Once Upon A Kiss: Seventeen Romantic Faerie Tales

by Alethea Kontis

  “How awful.”

  The witch’s sarcasm only stoked the fires of Alice’s temper. She glared at her, uncaring if she was courting danger by insulting a magic wielder.

  “He’s barmy,” she bit out. “Mad as a hatter, they say. In fact, that’s what they call him behind his back. Did you know? Jaspar Wellington, the Mad Hatter.”

  “Is he a hatter?” the witch asked, her voice rising with surprise.

  Alice stumbled to an abrupt halt and gaped at her. “No. No, he’s not a hatter. And that is not in any way the point, is it? The point is he’s insane.”

  “In what way?”

  The old woman’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge a fact that was easily accepted by everyone else in the population twisted Alice’s already mangled nerves into a tighter knot.

  It didn’t help that she couldn’t answer the question.

  Jaspar Wellington was mad, there was no doubt about it, but it was very difficult to put one’s finger on why. He didn’t dress in a strange manner, or even say particularly strange things. It was just…a feeling. A feeling of…wrongness. A sense that he was listening to something that wasn’t there, looking for something no one could see. It was just…wrong.

  Then, of course, there was the fact he kept tigers as pets. A bit odd, that, but not enough to earn him the moniker the Mad Hatter. Alice crossed her arms and stared into the mirror hanging on the wall, locking on to her own eyes as if she could find the answer there. It wasn’t the fact that he kept tigers for pets. In fact, the great beasts suited him. There was something about the thought of Jaspar caring for the sleek predators that seemed appropriate, a sort of shared majesty and grace.

  An image of Jaspar came into her mind and a little shiver ran down her spine. He was a strikingly handsome man, there was no denying that. And she couldn’t pretend being around him didn’t excite her in a strange, illogical way. Perhaps her throat was dryer in his presence, her hands a bit clammy. Maybe she did laugh a little easier, occasionally found time speeding by whenever she was in conversation with the dark-haired bachelor.

  She’d never seen one of his tigers, but he’d once tried to gift her with a cameo that had a tiger painted on it. He’d assured her it was a very good likeness of one of his own tigers, and she remembered being struck by its green eyes. Jaspar’s eyes. Of all the gifts he’d tried to give her over the past months, that was the one she regretted rejecting the most.

  Her reflection was starting to look starry-eyed, and Alice scowled and turned her back on it, retreating to her chair. “I don’t want to marry him.” She flopped down with an air of defeat, some of her precious anger leaking away and leaving her vulnerable to a dreaded sense of guilt. “Can’t you understand? I don’t bear him any ill will. I don’t dislike him. It’s not an enjoyable thing having to turn him down several times a week.”

  “Indeed, it doesn’t seem like you dislike him,” the witch agreed. “From what your mother has said, you’re actually quite fond of him. Talk to him at all the social events, sit with him at dinners. Why, she mentioned you’ve even danced with hi—”

  Her cheeks burned. “I was being polite!”

  The witch blinked at her, then narrowed her eyes. “If you are, in fact, capable of politeness, might I suggest you try it now? I’ve forgiven some rudeness because you’re clearly upset, but if you insist on shouting at me, I’ll say good day and we can be done with this.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alice said tightly. “It’s just…” She cleared her throat and brushed a lock of her long brown hair behind her ear, trying to regain her composure. “We do spend a lot of time together, but it’s not my choice. I’m told to sit next to him, purposefully left to talk with him while my mother busies herself somewhere else. We’re pushed together at every turn, encouraged by everyone and their mother to marry.”

  “Because you’re both cracked.”

  “I’m not cracked!” Her heart pounded, her nerves screaming with awareness as she felt a familiar brush of fur against her legs, the press of tiny paws. She refused to look down, refused to look at the kitten she knew had leapt into her lap, was curled up on her legs even now.

  It’s not real. It’s not real.

