desperately impoverished priest, who has to spend all his time wearing scratchy robes, doing heavy lifting, and giving food away to poor, dirty people.”

  Rupert considered this for a few moments. “The book really didn’t mention anything about scratchy robes or poor, dirty people, but it would give me time to think about when it was I made the wrong turn on my life track.” He sighed, resigning himself to his fate. “Is there someplace where I could be a priest wi
thout the scratchy robes or the heavy lifting? I’m not sure what else a priest does, but I might be willing to try it.”

  Okay, now Jon was starting to get nervous. “Rupert,” he said carefully, getting to his feet just long enough to drop into a nearby desk chair. “Please explain to me, slowly and clearly, what started all this. Don’t leave anything out.”

  “Well, there was this really great tavern, and about a week ago some of the lords and I were drinking and talking the barmaids into sitting on our laps.” Rupert’s eyes got distant as he went back into the memory. “The next morning I woke up in the alleyway behind the bar with my trousers in the shape of an unusual hat.”

  Lawton snorted in amusement, but Jon couldn’t help a quick stab of retroactive panic. He’d have to start sending guardsmen with his brother everywhere, just to be able to sleep at night.

  Rupert, seemingly unaware of either reaction, moved on with the story. “And it was that moment, as I tried to remember what day it was and where I could find a servant to help me readjust my pants, that I realized there was something missing in my life. The drinking and wenching and throwing money at people just . . . just wasn’t as fun as it used to be.”

  “What happened next?” Jon asked.

  Rupert blinked, returning to the current reality. “I found a book.”

  Jon’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You’ve never cared about books before. What made you . . .” His voice trailed off as memory slammed him between the eyes. “A book?”

  They’ve found him in the library . . . by the books . . . I don’t know what could have happened to him . . .

  Foreshadowing would be considerably more useful, Jon thought, if people could learn to recognize it before the foreshadowed problem actually became an issue.

  “It was gigantic, chock-full of these immensely long and pointless words that I couldn’t even begin to understand. I thought at first that I’d just ignore it like usual, or find you and ask you to make sense of them for me, but after a while they just started—I don’t know—speaking to me.” Rupert looked up at Jon, very serious. “Not really, of course, but I liked it. Do you think there’s another book somewhere that has a step-by-step guide about how to actually do all of it?”