Naughty Nelle

by L'Amour, Nelle

  Finally, we come to the covered painting. “What’s under there?” I ask with curiosity.

  The Prince takes a deep breath, then sweeps off the damask cloth. Before me stands a large canvas. It’s obviously a work in progress. A portrait of a woman picking flowers, still at the outline stage.

  Gallant’s eyes, glimmering just moments ago, are laced with melancholy. He turns away from the canvas and remains silent.

  “My last painting,” he says at last. “A portrait of my wife. I was going to surprise her with it on her twenty-first birthday. But she died before I could complete it. I have not been able to paint since then.”

  So, grief shut him down. Is that what love does?

  “My Lord, you should finish the painting. You owe it to yourself. You owe it to Calla.” I stare at the unfinished portrait. “And you owe it to her.”

  With a sigh, Gallant carefully re-covers the painting and changes the subject.

  “Forgive me. What did you say you were doing here?” he asks as if we’ve just met up.

  I tell him again about Marcella’s missing earring. Uh oh. I was supposed to keep this under wraps. Oh well. Whatever the consequences, I can’t undo what’s been done.

  “I am sure it is not here,” says Gallant. “My studio is off limits to everyone, including Calla.

  “Then I’d better get going.” Truthfully, I don’t want to leave him.

  A mutual loss for words forces us to lower our eyes.

  “Look!” We say it simultaneously. As if we had timed it.

  There it is on the ground…Marcella’s emerald earring. Right under the easel holding the unfinished portrait of Gallant’s wife.

  We squat down together. Meeting face-to-face, we’re very close—our eyes just a palm’s width apart. His warm, sweet breath blows on my face. My cheeks grow flush, and I’m getting tingly hot all over. My heart thuds so loudly I can hear it.

  The Prince studies my face. I gaze at my reflection in his piercing blue eyes. What does he see in me?

  With his long, skilled fingers, he delicately traces my features. It’s as if he’s drawing me. My skin prickles from his touch, but I don’t dare blink an eye.

  His mouth curls into a smile that renders me breathless. “You are meant to be painted.”

  I don’t know what to say. No one’s ever said that to me before. Not even my “magic” mirror.

  We each reach for the sparkling earring. Our fingers touch; a spark flies between us, and then we quickly pull apart. I let Gallant pick it up. As he hands me the jewel, our fingers interlock. This time he doesn’t pull away.

  “I’ve got to go,” I stammer, struggling to my feet before my knees give in.

  “Jane, please do not leave yet,” he says, tightening his grip.

  “Marcella will have my head if I don’t get back,” I force myself to say.

  As I finally manage to pull away, a rustling sound distracts me. It’s coming from outside. Has someone been watching us?

  I hurry to the door. Clutching Marcella’s earring, I sprint back to the castle and wonder—how did it end up where it did?

  CHAPTER 29

  ME

  Those are the two colossal gilded letters carved into the daunting gate outside The King’s palace. Can you imagine—ME!—how much more egocentric can you get? Well, I suppose if it were my palace, I wouldn’t exactly inscribe “YOU” on the front gates. My house is your house. Now, there’s a concept.

  “Papa! We’re here!” squeals Calla with excitement.

  “Jane, calm her down,” snaps Marcella as she fiddles with her emerald earrings.

  She never even thanked me for finding the missing one. The ungrateful skank! I hope Calla chews her ear off. It would serve her right. She went off the deep end when Gallant asked me to come along—especially since it was going to be her first time meeting his parents, recently back from their six month diplomatic trip abroad. Finally, she backed off when he told her it was more of a babysitting gig. I could occupy Calla while they enjoyed an “adult evening” with The King and The Queen.

  The paved road leading into the King’s palace goes on for miles. Seated opposite Gallant, I stare at his handsome face. He looks tense. Almost withdrawn. He catches my eyes on him, and suddenly I feel embarrassed, like I’ve been trespassing on his private space. I quickly turn my head and peer out the window.

  The palace comes into view and gets my mind off Gallant. It is a castle of monumental proportions—much grander than mine—with countless towers, turrets, and spires. Lit by the full golden moon, it resembles a gigantic, gilded jewel box.

