The sound of singing fills my ears. “Happy Birthday to You.” It’s Winnie with the cake—a glittery castle made of hundreds of chocolate cupcakes with colorful candles stacked to look like spires. How creative of Winnie! She must have had it custom made at Sparkles. Unfortunately, it makes me think again about my castle and that Midas monster. I can’t wait to get my hands on him.
All the children gather around the cake and sing along with Winnie. Hook joins them and finally so do I. Hook’s beautiful baritone voice harmonizes with the choir of children. Calla, holding Lady Jane, beams with joy.
“Calla, make a wish and blow out the candles,” says Winnie.
“I’m only seven. So how come there are eight candles?” asks Calla.
“One’s for good luck,” says Winnie.
With any luck, The Prince will show up before this party’s over.
On Winnie’s count of three, Calla takes a deep breath, winks at me, then blows out all eight candles. Everyone shouts “Happy Birthday.”
“What did you wish for?” I ask her.
“I wished that Papa would—”
Winnie cups a hand over Calla’s rosebud lips and then reprimands me.
“Shame on you, Jane. Don’t you know that if you say what you’ve wished for, it won’t come true?”
Right! I should have known that from my “birthday party” at Faraway. Silly me!
A bellowing voice in the distance diverts my attention.
“What is going on here?”
The Prince. Finally! With Marcella hanging on his arm, he lopes over to us.
“Where have you been?” I ask, not hiding my anger.
“We went shopping!” croons Marcella. “Want to see what I—”
Gallant cuts her off. “Who are all these children, and what are they doing here?”
“They’re children from the local orphanage. They’re here to celebrate Calla’s birthday,” I reply.
“Eww, orphans!” says Marcella as if they’re rabid rodents.
“Get them out of here. Now!” orders The Prince. “I cannot have my daughter exposed to all these germs. Who knows where these gamins have been!”
“But Papa, they’re my new friends!” protests Calla.
“My Little Princess, this is none of your concern.” Gently pushing her aside, he accidentally knocks Lady Jane out of her hand. The doll tumbles onto the cobblestones.
Calla crouches down to pick up her precious doll. “Papa! Look what you’ve done!” she cries. The doll’s beautiful porcelain face is cracked all over.
In a fit of tears, Calla runs off, Lady Jane dangling from her hand. Her sobs are like pins in my heart.
The Prince stands there motionless.
“My love, it’s only a stupid doll,” says Marcella. “She’ll get over it.”
She moseys over to the cake and dips a finger into the frosting. As she licks it off, I want to strangle her.
“Well, I guess the party’s over,” says Hook. He gathers the orphans. “Ahoy, my mateys. It’s time to sail.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” respond the orphans with a salute.
They form two straight lines. To Hook’s credit, they’re all exceptionally well behaved and respectful. Curly included. Perhaps, Hook, too, has found his meant-to-be calling.
“Children, don’t forget your party favors,” says Winnie.
She hands them each a woven gold name bracelet. They’re almost identical to the one Rump made for me. The children’s faces brighten. And for a fleeting moment so does mine. Rump must be back in Lalaland.
“Hook, I’ll go back with you,” says Winnie. She takes Hansel and Gretel by their hands.
I’m sad to see them go.
Before departing, Hook strides up to Gallant. “By the way, matey, sorry about the other night.”
The duel! My heart leaps to my throat.
Gallant glares at Hook. “Sir, I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Phew! He still doesn’t remember anything about the other night.
“She’s a great woman,” continues Hook. “Definitely, worth fighting over.”
“Why, thank you!” says Marcella. The stupid cow has no clue Hook’s referring to me.
Hook struts off and catches up to Winnie. They lead the children off the grounds of the castle. Calla’s birthday party has ended disastrously. My blood is churning. It’s time for me to give Gallant a piece of my mind. Prince or no prince.
“You can’t keep Calla in a bubble forever,” I bark. “She needs to be with children her own age. She needs friends.”