  It wasn’t real. No one else saw the cat. No one else had ever seen it. After the initial confusion and subsequent humiliation, she’d quickly learned to ignore it, learned that to so much as glance at it only increased the number of people who looked at her out of the corner of their eyes, stared at her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

  The witch was watching her too closely, staring at her with an intensity that almost made Alice believe she could read her mind. She grasped for something to sway the nosy old woman from her path, something equally true and nearly as embarrassing.

  “They push us together because we’re both spoiled goods.” Her throat tightened, but she pressed on. Better to talk about her family’s shame than entertain the witch’s notion of her own madness. “He’s the handsome, wealthy man who would be absolutely plagued by eligible young women if not for his…eccentricities. And I’m…”

  She jutted her chin out. “I’m the beautiful maiden whose family has lost all their wealth. It’s a perfect solution, as far as everyone else is concerned. Our marriage would keep the Mad Hatter from setting his sights on one of their precious daughters, and it would solve my family’s financial problems so our ‘friends’ don’t have to feel so awkward around us—or worse, feel bad because they don’t want to invite us to their parties anymore.”

  It wasn’t good breeding to point out her physical attractiveness or to discuss society’s uncharitable reaction to her family’s change in circumstances, but there was no point beating around the bush or feigning a poor self-image. Her appearance had been praised by numerous suitors—every one of which had suspiciously vanished right around the time they would have gotten wind of her family’s change in fortune.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of your uncle’s unfortunate gambling problem. The old bat next door goes about telling people you have no servants, and the only rooms in your house with any furniture are the bedrooms and the sitting room.”

  Alice clenched her teeth, but didn’t deny it. She couldn’t deny it.

  The witch drummed wrinkled fingertips on the tabletop. “I can certainly see why your mother isn’t bothered by rumors of Mr. Wellington’s…imbalance. It must seem a small price to pay for her daughter to marry such a rich man.”

  “Ouch!”

  Alice pressed her lips together, barely resisting the urge to glare down at the kitten kneading her thigh with its tiny, razor-sharp claws. Her cheeks burned as the witch arched an eyebrow at her.

  “I am not a lunatic,” Alice said calmly. “And I do not wish to have a lunatic husband.” She took up her cold tea and took a sip, more for a distraction than any desire for tepid tea. “Mother Hazel, Jaspar is a nice man, a good man. I don’t want to hurt him. But I cannot marry a man when to be in his presence is to be painfully, acutely aware that he is…wrong.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before opening them, offering a pleading look to the witch. “Won’t you help me? Help him?”

  She expected the witch to argue, to continue prodding and pushing in the irritating way Alice’s mother so often did. But instead, the witch stood from the table and crossed the room to disappear beyond a curtained doorway. When she returned to the table, she held a small box in her hands.

  “To be clear,” she said firmly, “I do not believe that marrying Mr. Wellington will make you any more bonkers than you already are. It would be better for you to deal with that fear now than to continue running from it—especially when it means you’re running away from a man you genuinely care for.”

  Alice swallowed hard, but jutted her chin out, ready to defend herself.

  The witch shook her head, cutting her off. “Take this,” she said, handing the box to Alice. “Inside you’ll find enough tea for a single cup. Make it before bed, drink it down to the last drop, and then go to sleep. It w
ill help with…both of your problems. When you wake, go to see Mr. Wellington. You will know exactly what to say to get the outcome you desire.”

  There was something about the way the witch phrased that last part that sounded very much like she expected Alice to change her mind. A fresh surge of annoyance chased away the last of her embarrassment, and she accepted the box. She’d take the tea. And when this was all over, she’d prove to the witch, her mother, and Mr. Wellington himself that she’d meant every word when she’d said she did not want to marry him.

  The cat followed her as she left the shop, trotting along beside her like a harmless little pet. The way it waved its ridiculously fluffy tail back and forth in an exaggerated manner seemed like a blatant attempt to get Alice to look down at it, but she refused. Bad enough the beast wouldn’t leave her alone, she was finished allowing it to harm her reputation.

  “Because you’re both cracked.”

