Good. If Madam Saxton turned Donovan away, I would have time to scope out the goblet tonight. I might be able to figure out a way to take it. I fingered the pocket where I’d put Chrissy’s tickets, a movement Donovan noted.
Madam Saxton went on speaking to him. “A moment ago when I came through the door, I uttered four words: ‘Princess Mercedes, the king . . .’ What was the rest of my sentence going to be?”
Donovan wasn’t flustered by this new demand. Without hesitation, he answered, “The king wishes you to join the family for supper.”
“And how do you know this?” the housekeeper asked.
“I smelled food when you opened the door, and King Rothschild is the sort of man who wants to know where his daughters are at all times. I’m sure it’s bothering him not to know where Princess Mercedes is.”
Madam Saxton nodded, satisfied by his explanation. “My second question is: What is one of the talents Princess Mercedes possesses?”
I inwardly groaned. The question was too easy. This was a story about twelve dancing princesses.
Donovan pretended to give the question thought. “Have the princess walk around me.”
Madam Saxton prodded me to do so. I felt odd, but I circled Donovan once then twice. His eyes followed me, taking in every inch. He was probably trying to look contemplative. Mostly he just looked amused.
“One of her talents?” Madam Saxton called as I made my third loop.
He lowered his voice so only I would hear. “With a name like that, I bet she’s got a talent for driving.”
“What?” Madam Saxton asked.
“Dancing,” he said. “She’s a beautiful dancer.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?”
“She moves with grace and elegance.”
“Or,” I said under my breath, “you remember the name of the fairy tale.”
“That too,” he said.
I forced a smile. “Let me ask the third question.” Without waiting for Madam Saxton’s consent, I turned to Donovan. “What did I wear yesterday?”
It was the perfect question. He couldn’t know the answer. If he said any kind of gown, he’d be wrong. And if by chance he guessed the right answer—jeans and a brown T-shirt—Madam Saxton would think he was crazy and dismiss him.
Donovan smirked, his blue eyes going full blast. “Clothes.”
“What kind of clothes?” I asked.
“That’s four questions,” he said. “When do I talk to the king?”
Madam Saxton held up her hands again. “The task was to answer three of my questions. Come with me, please.”
She headed down the hall, shoes tapping against the stone floor in a brisk rhythm. We followed after her, walking into a room that seemed to be an office. A wooden desk and an ornate chair sat in front of a large fireplace. Shelves along the wall held boxes, scrolls, books, and several abacuses.
Madam Saxton motioned for me to go to the desk. I did, noting a large painting on one wall that showed the king, queen, and twelve princesses sitting in rows beside them. There was something surreal about seeing my face among them.
Madam Saxton closed the door and addressed Donovan. “A keen and observant mind has helped you answer twice, but that alone can’t uncover the secrets a lady holds in her heart.”
She gestured at the quill pen on the desk. “Princess Mercedes will write one word—the thing she wants most in life. She’ll then show me the paper. If you can tell me the word she writes, I’ll let you have an audience with the king. If not, I’ll send you on your way.”
A happy swell of victory lifted me. I’d won. There was no way a guy I’d met ten minutes ago could guess what I wanted most. I wasn’t even sure. I strolled to the desk, cheerfully contemplating it.
The word ‘home’ came to mind first. I didn’t want to be trapped here. Although technically, I wanted my family back—my twenty-first century life, not just my house.
I picked up the quill pen, hesitating before dipping it into the ink bottle. The thought of my old life reminded me that once I went home, I would have to endure my America’s Top Talent audition becoming a viral video.
The weight of all those opinions, all the sneering laughs—it was enough to crush a person, to squeeze the air right out of me.
As badly as I wanted to be with my family, I still dreaded enduring nationwide humiliation. So did that mean I desired respect the most? Is that what I’d really meant when I wished for fame—I wanted the world to respect me? I twirled the quill pen between my fingers, thinking. No, I’d wanted more than respect. I’d wanted sighs of admiration from fans and the glitter of camera flashes going off around me. I’d wanted to feel the wet cement under my palms in the Hollywood walk of fame. I’d wanted everyone at my school to regret the way they’d treated me.