  A drawbridge leads to a stone gatehouse, where two armed guards greet us. They’re delighted to see The Prince and Calla. I get the feeling they are like family though they’re only hired help. Our carriage lets us off in front of the palace, where we’re met by a fleet of welcoming valets.

  Inside, the palace is equally grand. It’s filled with fresco-painted walls, richly embroidered draperies, and sumptuously upholstered furnishings. Gilded touches are everywhere, including a massive candle-lit chandelier that hangs from the high vaulted ceiling. I bet it’s made of real gold.

  An elderly, barrel-sized man, holding a golden staff, descends an elaborately carved gilded staircase. He is, undoubtedly, The King. He has the same sharp blue eyes as Gallant and, beneath his neatly trimmed beard, the same square jaw. And once upon a time, I bet he sported the same lean, athletic body.

  “Grandpa! Grandpa!” shouts Calla. Her face lights up as she runs over to him.

  “Bambina!” beams The King, lifting her high in the air.

  Bambina? How odd to hear that word again after so many years. Could he possibly be the man who gave me a gold coin on that fateful day? Even if he were, he’d never remember. I’ll never forget.

  “Hello, father,” says The Prince, his voice cold and distant. He’s clearly on edge tonight. What’s eating him?

  “Son, introduce your guests to me says,” says The King.

  Marcella tugs at her clingy green gown, then puffs her chest. “My love, what are you waiting for?” She elbows Gallant, jolting him out of his other worldliness.

  The PIW cringes when he turns to me. “Jane, this is my father, King Midas.”

  King Midas!? The Prince’s father is King Midas!? The ruler of the Midas Empire. The me behind the ME. The man with the golden touch, who owns just about everything in Lalaland, including my castle! My house is your house, I scream silently.

  Every muscle in my body clenches as my mind transforms into a raging inferno with Midas trapped inside. I force myself to curtsey as I mentally char the bastard to a crisp. Nice to meet you, Mide-ass! Now, give me back my castle!

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” says The King.

  You won’t live long enough to find out more. I exert so much control to keep my mouth clamped—and my hands to myself—my neck may snap.

  Marcella shoots The Prince a dirty look. “What about me?”

  Hastily, Gallant introduces Marcella to his father, not mentioning she’s his fiancée.

  “Enchantée, Your Majesty.” The PIW’s cannonballs shoot out of her deeply décolleté gown as she curtsies.

  “The Prince didn’t tell me that you’re so svelte,” she says in the most sickening kiss-up voice I’ve ever heard.

  “Oh, Marcella,” chuckles the hefty King, his eyes glued to her chest. “You know exactly what to say to make my day.”

  And what to do. She loads her ammunition back into her gown.

  A horrifying thought flies into my head. Holy crap! This slut will one day own my castle if I don’t get it back. Burning bile rushes to the back of my throat.

  While Gallant remains silent and detached from the conversation, Calla jumps right into it, unaware of the turbulent emotions raging inside me. “Grandpa, Jane’s made a yummy pie with apples we picked at that spooky castle.”

  “Ah, my new property,” says The Kings.

  My old property, I seethe.

&n
bsp; The bastard claps his thieving hands. “Splendid. I can’t wait to eat it!”

  Dragonballs! Another missed opportunity. Had I known I was going to meet the property thief, I would have figured out a way to poison his slice of pie. One bite and he would have been history.

  Marcella plumps up her breasts, then clears her throat with an attention-getting cough. “Your Majesty, I’ve also brought you a yummy dessert. Homemade vanilla cupcakes.”

  Homemade cupcakes? You had me order them from Sparkles, you lying witch!

  Marcella shoots me a nasty keep-your-mouth-shut look.

  “I can’t wait to bite into one,” says The King, his eyes exactly where the skank wants them to be.

  “Trust me, Your Majesty, after you eat one of my cupcakes, you’ll never want to eat that apple pie.”

  Flaunting her boulder-size engagement ring, The PIW slaps me with a smirk. As much as I want to kill Midas, I want to kill her more. Much, much more.