  The witch’s words whispered in her ear and her stomach tightened. What if it was too late? What if the witch was right, and she had the same reputation as the Mad Hatter? There would be no other suitors. No other chance to save her mother and herself from poverty.

  She gritted her teeth. So what? If no other man wished her for his wife, then she would remain alone. Better alone than with a psychotic. And what if her family did lose their wealth? She could work, couldn’t she? She could provide for her mother and herself. She wasn’t a poor seamstress—surely there was work to be found in that?

  A meow from the direction of her feet distracted Alice and, without meaning to, she looked down. The kitten immediately rose on its hind legs, putting its front paws on her thick skirts and meowing louder. Alice scowled and jerked her head up, her cheeks burning with the certainty that she was being watched, that someone would have noticed her looking down at something that wasn’t there.

  The familiar sight of her family’s large house with its short white pillars and cream-colored stone startled her, and she looked around in bewilderment. She couldn’t be home already. With no money for a carriage, she’d been committed to a nearly five-mile walk. It hadn’t been more than fifteen minutes at most.

  But there was her house, the lawn that was starting to look conspicuously overgrown exactly as she’d left it. A curl of unease swirled through her stomach, and Alice gripped the box a little tighter. The witch had said the tea would help with both her problems—she assumed she’d meant her unwanted suitor and her…peculiarities. Perhaps I should drink it now. She said to drink it before I slept. She didn’t say anything about time of day.

  The kitten continued to meow and bat at her skirts as she walked up the path to her house, taking the side entrance that would lead to the kitchen. If she was lucky, she could sneak in without her mother noticing. She managed to enter the kitchen and close the door behind her in near silence, but an unexpected snag on tiny claws set her off balance. A silver platter flew off the countertop as Alice threw out her arms to catch herself, and she hissed as it landed on the floor with a clatter.

  “Alice, is that you?”

  Alice’s neck ached with the effort not to look down at the miserable furball winding around her ankles. She would kill the miserable beastie—if it existed.

  Which it doesn’t, she reminded herself.

  The kitchen door swung open and her mother appeared before her holding a tea tray. Her brown hair was almost a perfect match for Alice’s, but for the pale hint of grey discernible in the long braid. Without a handmaiden, more complicated hairstyles were impractical, and that braid had been a red flag to more than one “friend” that rumors of their financial situation were as true as they were dire.

  Her blue eyes were tired, and the plain green dress she wore had loose stitching in the bodice. Stitching Alice would have to fix before the waving threads could betray any more of their circumstances.

  “I’m so glad you’re home,” Mrs. Porter said, placing the tea set on the counter. “I’ve had word from Mr. Wel—”

  “I’m not feeling well,” Alice blurted out. She snatched the box of special tea from the floor along with the silver tray, then fixed herself up with a hot cup of water from her mother’s tea set. “I’m going to have a cup of tea and then I’m having a lie-down.”

  Her mother stared at her. “Alice, are you all right?”

  “No,” Alice said in a strained voice. “As I said, I’m not feeling well. Nothing a little rest won’t fix, I’m sure.”

  Lines appeared around her mother’s mouth as she frowned. Suspicion darkened her eyes with the shadow all mothers bore when an obstinate child claimed to be sick. “There’s no need to be short with me, Alice. I’m only looking out for your best interests.”

  Again, Alice could feel the topic of conversation drifting closer to the Mad Hatter, and again she rushed to cut her mother off.

  “Perhaps when I’m feeling better, I’ll call on Mr. Wellington.”

  Instantly, the suspicion vanished, replaced by obvious relief as her mother clasped her hands. “Oh, Alice, really? That would be wonderful, dear. He likes you so much, you know, and—”

  “Yes, well, I’m not going to feel any better standing around here chatting, so I’ll just be off.”

  She snatched up her tray and half hurled herself toward the kitchen door, very nearly spilling the whole thing in her haste. Her mother winced at the rattling ceramic, but pressed her lips into a thin line and held her silence, no doubt wanting to avoid saying or doing anything that might put Alice off her promised visit with the marriage-minded Mr. Wellington.