Fame seemed so vain and needy when I thought of it like that. Certainly I desired more from life than the adoration of strangers. What did I really want?
When Chrissy had told me she’d give me three wishes, it had been easy to think of things to ask for. Ironic. Right now I didn’t really know what would make me happy.
Donovan, unconcerned by my indecision, surveyed the painting, then the room’s woodwork. It all spoke of wealth, of dozens of craftsmen doing the king’s bidding. “If I get the answer right, I’ll be a royal guest here, and I’ll be given everything I need to solve the mystery?”
Madam Saxton sighed at his optimism. “Of course.”
I dipped the quill into the ink bottle. Rivulets of black ink dripped off the end.
Back in the hallway, Donovan heard me tell Chrissy that since I wasn’t famous in my century, my wish was void. He probably expected me to write something along those lines—fame or admiration. I needed something that he couldn’t guess.
Freedom, I decided. It wasn’t a lie. I wanted freedom from the bad things in my life.
I made sure Donovan was standing far enough away that he couldn’t see what I wrote. I also checked to make sure there weren’t any mirrors or reflective surfaces nearby that would let him see my paper. Then I put the tip of the quill pen to the paper and made an F.
There is a reason people stopped using feathers to write with. My F came out gloppy. I had to write slowly and in large script so the letters didn’t bleed into an unrecognizable blob. I wasn’t about to risk having to whisper my word to Madam Saxton.
Donovan strolled across his section of the room, hands clasped behind his back, studying me. He sent me a wide grin, one that probably made most girls melt. “I don’t think Princess Mercedes is writing riches or beauty. People don’t value what they’ve always had in abundance.”
Yeah, right. Empty flattery wouldn’t make me give him any clues. I rolled my eyes and went back to writing.
“It certainly isn’t the word cooperation,” he added.
It occurred to me that Donovan, like me, couldn’t lie without magical consequences. Did he really think I was beautiful? I replayed his words and just as quickly, the compliment soured. Donovan hadn’t said I was beautiful. He’d made two unrelated comments—I wouldn’t write beauty or riches, and people didn’t value what they had a lot of. He must have worded it that way because he didn’t think I was beautiful and only wanted the appearance of flattery. Jerk.
Donovan noted my scowl and kept slowly pacing. “I doubt she wrote kindness. Charity toward strangers doesn’t seem likely either.”
If I folded the paper now, the ink would smudge and the word would be indecipherable. I leaned over the paper and blew on the ink to dry it.
“Are you almost done?” Donovan called. “It’s a word, not a birthday cake.”
I blew on the paper a couple more times. After the ink dried, I folded the paper once, and then twice.
Madame Saxton watched my caution with evident weariness. “You see the crux of the problem,” she said to Donovan. “Despite the rewards the king offers, how can anyone discover the princesses’ secrets if the girls remain unwilling to share them? It’s fruitles
s to risk your life in such a venture.”
She shook her head sadly. “Whatever dark spell is upon our dear princesses, I fear it will remain until a greater magic can overcome it.”
I didn’t comment on my hopeless status. “Move away from Madam Saxton,” I told Donovan. “I don’t want you reading over her shoulder while she unfolds this.”
He smiled, clearly humoring me, then sauntered in my direction holding his hands up in surrender. His eyes were confident, though. He was far from surrendering. “I’ll stay as far away from Madam Saxton as you like.”
I kept watching his dark blue eyes, wondering at his assurance. Did he think I was so transparent he could guess my word?
I lifted my chin, met his eyes, and strode toward Madam Saxton. I was glad I wore a dress made for a princess. It carried its own confidence within its silk and brocade.
My eyes were on Donovan’s, so I didn’t see his hand move until it was too late. As he passed by me, he reached out and yanked the paper from my hand.
“Hey!” I yelled, lunging at him. “You can’t take that! That’s cheating!”