The Prince furrows his brows. “And Jane, how do you know all this?”
“Because I didn’t when I was her age,” I say hotly.
Gallant is taken aback. I’m not done with him.
“And on your little shopping trip with Marcella, I can only hope you remembered to buy your ‘Little Princess’ a present. In case you don’t know, she wanted a puppy.”
The glimmer in his blue eyes vanishes. He lowers his head. He can’t hide his guilt and shame. At least not from me. Let him sulk. He deserves to feel bad.
“I am going inside to pour myself a drink,” he says finally and marches off. So he thinks he can drown his sorrows. Ha!
Pleased with myself, I clean up the mess the children have left behind. Marcella saunters up to me, stuffing her face with a gigantic piece of cake. So much for her diet. In fact, she may be over it. She’s silently crooning la-di-da-da.
“Jane, look what I got!” The PIW thrusts her left fist under my nose. On her fourth finger is a sparkling diamond, the size of rock.
My heart sinks to my stomach. I’m numb all over. But not for long. The numbness gives way to madness. I want to tear the ring off her finger and shove it down her throat. And watch her choke on it.
“Congratulations” is all I say.
Back inside the castle, The Prince is slumped at his desk, nursing a drink. Sensing my presence, he gazes up at me with forlorn eyes.
“Calla is inconsolable. She refuses to see me.”
“What do you expect? You blew it.”
“I was somehow unable to break away from Marcella.”
There’s regret in his voice, but the mention of her name makes bile bubble in my throat.
Gallant’s eyes do not leave mine. “Please, Jane, I beg of you to talk to her.”
“What do you want me to tell her?” I ask, my tone softening.
“Tell her that I am sorry for everything and that I shall buy her a new doll. A hundred of them, if she wants.”
“I’ll do what I can.” No matter how much I want to stay mad at him, I can’t.
Calla’s chamber door is locked. Muffled sobs seep through the thick slab of wood. I knock gently.
“Calla, can I please come in?”
“No!”
“Pretty please with a cherry on top?”
“Maybe.”
I take that as a “yes” because I hear the door unlock.
Back on her bed, Calla is curled up with Lady Jane, her face soaked with tears. She caresses the doll’s cracked face.
“Your father feels really bad about today,” I say, sitting down beside her.
“All he cares about is Marcella,” she wails.
“That’s so not true. He loves you more than anyone in the whole world.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I just do.”
We share a stretch of silence. Calla’s sobbing reduces to whimpers.
“Your father told me he’ll buy you a new Lady Jane,” I continue.
Calla bursts into tears again.
“I don’t want a new Lady Jane. I only want this one!”
I examine Lady Jane. The doll’s once perfect porcelain face is now lined with a maze of cracks. Its close resemblance to my reflection in my cracked “magic” mirror sends a shockwave through me.
“I wish she was still beautiful,” sobs Calla.
“She is,” I say, calming down.
“I do
n’t believe you.”
“I’m going to prove it to you.” I pull out Shrink’s mirrored locket from under my dress and snap it open.
Intrigued, Calla stops crying. “Who gave that to you?”
“Someone special. It’s magic.”
That really gets her attention.
“Now, I want you to let Lady Jane take a look at herself in my magic mirror.”
Calla props her dolly up in front of the mirror, then peers at Lady Jane’s reflection. “What’s so magic about that?” She frowns. “Her face still looks all cracked.”
“Keep moving back, but make sure Lady Jane can see still see herself in the mirror.” Calla, holding Lady Jane, slides back on the bed as far back as she can go. “Okay, stop!”
A shocked Calla blinks her eyes several times. “I can’t see Lady Jane’s cracks anymore. They’ve disappeared!”
“See, I told you my mirror was magic. Lady Jane is still beautiful.”
A bright smile replaces Calla’s frown. She kisses the doll on her cracked cheek.