  “Grandpa, where’s Grammy?” asks Calla as we gather in the great room for pre-dinner cocktails.

  “You know, Grammy,” chortles The King. “She can never make up her mind what shoes to wear.”

  At that very moment, a buxom woman, with skunk-white hair and a scarlet satin gown, makes a grand entrance. “Hello, everyone,” she says in a thundering voice.

  “Grammy!” Calla races over to hug her.

  Wait! I know this woman. She’s the one Marcella battled at The Glass Slipper! For those glittery ruby slippers! She’s The Prince’s mother!? The wife of King Midas. Marcella’s future mother-in-law?

  Marcella also recognizes her. Her body lurches forward, and her eyes almost pop out of their sockets. She seriously may have a seizure.

  “This is my beautiful wife, The Queen of Hearts,” says King Midas affectionately.

  Marcella practically tumbles out of her chair to curtsey.

  To my astonishment, The Queen doesn’t recognize Marcella, who has her hair, blonder than ever, pulled back in a regal chignon. Maybe she’s blind as a bat or suffering from some extreme form of dementia. Whatever it is, she’s as gracious as can be. Relieved, Marcella plasters a sickening smile on her face and puts on her enchantée-I-speak-French act.

  “Your Majesty, your shoes are so très faboo! You must tell me where you bought them.”

  I want to vomit. Oh God. Can this night get any worse?

  The banquet table in the grand dining hall is ornately set for eight. A huge vase of exquisite heart-shaped red roses graces the table. On the wall facing me is a striking, life-size portrait of The Queen. I recognize the artist’s hand instantly. Gallant. He has transformed his matronly mother into an immortal beauty—albeit, with a few nips and tucks.

  We take our seats, but two chairs remain empty.

  “Where is Cinderella and that other son of ours?” roars The Queen.

  Prince Charming is Gallant’s brother? What other family surprises do I have in store?

  “Dear, you know that Cinderella. She is always late,” replies The King.

  The Queen pounds a fist on the table like a gavel. Everything shakes, including me.

  “I’m going to sign that girl up for a time management class once and for all,” she says though clenched teeth. “In any event, we’re not waiting for them. I’m famished. Let’s eat!”

  She still looks and sounds so familiar to me. But my mind is too jammed with Midas madness to figure out how I know her. I stop dwelling on it when an army of servants brings an elaborate meal to the table.

  Wine begins to flows as The King and Queen pass an assortment of delectable tarts, purées, and breads. Being in the same room as Midas has killed my appetite. I feel sick. All I manage is some wine. I’m not alone. Gallant, seated across from me, isn’t eating either.

  “We are vegetarians,” says The King, helping himself to a generous portion of everything. “Although sometimes I could die for a good leg of lamb.”

  I make a mental note: Be sure to bring an entire lamb the next time you see the property thief. That is, if there’s a next time.

  The Queen, draining her second goblet of wine, loosens up. “Dear, what have you done to your hair?” she asks Gallant, noticing for the first time that he’s wearing it loose, instead of in its usual ponytail. “I rather like it.”

  Actually, I do too, my mood lifting just a little from the wine.

  Gallant speaks for the first time since we’ve sat down. “Thank you, Mother. It is quite liberating.”

  “Well, I think it makes you look like a girl!” grumbles The King.

  Let me at him.

  The Queen turns her attention to the skank. “Marcella, do you like croquet?”

  “Mais oui. It’s one of my favorite dishes,” she mutters, stuffing her face.

  Calla’s about to burst out in laughter but claps a hand to her mouth just in time. Despite myself, I want to laugh too.

  “And how are the arrangements for the ball coming along?” continues The Queen after another gulp of wine.

  Her Royal Skankiness barely looks up from her plate as she wolfs down her meal like a starved stray. I guess she forgot her “diet” potion.

  “Oh, Jane’s handling all the details. She can tell you better than I,” she says, helping herself to another whopping serving of everything.

  The Queen looks my way.

  “Great,” I say. Great? The ball is only a week away, and there’s so much to do…flower arrangements, finalizing the menu, selecting the music…and let’s not forget squeezing Marcella into her ball gown. And squeezing the life out of Midas.