Donovan used his height to hold the paper out of my reach. He was stronger than I’d expected. He didn’t budge even with me knocking into him, tugging at his arm. He unfolded the paper above my head. “Freedom,” he called to Madam Saxton. “Princess Mercedes wants freedom.” He flipped the paper so she could see it and then gave it back to me. “I expected it to say goblet. Go figure.”
I clenched my fists and stamped my foot, something that didn’t make nearly the dramatic sound I’d hoped for. Slippers weren’t meant for stomping. “That doesn’t count. You cheated.”
Donovan met my protest with another smile, this one triumphant. “Madam Saxton never said I couldn’t cheat.”
I glared at him. “It’s obviously implied. Thus, the term cheating. She told you to guess.”
He shook his head. “No. She said I had to tell her what you’d written. I did.”
I looked to Madam Saxton for support, for agreement. I expected her to be angry. Instead her eyes shone happily. Her whole face was lit up with hope.
I marched to her, indignant. “He has no integrity. Is that the sort of man King Rothschild wants as a successor?”
“What King Rothschild wants,” Donovan answered for her, “is someone who can figure out the slipper mystery. Someone who can free the princesses from their dark curse. All the guys who’ve come to the castle before, maybe they had integrity and chivalry, and they wore those—” He waved a hand as though it would help him produce the words he wanted, “—capes and fancy clothes, but how successful were they when it came to learning the truth?”
That seemed to decide the matter for Madam Saxton. She clapped her hands together with enthusiasm. “Well said. Perhaps you’re just the one to succeed.”
Her excitement irked me. She actually thought this cheating probation dude was some sort of savior. She strode to Donovan, all action now. With a contemplative “Hmm,” she fingered the edge of his coat where buttons were missing. “I’ll need to give you clothing befitting a royal suitor.”
Apparently deeming the coat a hopeless cause, she tugged it off his arms. “We mustn’t insult Capenzia by letting the King Rothschild think only poor travelers and vagabonds value his daughters.”
Underneath his coat, Donovan wore a coarse gray shirt that was stained and ill-fitting. Madam Saxton made huffing noises at it. “It’s a good thing you’re a handsome lad. The right clothes will transform you well enough. From here on, you’re Prince Donovan from the kingdom of . . .”
“Hamilton, Ohio,” he supplied.
She nodded, folding his coat over her arm. “That sounds sufficiently exotic.”
I crumpled my paper, making freedom disappear in the creases. “That’s because you’ve never been to Ohio.”
“You’re a fifth son,” she continued, “so you’ve no chance of an inheritance from your goodly parents, but when you heard of King Rothschild’s dilemma, you came straightway to assist him.” She opened the door and stood aside so he could follow her out.
Donovan gave me a parting smile. All teeth and charm.
Madam Saxton turned back to me and made a shooing motion with her hand. “Princess Mercedes, don’t idle about. You must go into supper now. Your parents await you.”
I had no other choice really. I stalked off down the hallway.
Chapter 9
The dining room smelled delicious, like warm, roasted tastiness. The mandolin player barely looked up when I came in this time. The princesses were equally uninterested in my arrival. They glanced at me, and then went back to their meals and conversations.
Each wore an elaborate dress, all in pastel colors so they gave off the impression of rows of Easter eggs. Jeweled necklaces flashed and gleamed in the light—pearls, diamonds, amethysts, and pale blue stones I didn’t have a name for. The blonde princesses looked as pretty as porcelain, as though they should be sitting in a doll cabinet somewhere surveying the lesser knickknacks.
The obviously imported princesses were as elegantly dressed, but less graceful in their manners. They didn’t raise their pinkies while holding their glasses or dab their napkins to their lips with the same dainty flourishes.
As I walked to my place at the table, I wondered what wishes had brought these girls to the castle. Were they glad to be here? None seemed particularly sad or upset. Although maybe that was because they were busy enjoying the feast. That’s what it looked like—a Thanksgiving feast complete with savory dishes and more than one turkey.