I smile too, proud of my “magic.” Scooting next to her, I fold an arm around her thin shoulders. “Now that you’re seven, I want to tell you a grown-up secret. Do you think you’re ready?”
Calla’s eyes light up as she nods.
“Someone once told me that beauty’s not in the face; it’s in the heart,” I whisper in her ear. Okay. Those weren’t exactly Shrink’s words, but close enough.
Calla cocks her head like a puzzled puppy. “What does that mean?”
Dragonballs. Now, I’ve got to makeup something. I still haven’t figured out what Shrink meant.
“It means that you must love Lady Jane even more. Especially now that she’s a little hurt. Do you think you can do that?”
Remarkably, what I’ve said makes sense to Calla. She nods again and hugs the precious doll.
“Time for you to go to sleep.” Smiling, I tuck her under the covers and plant a kiss on her forehead.
“Sweet dreams,” I say softly.
Clutching Lady Jane in her arms, Calla closes her eyes.
Quietly, I slip out of the room. As I close the door behind me, Calla’s sweet voice calls out to me.
“By the way, Jane, thank you for my birthday party. It was the best one I ever had.”
The memory of another little girl who turned seven flashes into my head. Snow White. How could I forget? It was on that fateful day my “magic” mirror first played with my head, warning me that she would one day would be fairer than me. As I descend the staircase, I tremble, wishing that mirror had never existed.
Gallant is still at his desk. The blaze in the fireplace basks his face in a warm amber glow. Hearing my footsteps, he rises.
“How is she?” he asks, moving toward me.
“She’ll be fine.” I gaze at his face and my body quivers.
The Prince places his strong hands on my shoulders and meets my eyes. “Jane, I am forever beholden to you.”
“It’s no big deal,” I reply, tingling from his touch.
“Jane, you know so much about children. Have you taken care of them before?”
“No,” I stammer and look away, shamed by my past.
How horribly I treated poor Snow White. She was a sweet little girl—an orphan—who cared nothing about beauty and asked for nothing. She was always so kind to me. But I wanted nothing to do with her. I dressed her in rags and made her sleep with the servants. And as she grew older and more beautiful with every passing day, I wanted her out of my life. I even I tried to kill her. How’s that for my child-care experience?
And then there was another child. My beautiful stillborn son. The child I never got a chance to care for and know. Perhaps if he had lived, my life would have turned out so differently. The King would have loved me, and we would been one big happy family.
Tears prick my eyes as guilt and grief rip me apart.
With his thumb, The Prince brushes a tear off my cheek with a tenderness I don’t deserve. “What is wrong, Jane?”
“Nothing.” Everything. “You’re so blessed to have Calla.”
“I know and that is why I overprotect her.” The Prince pauses reflectively. “But you are right, Jane. I have to let go. She needs to have friends. Perhaps, you can help me find a good school for her.”
“My love, I know the perfect school for Calla. Lots of royal tykes go there.”
Marcella! My body stiffens as she glides toward us.
“Tell me more,” says Gallant.
“It’s a boarding school in France.” Her tone is as obnoxious as the big fat diamond on her finger. She throws her arms around The Prince and shoots me a patronizing smile that clearly says, “He’s mine!”
I eye her frostily and step away. “Good night. It’s been a long day.”
The PIW twists her ring. “Jane, didn’t you forget something?”
Screw her curtsey. I stalk out of the room.
“Jane, wait!” shouts Gallant.
I do not turn back to see his expression.
CHAPTER 28
I wake up early the next morning with the bad taste of Marcella still lingering in my mouth. Tucked under my chamber door is one of her scribbled notes. I bet she’s firing me. I crawl out of bed and retrieve it.
J—Missing my emerald earring. Need it for tonight’s dinner party at The King’s palace. Check the shed; it could have fallen off there. Don’t bother coming back until you find it. And BTW, don’t tell The Prince about this.—M
I crumple the note in my fist. Yet another thing to do. Maybe Calla will be better off going to a boarding school faraway from her selfish, self-centered mother-to-be.