  “Excellent!” says The King. “I’m expecting this to be our biggest-ever Faraway fundraiser.

  Faraway? What does this ball have to do with Faraway? I thought it was to celebrate Gallant’s engagement to Marcella.

  Then it hits me. Of course, Gallant’s going to announce their engagement to his parents tonight. I gulp. That’s what’s been on his mind.

  “Father, Mother, I have an important announcement to make.”

  And here it comes.

  Marcella’s eyes light up like lanterns. She lurches so far forward her that her cannonballs graze the gravy on her plate. It’s her big moment. By tomorrow, her official engagement to The Prince will be headline news in the Fairytale Tattler. Everyone will know.

  My heart sinks as the Prince rises.

  “Father, I don’t want to rule the world; I want to paint it.”

  My heart bounces back up. A tremor of excitement ripples through me.

  “Son, what are you talking about?” shouts the shocked King.

  Only Marcella is more horrified. Her jaw hangs wide open, her mouth spilling over with mashed up bits of turnip pie.

  “I want to abdicate my right to the throne.” Gallant’s voice rings with confidence. “I want to be an artist, not a king.”

  I smile; Marcella gags.

  “I told you, dear, he took after my side of the family.” The Queen beams, eyeing her portrait and obviously pleased with her son’s decision. “He wants to use his God-given gift to make the world more beautiful. How marvelous!”

  The King rants on. “Son, you have spent your entire life preparing to take my place!”

  “No, Father,” responds The Prince, holding his own. “You have spent your entire life preparing me for a life I have never wanted.”

  Oh God. He’s more handsome and powerful than ever. I desperately want to fling my arms around him and tell him how proud I am of him. Calla, too, is glowing with pride; almost nothing he does can disappoint her.

  “Charming can rule the Kingdom. He’s perfectly capable,” continues The Prince.

  Midas fumes. “Charming is such a cow—”

  Marcella jumps up and cuts Midas off. She’s frothing at the mouth like she’s gone mad.

  “My love, you’re out of your mind!” she shrieks. “You think I’m going to let that ditz Cinderella become Queen? You are going to become King, and I am going to be crowned Queen and that’s th
at!”

  Suddenly, a guard charges into the room. My jaw drops. The Huntsman! The one person whose life I want to destroy more than Midas’s and Marcella’s combined. What is he doing here?

  I break into a cold sweat. What if he recognizes me? He’ll tell them everything! I quickly hide my face in my napkin. To my relief, he pays no attention to me. Something far more urgent is on his mind.

  “Your Majesty, the palace of Prince Charming and Cinderella has caught fire!”

  “Have the stable boys prep the carriage. We must go at once!” commands The King, showing himself to be a fast-thinking, in-control leader.

  “Have Calla stay behind with the help!” orders The Prince.

  “No, Papa,” cries Calla. “I want to go with you.”

  There’s no time for Gallant to argue with his little girl. I grasp her hand and follow the royal family out to their carriage.

  “Jane, how dare you leave me alone with all this food!” shrieks Marcella. With her mouth stuffed, she joins us.

  CHAPTER 30

  As the King’s carriage races through the countryside, we huddle next to each other in silence. Even Marcella doesn’t say a word. I manage to smother my loathing for Midas by keeping my gaze focused on Gallant. His anxious eyes never leave mine.

  Within minutes, the blaze is visible. Colossal puffs of orange smoke light up the night sky. As we get nearer, I see flames shooting out of the palace. Everywhere!

  Upon entering the palace gates, the flames and turmoil freak out the horses, and we are forced to come to a halt. The Prince, the first to jump out, whips each of us out of the carriage. The smoke is intense; embers are flying everywhere. My eyes sting, and I cannot stop coughing. Calla, too, is choking. I drape her head with my shawl to protect her.

  Chaos surrounds us. Servants and villagers run back and forth, armed with hoses and buckets of water to quell the flames. Some lead spooked animals away from the palace while others carry the royal couple’s salvaged treasures to safety.

  “Brother!” chokes a voice in the near distance. It must be Prince Charming.