My Fairly Dangerous Godmother

by Janette Rallison

  A door in the back led to another large room, this one with twelve ornate carved canopy beds lined in two rows. Sheer curtains draped each bed, see-through enough that anyone glancing into the room could still check to see we were there. Twelve dressing tables sat in front of the beds, complete with a pitcher, wash basin, combs, pins, ribbons, and mirrors.

  Four closet doors interspersed the rows of beds, each closet bigger than my bedroom back home. Wardrobe rooms, the princesses called them. Skirts, bodices, and sleeves of every color and hue hung there, along with hooped skirts, long slips, corsets, coats, riding habits, hats, stockings, and things I didn’t have a name for.

  Honestly, how many layers of clothing did people in the Renaissance need to keep warm?

  Lady’s maids came into the bedchamber and unlaced, unhooked, and basically extracted us from our dresses. I was glad for the help. My bodice laced up the back, making it impossible to get out of by myself.

  Underneath my dress and corset, I wore a cotton chemise and a padded pillow that gave my skirt its overflowing look. As my maid took it off, she called it a bum roll, which I thought sounded like a dance move.

  I hadn’t realized I wore a necklace until I was down to my chemise. Then I noticed the golden locket hanging at the bottom of my throat. I held it up, admired a tiny jeweled flower on the front, and flipped the locket open. A small painted portrait of Jason smiled back at me. He wore a yellow silk coat and an accordion-like white ruffled collar that pressed up against his chin.

  I supposed Chrissy thought this necklace was one of the special little extras she provided as a godmother. I blushed and snapped the locket shut, worried Jason would see it. There is just something extra stalkerish about wearing a painted portrait of a guy you barely know.

  I didn’t want to wear the locket, but if I took it off, one of the servants might find it and show it to the king. It was better to wear it, hidden underneath my clothes.

  After getting into my nightgown, I sat at my dressing table where my maid unpinned my hair, brushed it out, and fastened it into a braid. The lanterns on the tables and the glow from a fireplace in the back of the bedroom did a poor job of lighting the room. Everything seemed shadowed and watchful. The maids became more squeamish the later it got, as though the dark magic of ruined slippers might jump out of a corner and grab them.

  Finally King Rothschild ushered Donovan and Madam Saxton into the sitting room and called for us to come out and greet our guests. The lady’s maids left the room and the princesses spread out on the couches and chairs. Some talked with Madam Saxton or kissed their father goodnight.

  Before the king left the room, he turned and surveyed us. “I expect the lot of you to behave and go to sleep like obedient daughters.”

  “We will,” several princesses chorused back.

  The king’s gaze turned to Donovan. “I expect you to . . . well, I expect you to fail like every other man who’s stepped into this room. See if you can prove me wrong.”

  “I will,” Donovan said.

  The king humphed, and shut the door with an authoritative bang. A moment later the outside bolt scraped against the door. We were locked in for the night. Rosamund went to the door and locked it from our side. The outside world was now locked out of the room as well. No one headed to the bedroom. Apparently it was our custom to socialize before sleeping.

  I sat down in a chair that was a little farther than those around the fireplace. I didn’t want to stare at Donovan. Enough of the princesses were already doing that—eyeing him with subtle and not so subtle attention.

  My gaze only kept wandering to him because he was the enemy. I needed to see what he was doing. The fact that he wore the whole Renaissance thing well—his slightly long hair fit right in with the time period—was secondary.

  Madam Saxton walked to the fireplace and put another log on. She’d brought a cloth bag with her, and she pulled out a ball of yarn and sat on the couch by the fireplace. “I’ve some knitting to do while I sit watch,” she said with forced cheer. I imagined she wasn’t thrilled to pull an all-nighter.

  Donovan strolled around the room, examining it like a crime scene that might offer up clues. “So, how were your slippers when you put them under your beds?”

  Our maids had actually placed our slippers under our beds, but no one corrected him. Several BPs innocently glanced in the direction of the bedroom and shrugged.

  “They seemed well enough,” Rosamund said.

