Following the directions of the map, I find myself humping the never-ending spiral staircase of a towering turret. With every step, I get more and more winded. The massage room is located at the very top. What a stupid place to put it! Then again, maybe they deliberately want you to feel wasted to appreciate your massage. That’s if you make it. I may not.
At last, I reach my destination. Breathing heavily, I stagger into a small circular room. It’s sparsely decorated with only a simple round wall clock and a single piece of furniture—a burgundy velvet chaise lounge. Although worn and faded, the chaise looks comfortable and inviting. This must be where I lie down and get my massage. Wasting no time, I sink into it. I’m so ready to surrender my body.
Just as I relax, a tiny winged creature zips in like a streak of lightning, drenching me in a shower of sparkling dust. I cough. What the—
“Hello, Jane. I’m Shrinkerbell, but you can all me Shrink. I’ll be your personal therapist here at Faraway.”
What kind of massage therapist is this? She’s the size of a sparrow, with hands no bigger than a bird’s claws, and thick round spectacles that make her look bug-eyed. Buzzing around the room, she’s as calming as a mosquito.
“So that you know, Tinkerbell is my fraternal twin. She got the looks; I got the brains.” She runs one of her tiny hands through a messy pouf of blond hair. “Who do you think came up with the Peter Pan complex? Me, that’s who! It kills me that my in-your-face sister always gets the credit.”
Why is she telling me all this stuff? She’s taking precious time away from my massage. I’m going to demand an extra fifteen minutes if she doesn’t get going.
She swoops down from the ceiling. “Sorry for getting carried away with my issues. We’re here to talk about yours. First, do you have any questions?”
“Yes. Can you go deep?” I read in one of those beauty magazines that a deep tissue massage can magically restore your beauty.
“Yes, I like to go as deep as possible with all my clients. My goal is to find the underlying causes of their problems.”
Great, because I feel like crap. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of coffee, the climb, or mirror withdrawal. I still have a pounding headache, and my body is aching all over. Plus, that damn dust is stinging my eyes.
“Just one other little question. Can I borrow a mirror before we begin?” Someone around this joint has got to have one.
“Ah, yes,” she replies.
Finally! A mirror!
“I’ve read your case history. Quite complex, indeed. Has anyone ever told you what you look like?”
“Actually, I had a magic mirror that did a pretty good job until this little shrew named Snow White got it distracted.”
She zooms in closer and circles my head. Talking about someone being in your face.
“Your nose is too long; your lips are too big; your cheekbones are too high, and your eyes, although a lovely shade of green, are too far apart.”
Her words hit me like a cannonball. “Liar!”
“Jane, having to face the truth is the start of recovery.”
“Give me a mirror!” I demand.
She pulls out a tiny glass object from a pocket.
“Give me that!” I grab for it.
She zips off before I can snatch it. “No, Jane, this is my magic mirror.”
Clasping the small object in her tiny hands, she examines every inch of my face. I try again to snag the mirror, but her trail of fairy dust is blinding me.
“Ah! I’ve discovered a freckle.”
A freckle!? I bolt to a sitting position, clutching my stomach like someone’s punched it. I knew all the sunshine around this place would do me in. I’ll never be the fairest again! I’m ruined!
A mixture of rage and despair boils inside me. Grasping at air, I finally snatch the looking glass and hold it up to my face. I don’t see a damn thing. That’s because it’s a magnifying glass, not a mirror. I refuse to believe her. She’s deliberately messing with my head. She deserves to die!
I hold out my hands and get ready to smoosh her between my palms. Clap! She flits off just in the nick of time.
I rub my prickling hands together as she flutters overhead out of reach.
“You have numerous imperfections, but they come together in an interesting, attractive way. Remember, Jane, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.”
“Are we done here?” I say, gritting my teeth.
“No, Jane, we’ve just begun.”
A chime from the clock sounds.
“Time’s up for today. I’ll see you here tomorrow at the same time.”
Like a shooting star, she’s gone, leaving a streak of sparkling fairy dust in her wake.