  The sight of their once grand house plagued Alice every step of the way to her bedroom, bare floors and walls moaning and crying out their loss. It was within her power to return the grandeur to her home. One word, one little word, and she would have a wealthy husband, would have enough money to return her mother to her rightful, respected place in society.

  When she slammed the door to her bedroom, it was as much to shut out the sight of the rest of the house as to give herself the privacy she needed for what came next. An image of Jaspar rose in her mind, startling green eyes seeming to follow her every movement as surely as the miserable kitten still leaping about her ankles. Hands trembling, Alice deposited the tea set on her bedside table and quickly locked the door.

  The sound of the metal bolt sliding into place drove her shoulders down, something loosening inside her as she relaxed into the security of her private quarters. There was no one watching, no one to come in unexpectedly and catch her looking at something that wasn’t there…

  Another meow came from the beast on the floor, and Alice glared down, reveling in the freedom to do so.

  “Say goodbye, Dinah,” she told the cat. She set about making the tea, satisfaction curling inside her as she poured the hot water in a cloud of rising steam. “You won’t be here much longer.”

  The scent of the steam tickled her nose, and she jerked back at the awful smell. Before she could let loose the exclamation of disgust inspired by the foul brew, she stepped back onto something long and thin.

  A feline yelp pierced the air, and she fell back, pinwheeling her arms to keep her balance. The-cat-that-was-not-there shot across the room and vanished under a chair, turning and sticking just enough of its head out so Alice could see the glare on its pale-furred face.

  “You scared me half to death!” she gasped, clapping a hand over her heart. “Why must you always be under—”

  She stopped. No. No, she would not continue to talk to it. It wasn’t really there. Sensible people did not talk to cats, and they certainly didn’t talk to cats who weren’t really there.

  Reminding herself that she was not daft, Alice firmly redirected her attention to the tea and put a hand over her mouth. It smelled terrible. She forced her hand down and straightened her spine, snatching up the cup with determination.

  Drink it. Drink it or become a crazed woman with a crazed husband.

  It took her so long to make her hand move the cup closer to her fac
e that by the time she took the first sip, the tea was lukewarm. The temperature did nothing for its taste, and she gagged before throwing back the rest of it in one miserable, disgusting gulp. She pressed her lips together, resolutely keeping the foul liquid from coming back up as she lay down on the bed. Now all she had to do was fall asleep, and when she woke up, her trouble would be over.

  The cat still underneath the chair made a skin-crawling sound that had no business coming from a pet. The noise wriggled under Alice’s skin, and she squirmed on the bed for a moment before catching herself.

  There is no sound. There is no sound, because there is no cat. One cannot be upset by a sound that is not there.

  The more she ignored it, the louder the sound-that-wasn’t-real got. Not a meow, a howl, or a whine, but some ghastly combination of all three, and growing louder by the second. Alice dug her fingernails into her palms. She would never be able to sleep with that racket.

  “Shut up,” she said, sitting up with an angry shove. “You’ll have Mother coming up here!”

  Actually, she had no way of knowing if her mother would even hear it. She knew she couldn’t see the cat—that had been made embarrassingly clear on numerous occasions. Still, no reason to tempt fate.

  The cat didn’t care. It continued making the skin-crawling sound, doing a perfect impression of the sound one would get if one could mix a chair grating over the floor with the screech of fingernails on a blackboard. Growling her frustration, Alice got up off the bed and stomped across the room to the cat’s hiding place. She flipped up the fringe that dangled from the bottom of the chair, ready to give the beast a piece of her mind.

  Only the cat was gone.

  Alice blinked as a breeze wafted from a dark spot on the floor. It wasn’t air from the furnace, or an errant gust swirling through the house. It was a breeze from outdoors, carrying the scent of growing grass and damp stone. As if the patch of darkness was a hole that led outdoors. She closed her eyes and shook her head. No. No, that was impossible. There was no hole under the chair in her bedroom.