  Elizabeth adjusted the ribbon tied to the end of her braid. “Perhaps the cobbler made these pairs sturdier than our last.”

  Beatrix stretched her feet, enjoying the freedom of being shoe-less. “It’s the cobbler to be blamed, certainly, and not—as our father suggests—mischief on our part.”

  “We’re free of mischief,” Clementia agreed.

  “I don’t know about her,” Darby said in a confidential tone, “But I’m certainly free.”

  Penny sauntered past Donovan on her way to a chair. “Don’t tease him. He already chose his favorite princess.” She batted her eyelashes. “Without even meeting any of the rest of us. Your loss, Prince Donovan.”

  Several of the princesses giggled. Catherine murmured, “Sadie is a good choice for you.”

  “A very good choice,” Kayla said.

  Isolde and Mathilda both winked at me as though sending me a message—that I totally didn’t get. My gaze went back and forth between them in an attempt to explain that I wasn’t in on their facial gestures. Isolde rolled her eyes and Mathilda just laughed at me.

  Donovan didn’t comment on my suitability as a choice. “I’ll check your bedroom before you go to sleep,” he said, and headed there. The princesses went back to their conversations with each other, unconcerned.

  When Donovan came back, he circled the room, still examining things, then finally sat in the chair beside me. “So,” he whispered, “are you planning on killing me yet?”

  “No, but there’s always room on my agenda later.”

  His gaze drifted over the princesses. “This is just my luck. I’m locked in with a dozen beautiful women, and they all want me dead. I couldn’t get to sleep tonight if I tried.”

  I leaned closer to him so our voices wouldn’t carry. “To clarify, we don’t want you dead. We just don’t want you to discover our secret, and unfortunately, the byproduct of that may be your execution.”

  “I feel so much better.”

  “Although I’m not even sure about the execution. Is the king serious about killing you after three nights, or is that one of those I’ll-sell-you-to-gypsies threats?”

  “I don’t plan on finding out.” Donovan had picked up a brass coin from somewhere, and he fiddled with it while he peered at the door to our bedroom. “I thought being a princess meant you didn’t have to share a room. Obviously your other wish wasn’t for privacy.”

  I smiled despite myself.

  He turned the coin from one finger to another in a practiced way. “What was your other wish?”

  “Why do you keep asking?”

  “Because I think you’re interesting.” His smile was too broad. He was trying to charm me.

  “I’d rather be mysterious and not tell you.”

  He flipped the coin into the air and without looking, caught it. “There’s got to be a secret passageway in here. It’s the only way you could get out.”

  There was, and I didn’t want him searching for it. Time to change the subject. “Jade Blossom has a lot of confidence in your stealing abilities, but it seems to me that the really good criminals wouldn’t get caught and be given probation officers.”

  “I never claimed to be really good.” He flipped the coin again. “Of course that doesn’t mean I’m not.”

  Was he denying the claim or bragging about it? I couldn’t figure him out. “How did you get caught?”

  “I didn’t. I just had some bad luck.” He couldn’t hide the grimace that flashed across his features. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t pleasant.r />
  Perhaps it was misery hoping for company, but right then I wanted to know his story. “I’ll tell you how I earned my fairy godmother, if you give me the details of how you earned yours.”

  His eyebrows lifted with curiosity. “All right. You go first.”

  I told him about the audition, about how nervous I’d been, and how my voice cracked onstage. Until that moment, I hadn’t thought about the incident with anything except horror, but somehow telling Donovan about it took out some of the sting—made it seem almost funny. Maybe being stuck in the wrong century put it in perspective. “Jason Prescott was one of the judges,” I said. “After he Xed me, he told the entire audience I had no talent.”

  Donovan scoffed. “Like Jason Prescott would know talent if it walked up and punched him.”

  Or threw up nearby. Donovan was clearly not a Jason fan. A part of me felt relieved about that. Not everyone would care what Jason said about my singing. Another part of me wanted to defend him.

  My hand automatically went to the locket underneath my chemise. “He’s made millions of dollars and he’s only twenty. You can’t do that without talent.”