I choke. Obviously, I’m not getting a massage.
Every muscle in my body is twitching from that bogus therapist. She thinks I’m going to see her tomorrow? Not a chance in hell. I’m going to figure a way out of here. The good news is I’ve got a map. Following it, I head back to my room. I’ll take a quick nap to unknot my body and brain, then study it. Seriously, how hard can it be?
The moment I step foot inside the castle, Fairweather thrusts a bucket and mop at me.
“Ha-ha! It’s your day to do the floors,” snickers Sasperilla.
Flossie tosses her a feather duster. “You’ll be keeping her company.”
Scary-Skinny scrunches up her face in disgust.
Rage is rising inside me. I demand to know what’s going on.
“Everyday, after morning meditation, we have castle clean-up,” explains Elzmerelda as she polishes a bureau. “The Good Fairies believe that hard work builds strong bodies and minds.”
Is she joking? Haven’t those cheapskates heard of the word “servant”?
“Jane, what are you waiting for? Get going!” snaps Fanta, jabbing her wand into my back.
These Badass Fairies aren’t life coaches; they’re slave drivers.
“During clean-up, we all take turns meeting with Shrink,” Elzmerelda tells me after they fly off. “Winnie’s meeting with her now. Then it’s Sassy’s turn, What’s-His-Name’s, and finally mine.”
I’m hardly listening to a word she’s saying. I’m too busy squeezing water out of the mop.
Sasperilla tickles my nose with her duster. “Having fun yet?”
It’s bad enough I’m doing slave labor, but there’s no way I’m putting up with Skinny Bitch’s sarcasm. I toss the bucket of dirty water at her. She shrieks.
“Now, I am.” I smile. She looks like a drowned rat.
Before Sasperilla can retaliate, Fanta flies in, touching down between us.
“Look what she did to me!” screeches Sasperilla, wringing out her soggy curls.
“You can talk all about it with Shrink.” Grabbing her by the elbow, Fanta steers her toward the front door.
Sasperilla turns her head and sticks her tongue out at me. I give her my always-effective icy stare.
“Get back to work,” Fanta barks at me.
The Badass Fairy’s words echo in my head, and I’m suddenly a little girl again, scrubbing the gritty stone floor of the cramped, one-story flat I share with my mother. A chorus of voices coming from outside distracts me, and I peek out the window. Children are playing on the street. They’re laughing, singing, having fun. How I long to join them! “Jane, what are you doing?” yells my mother. Yanking me by my hair, she shoves my head into the bucket of dirty water. I hold my breath, counting the seconds, not daring to open my eyes to the sting of the septic suds. Thirty-one…thirty-two…thirty-three… Finally, she jerks me out. She throws a mop at me and hisses, “Get back to work!”
I mop the castle floor frantically to erase the memory. I hate you, Fanta.
CHAPTER 6
All this dreadful mopping has worked up my appetite. I’m starving. Finally, Flossie reappears and announces lunch.
This time our meal is indoors in a large banquet hall, if you can call it that. There’s nothing more than a few rectangular woode
n tables with chairs and a buffet. The walls, like everything else in this dump, are painted yellow, and the floor-to-ceiling windows allow the sun to shine through brightly. There’s just no escaping the sun around this joint.
Fairweather toddles up to me. “Jane, you’re on table setting duty. The silverware is in the buffet. And tonight after dinner, you have clean-up. Now, get going!”
The nerve of her bossing me around! Hasn’t someone told these Badass Fairies that I’m a queen? Hello! I am the one who gives orders. Even in that dreary dungeon, they treated me with the respect I deserve. They didn’t make me do these awful fit-for-a-servant chores. And maybe the food wasn’t so great, but at least I got room service. If I don’t escape this joint, I’m going to demand a transfer back there.
“Lunch is one of our best meals!” says Elzmerelda. Holding a plate full of assorted cheeses, salads, and breads, she takes a seat at the last table I’m setting.