As I make my way out of the castle, the sun is rising. Its rays mingle with the early morning mist, creating the illusion of fairy dust.
Having no idea what shed Marcella’s referring to, I stumble upon a pebbled path and follow it. This is the first time I’m actually exploring the vast property on my own. I feel like an adventurer staking out a newly discovered land. It’s rather empowering and gets my mind off Marcella.
Following the meandering path, I’m awestruck by the beautiful gardens. The flowers and shrubs are artfully arranged—indeed, someone’s well thought out vision. Most likely, I bet, the handiwork of The Prince’s late wife. There are potted plants, flowers of all colors, grapevines, and orchards. The scents blend to form a fragrant chorus.
Further on, I pass by horse stables, a wishing well, and a carriage house. Shortly after crossing an olive grove, I come upon a small, shingled structure with several boarded up windows and a thatched roof. Maybe this is the place Marcella means.
The door is unlocked. I venture inside cautiously. My mouth drops. It’s not a shed. It’s a museum!
There are paintings everywhere. Landscapes, still-lifes, portraits, and more. Hanging on the walls. Stacked in corners. Standing on easels. If I had to guess, two hundred paintings, at least.
The paintings are astounding. You don’t have to be an art scholar to appreciate them. Each one is a masterpiece.
The artist has managed to breathe life into all his subjects with his masterful strokes and a subtle but beautiful use of light. I pause to admire a garden scene—a luminous patch of white lilies. The droplets of dew on the outstretched petals are so well done they seem touchable, practically real. Wait! They are real! What I mean is that I remember seeing this very patch of flowers in Gallant’s late wife’s garden.
Obviously, the artist must be someone in the service of The Prince. I recognize a portrait of his white stallion that’s so full of action the horse is practically leaping off the canvas. There’s another equally splendid portrait of The Prince himself. His blue eyes stand out, glistening with a vibrancy that’s missing now.
Rummaging through the stacked canvasses on the floor, I discover a charming portrait of a beautiful, brown-eyed infant with gilded curls. It’s unmistakably Calla. The artist has admirably succeeded in capturing her magic, even at this tender age.
“STOP!”
I freeze, then wheel around. Gallant! His eyes are narrow; his lips tight.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I’m searching for one of Marcella’s earrings.” I act calm but inside my heart is racing. “I thought it might be here.” My question is: What is he doing here?
“This is my studio,” Gallant says solemnly.
The Prince painted all these works of art? I’m in awe. I had no idea he was so talented.
“I’m sorry to be intruding on your space and time,” I say humbly.
The Prince apologizes for his outburst. “Please continue your search. I only came by because one of the guards reported hearing a strange noise in here last night.”
“I’ll leave. I don’t want to distract you from painting.” He must be working on the covered canvas.
“I no longer paint,” he says wistfully.
He goes on to tell me that after the death of his wife, he could not bring himself to pick up a paintbrush. The world lost all its color. Everything seemed so futile.
The sadness in his voice moves me deeply. He lost both his true love and passion.
The Prince’s eyes grow distant. “After she died, I could no longer find the true meaning of beauty in the world.”
The true meaning of beauty. Shrink’s haunting words echo in my head. So, Gallant knows the answer. Or at least, once he did. Now, is he searching for it like me?
I yearn to ask him, but the words stay trapped in my throat. I pivot toward the door.
The Prince places his strong hands on my shoulders, stopping me in my tracks. “Jane, please stay.”
To my delight, his mood brightens, and he gives me a whirlwind tour of his studio. He springs to life as he talks about the inspiration behind each painting. Never having seen him so animated and passionate, I find myself engrossed in his every word. Stimulated. Sharing my reactions and interpretations. Asking him questions. Challenging him. Challenging myself.
“You’re a master,” I say, meaning it. “Your paintings belong in a museum for the world to behold, not hidden from the human eye.”
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