  “His music sucks.” Donovan flipped the coin again, catching it with only two fingers this time. “The only reason his stuff sells is that stupid girls think he’s cute. A singing cocker spaniel would do as well.”

  I repressed a shudder. “I think one of those was actually at the competition.”

  “Did it win?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t throw up on the stage. So anyway you look at it, the dog did better than I did.”

  Donovan laughed. It had an easy, open sound to it. “I would have loved to see that.”

  “If you go back to the present, you will. Chrissy told me the video will go viral.”

  “Think of it as a commentary on the quality of the show’s judges.”

  I shook my head, momentarily shutting my eyes against the memory. “The whole thing was so horrible that it qualified me for the fairies’ pitiable damsel outreach program. That’s how I got my fairy godmother.”

  Donovan bit back another laugh. “I’m sure it will be one of those here-today-gone-tomorrow videos.”

  Yeah, right. Donovan was too busy containing his laughter to convince me of that. I knew he would look up the video as soon as he got home . . . and then probably post it on all of his social media.

  “When Chrissy showed up in my hotel room, having a fairy godmother seemed like a good thing. I mean, who doesn’t want three wishes?” I tugged at the back of my nightcap, adjusting the ruffle. “And then I wound up here.”

  “Exactly. That whole fairy godmother angle is just an excuse for fairies to mess with us.”

  “They should come with warning labels.”

  Donovan cocked his head. “Wait, did you just tell that story so I’d feel bad for you and let you have the goblet?”

  “No.” I hadn’t even thought of trying to gain his sympathy.

  “’Cause that’s not going to work.” He straightened, pulling away from me, then glanced around the room, to see what the other princesses were doing. Most of them sat talking in the chairs by the fireplace. Isolde and Clementia were passing silver goblets out to everyone. Catherine followed them with a bottle, filling each cup.

  “I’m sorry you’re stuck here,” Donovan told me. “And I feel bad about your vomiting video problems, but I need to go back home.”

  “Yeah, to see your probation officer. It would be a shame if you missed that appointment.”

  “I have a brother who needs me, okay?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Clearly no one needs me.”

  “I never said that.”

  He didn’t have to. I’d just thought it myself. Who at home needed me? Not my parents who were busy with their careers, not my older brother away at college, not any one at school. No one needed me. I wasn’t even sure how much anyone would miss me.

  I forced a smile. “Now it’s your turn to confess. How did you earn a fairy godmother?”

  Donovan turned the coin between his fingers again. “It was nothing as dramatic as your story.”

  “Well, not everybody can splatter Jason Prescott’s judging podium.”

  Donovan didn’t say anything for a moment. “I’m not sure you want to hear it. It won’t make you feel better.”

  I did want to hear it—all the more because of his secrecy, but Rosamund and Philippa didn’t give me a chance to answer. They came over, carrying two goblets apiece, both already filled with drink.

  “The time for slumber is upon us,” Rosamund said, her voice as gentle as a lullaby. “Before we retire, we wish to toast you and your land. ’Tis our custom for visitors.” She held out a goblet to Donovan. “Come stand with us by the fire.”

  He stood and took the goblet warily. “How thoughtful.”

  Rosamund looped her arm into his and led him toward the fireplace where the other princesses were waiting. Philippa handed me my glass and we followed. Madam Saxton still sat on the couch, her knitting in her lap and a goblet in her hand. I supposed her drink had sleeping potion in it as well as Donovan’s.

  The room was warmer near the fire, brighter, and yet it still felt like the room was cloaked in shadows. Rosamund held up her drink to get everyone’s attention. “To Prince Donovan.”

  The princesses lifted their cups. “To Prince Donovan,” they repeated and sipped their drinks.

  I took a sip as well. A spicy apple cider slid over my tongue. It was room temperature and not as sweet as the apple cider from my century, but still, it was the best food I’d had all day.

  Donovan raised his goblet to his lips and seemed to swallow, although I imagined when he lowered his glass, it would still be full.