I fling the rest of the silverware on the table and head over to the lunch line. Ravenous, I pile up my plate. Miss Scary-Skinny is in front of me. She hesitantly puts a few greens on her plate. Miss Fat-and-Freckled, who’s behind me, eats for two, loading way more on her plate than me. She slyly sneaks an extra piece of bread into her pocket. Fanta catches her in the act and immediately confiscates it.
“Remember, Winifred, you are what you eat,” she chides.
Scary-Skinny directs a couple of pig-like snorts at the overweight woman.
“And the same goes for you, Sasperilla,” snaps the plump fairy. “You’re not leaving this room until you eat this piece of bread. And I’ll be watching every bite.”
“See, I told you they were spies!” sneers Sasperilla.
I’m beginning to believe her.
I take a seat at Elzmerelda’s table, between Sasperilla and Winifred. The troll, the last in line, teeter-totters over to another table and eats alone.
“So, what are you here for?” I ask Winifred after a bite of a surprisingly tasty cheese.
The fat woman gulps down a mouthful of buttered bread. “I had what they call a psychotic breakdown.” She gazes down at her plate, shamefully. “I tried to kill my own children.”
Cripes! And they thought I was evil. I merely tried to kill my stepdaughter. We weren’t even related by blood.
“Ha! I bet she tried to eat them!” snickers Sasperilla as she expertly sneaks her bread under the table.
Winifred chokes. Elzmerelda pats her on her back and shakes her head in dismay at her sister.
“And what about Gimpy over there?” I ask, pointing to the troll, who reminds me of those loathsome dwarfs. He keeps staring at me and is getting on my nerves.
“Oh, it’s very sad,” says Elzmerelda, squinting in his direction. “The Good Fairies told us he’s a notorious criminal. An extortionist!
That’s not sad. It’s just a little evil.
“But then some queen outsmarted him. He was so mad he stomped his foot into the ground. Waist deep. Then he tried to tear off his other leg.
That explains his limp. “How did he end up here?”
“The queen made her husband pull him out, then had him committed.”
She’s the evil one!
“He couldn’t remember a thing. Not even his name.”
“He has a classic case of dissociative amnesia according to Dr. Grimm,” interjects Winifred.
“Who’s Dr. Grimm?” I ask.
“An ogre with big ears who’s out to get us,” butts in Sasperilla.
“Don’t listen to her. He leads our group therapy sessions. You’ll meet him right after lunch,” says Winifred.
Maybe, they call it group therapy because we give each other massages? Fat chance.
“We have to call that little guy ‘What’s-His-Name’ until he can remember his real name,” says Elzmerelda. “Dr. Grimm says that’ll be his first step toward recovery.”
“Puh-lease!” Sasperilla rolls her eyes. “He’s a vertically challenged moron. I can’t believe I have to associate with people like him.”
Personally, I can’t believe I have to associate with any of these freaks. I don’t need a magic mirror to tell me where I stand among this sorry bunch of losers.
“So, why are you here, Miss Needs-to-Know-Everybody’s-Business?” asks Sasperilla.
“I thought I was here for a makeover.” There’s no way I’m sharing my life with these nut-jobs.
“You are here for a makeover. Only not the kind you were expecting,” says Winifred.
“What do you mean?”
“Trust me, you’ll see.”
Group is held in a small room on the main floor of the castle. Yet more of that dismal minimalist look—there are just six wooden chairs arranged in a circle. We each take a seat, leaving one for Dr. Grimm.
The chair is hard as nails. It’s digging into my back, not to mention killing my butt. Comfort is clearly not a priority around this sham-of-a-spa.
“Stop staring at me, you mindless midget,” snaps Sasperilla at What’s-His-Name.
“He’s not staring at you,” comes her sister to his defense. “He’s staring at Jane.”
She’s right, and I wish he’d stop it already.
Sasperilla crinkles her nose. “Why don’t you wear your spectacles? Mother paid a fortune for them. Or is it that you’re afraid they’ll make you uglier than you already are?”
Elzmerelda shrivels. “Sassy, please don’t tell her I lost them.”
Sasperilla shoots her sister a smirk but wipes it off her face when a tall, stringy man slumps into the room. He takes the vacant seat next to her. This must be Dr. Grimm.