I sat down at the empty seat, already worried that I would have the worst table manners. I’d never been the type who could tell a dessert fork from a regular fork. If it had prongs, I figured I could use it to eat. I would have to copy the BPs—blonde princesses’—mannerisms to figure out what to do.
The king set his goblet on the table with a loud thunk. “Lo, my youngest daughter arrives at last. Mercedes, you finally deign to dine with us?”
“Uh . . .” I didn’t understand the question.
The queen looked at me with motherly concern, making the tiny wrinkles around her eyes deepen. “We worried your food would grow cold.”
“Grow cold?” the king sputtered. “If I’d traipsed in late to supper at her age, my father would have given me nothing save a crust of bread, which,” he slapped his hand onto the table so forcefully his silverware rattled, “is precisely what Sadie shall be given now.”
“But I was . . .” taking care of fairy business and trying to circumvent your decree about suitors. I couldn’t finish that statement. Instead I murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“And you shall continue to be.” The king motioned to a serving man who carried a wooden tray piled with cheese and bread. “Princess Mercedes will contemplate her punctuality while dining on bread crusts and water. Give her nothing else.”
The man bowed. “Yes, Sire.”
I hoped the queen would argue my cause, but she went back to eating without any sort of comment. When the servant arrived at my seat, he took a loaf of bread from his tray and curtly ripped the end off. He set it on my plate where it lay, forlorn and dry-looking. It seemed oddly out of place on the fancy silver place setting. I picked up the crust and bit an edge off. It was as stiff as Styrofoam.
Great. In my last fairy tale, I was served seaweed and raw fish. Now I got bread crusts. I really should have made wishes with better dining choices.
King Rothschild went back to his conversation with the queen, my disturbance forgotten. The two princesses sitting at my side—both the blonde variety—were too wrapped up in a conversation about their new fur-lined cloaks to speak to me. The mandolin player crooned out a song about a knight and the ill-fated love he felt for his lady.
I wondered where Jason was and what he was doing. Chrissy had made him a prince, so hopefully he had servants attending his head wound. I would see him tonight when the princesses snuck out and went to the secret ball. What would I s
ay to him? How could I explain I hadn’t meant any of this to happen?
I tore off pieces of crust and ate them in silence. No matter how I envisioned the scenario, it always ended with me feeling pathetic and stupid, not to mention guilty for ruining his life.
I would just have to assure him I could get us out of this mess. I would steal the goblet and trade it for our passage home.
Several minutes later when Donovan and Madam Saxton walked in, his hair was combed and his face shaved clean. He wore an embroidered black vest over a white shirt with sleeves that poofed from his shoulders in typical Renaissance style. Shiny black boots went to his knees and a wide leather belt hung around his hips, holding a sword much more ornate than the one he’d come with. He should have looked ridiculous—he was just a parrot shy of a pirate costume—and yet he had a swagger that made the outfit work. He caught my eye and winked, then he and Madam Saxton strode to the front of the king’s table. Donovan bowed at the waist, making a show of it.
Madam Saxton gave a quick curtsy. “Prince Donovan of the Kingdom of Hamilton-Ohio, having heard of your daughters’ beauty and the great mystery besetting them, has come to offer his services.”
Half of the princesses giggled and leaned together to talk. The other half eyed Donovan with curiosity.
King Rothschild picked up a turkey leg from his plate and took a bite. “Hamilton-Ohio, eh? I’ve heard naught of that kingdom. Where is it?”
“Very far away,” Donovan said. “It’s next to the kingdom of Cincinnati.”
“Cincinnati?” King Rothschild repeated with disapproval. “What sort of kingdom uses the word ‘sin’ in its name twice? Does it want to encourage ruffian behavior? What next? PlunderPlunder-ati?”
The queen patted her husband’s arm reassuringly. “I’m sure it’s a lovely place.”
King Rothschild grunted, unconvinced, and turned his attention to Donovan again. “You believe you can discover the reason my daughters’ slippers are worn to ribbons each night?”
My Fairly Dangerous Godmother Page 10