  “To the land of Hamilton-Ohio,” Philippa called, and we drank a second toast, this one with entreaties that Donovan tell a story about his land.

  “But not until we’re done toasting,” Beatrix added.

  “To Capenzia,” Kayla chimed. Everyone repeated the country’s name, Madam Saxton the loudest.

  After the murmurs of patriotism died down, Donovan raised his glass. “Allow me to make a toast.” He smiled, and it had a challenging tilt to it. “To secrets and the curiosity that drives us to figure them out.”

  Rosamund laughed, a light giddy sound. “I know not if we should toast that. Haven’t you heard the saying, curiosity killed the cat?” The look she gave him verged on feline satisfaction. “We wouldn’t want that.”

  Donovan clinked his glass into hers anyway. “Fortunately, I’m not a cat.” He took a step away from her and stumbled, sloshing some of his drink onto the floor. “Oops, sorry about that.” He pulled a handkerchief from the bag on his belt, and bent down to wipe up the mess. As he leaned over, more drink sloshed from his cup onto the floor. “Oops again.” He chuckled at himself. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My balance is off.”

  Or he was trying to dump his entire drink on the floor.

  Rosamund took the glass from his hand before he could. “Here, let me refill this for you.”

  Strike one for him.

  Donovan wiped up as much of the mess as his handkerchief could absorb, then straightened and tossed the handkerchief onto one of the chairs. “What were we toasting again? Cats, was it?”

  He took his glass from Rosamund and lifted it. “To cats. Without them . . . the world . . . would have more mice.”

  “Perhaps you should sit down,” Rosamund suggested.

  “Perhaps.” He headed toward a chair that stood by a planter. In the fairy tale, the soldier had dumped his drink there.

  Rosamund looped her arm through his and led him past it. “You’ll find one of these chairs more comfortable.”

  Philippa, taking her cue from Rosamund, quickly sat in the seat by the planter so Donovan couldn’t make an excuse to return to it.

  Strike two.

  He turned from the chair Rosamund suggested and walked to the couch where Madam Sa
xton sat. No planters stood nearby, so Rosamund didn’t protest the change.

  Madam Saxton lifted her glass to Donovan as he sat beside her. “To less mice,” she slurred. The sleeping potion must work fast. “They’re nasty little vermin and they never clean up after themselves.”

  Donovan clinked his glass into hers. “But you’ve got to admit,” he slurred back at her, “Mickey’s got one fine theme park.”

  “What’s a theme park?” she asked.

  “Whatever a theme is driving at the time.” Donovan tilted his head back, laughed, then raised his glass to his lips again.

  Rosamund sent me a superior look, one that proclaimed, “See, he’s drinking the potion.”

  I wasn’t convinced. I watched Donovan for another moment, studied his too broad smile and half shut eyes.

  Rosamund handed me a spare handkerchief. “Clean up the rest of the mess and hide the handkerchiefs with our soiled laundry. We mustn’t leave any evidence father might find.”

  While I cleaned, the princesses talked demurely. A few took off their caps and undid their braids. Donovan hummed the theme song from the Pirates of the Caribbean. Madam Saxton laughed like a school girl, encouraging him to hum the tune again. She tried to join in. By the time I’d finished hiding the handkerchiefs, they were both silent. Madam Saxton’s chin rested against her chest, eyes closed. Donovan’s head lolled back against the couch and his breaths became deep and slow. The firelight made his features look warm, vulnerable somehow.

  Rosamund strolled to the couch to check on them. “Prince Donovan, let me take your goblets from you.”

  Neither responded. She snapped her fingers near Donovan’s face. Still no response. He seemed like the perfect picture of sleep.

  Rosamund picked up the cup from Madam Saxton’s lap. It had tipped over and a few drops spilled onto her dress, but beside that the goblet was empty. Next Rosamund took the cup from Donovan’s loose grip. She looked inside, smiled, then tipped the glass upside down to show us it was empty.

  “Well,” Rosamund said, carrying the glasses to the nearest table. “That’s done. Time to dress.”