“Good afternoon, group,” he says solemnly.
Grimm looks like his name. Gloomy and depressing. Dressed in a droopy black waistcoat, he seriously should be leading a funeral procession, not a group therapy session. His beaky nose and straggly gray hair don’t help nor does his unkempt beard—easily a nest for one of those rude birds. And Sasperilla’s right again. His ears are big. At least five inches long.
“I’d like everyone to say hello to Jane,” he says. “Our new group member.”
Sasperilla feigns a yawn. “We’ve already met the bitch.”
“Sasperilla,” says Grimm sternly, “you know we don’t use that kind of language in group. Please apologize to Jane.”
“Sooory.” She twists one of her long corkscrew curls around a bony finger, clearly not.
“So, Jane, is there something you’d like to share with us today?” asks Grimm.
“Yes, my back is killing me.”
Stroking his beard, Grimm gazes at me with bewilderment.
Sasperilla snorts with laughter. “He meant about your life.”
Is she kidding? There’s nothing I want to share with her or any of these psychos.
Grimm leans forward. “Jane, there has to be at least one thing you’d like to share.”
Fine. “I’m a Queen.” The way they treat me around this place they must have no clue.
“Wow!” says Elzmerelda in awe. “I knew you had to be royalty!”
“Big deal!” says Sasperilla. “Royals are a dime a dozen.”
“That’s not true,” says Winifred. “I read that only five percent of Lalaland’s population is a king or queen.”
What’s-His-Name’s eyes twinkle, finally showing some life.
“Does the word ‘queen’ jog your memory?” Grimm asks him.
Rocking his body, What’s-His-Name chants “n-nice queen” over and over. He is a major head case.
“Good.” Grimm nods. “Try to remember more things about this nice queen.”
“Hold on. I want to know more about this ‘Queen’,” cuts in Sasperilla. “So, Jane, were you born into royalty or did you marry into it?”
“I married a King.” Wait! Why am I telling this skinny bitch anything about my life?
“Did your mother bring you up to marry royalty? Teach you all the tricks?”
My mother. My stomach turns over.
> “Leave my mother out of this!” I yell.
“Jane, do you want to tell us something about your mother?” asks Grimm.
“Go to hell! All of you!”
“Jane, I will remind you that we have a no tolerance policy for foul language. Just because you’re royalty doesn’t mean you get special treatment. We’ve had several kings and queens here before. I even recall an Emperor. The bottom line is everyone is treated as equals.”
That’s obvious. I don’t need a lecture from some shlump of a head doctor to make that clear to me. What’s just as obvious: I don’t belong here.
“Group is over,” announces Grimm as I spring to my feet.
Finally! There’s nothing I want to do more than say farewell to these losers. With the exception of poisoning them, Grimm included.
I’ve made up my mind. Whatever it takes, I’ve got to escape this madhouse.
“People, it’s time to indulge your creativity,” announces Fairweather upon meeting us in the corridor.
“What’s going on?” I ask Elzmerelda.
She explains that every day after group we attend one of three workshops: “Enchanted Arts & Crafts” with Fairweather, “Sew-La-Ti-Do” with Flossie, or “The Magic of Cooking” with Fanta.
“The Good Fairies believe creativity nourishes the soul and builds self-esteem,” she says.
What dragon dung! There’s only one thing I want to create. An escape plan.
I end up in the cooking workshop with Winifred. It takes place in the castle’s kitchen, which is surprisingly well equipped and elaborate compared to the rest of this rundown dump. Fanta tells us that today’s project is to make a “delicious crusty bread.”
“I’m going to leave you two girls on your own. I’ll come back in a little while.” She stops short at the door. “Jane, please make sure that Winifred doesn’t eat the dough before you bake it.” And then she’s gone.
Great! A chance to escape.
“I love making bread,” says Winifred, already gathering pans, bowls, and utensils. “It’s so therapeutic. It lets you take out all your hurt and anger on the dough, but still the bread turns out delicious.”
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