by Allison Tebo
As the sun began to set, Burndee witnessed Ambia’s capital city of Andvar reach a fever pitch of preparation. At last, night fell, and long processions began ferrying guests to the royal castle. Coaches of every description—some humble, many opulent—streamed past Burndee. Even one or two of the new, noisy clockwork carriages chuggled and wheezed their way down the streets like ungainly mechanical spiders. It was only after the procession ended that Burndee roused himself, brushed the crumbs from his clothes, and ambled towards de Ghent Hall.
He didn’t enter the courtyard right away but reconnoitered a few minutes to satisfy himself that the stepfamily was really gone. There was no doubt in his mind that Ella had been left behind. De Ghent would never tolerate having the unattractive Portia compared to pretty Ella in public—aside from the fact that the nasty, old witch simply wouldn’t allow Ella to do anything she wanted to do.
Burndee crept into a courtyard illuminated only by radiant moonlight, thinking it strange that Ella had not lit the lamps as she usually did.
He headed towards the kitchen but stopped when a muffled sound drifted towards him from the garden that was tucked against the east wall. He turned and saw a pink heap huddled beside a stone bench.
“Ella?” Burndee rushed over to her, envisioning broken limbs or chopped fingers. “Ella, what’s wrong?”
Her head came up slowly, her eyes sliding up to meet his. Burndee stopped short of her, frozen by the abject humiliation in her eyes.
“Look at me,” Ella whispered.
Burndee looked her over and saw that she was wearing a pink party dress—a dress that gave every appearance of being attacked by a gang of enraged cats. The sleeves had been ripped off, and frills dangled limply from loose threads. Part of the hem had been torn away, revealing muddy petticoats.
“They . . .” Ella sobbed, taking a shuddering breath as she reached out her hands to him like a drowning swimmer. “They ruined it.”
“Shhh . . .” Burndee crouched down on the pavement and put an arm around her shoulders. “Tell me what happened.”
“Ouch . . . you shocked me.” Ella gave a wet sniff, and Burndee began searching in vain for a handkerchief. “I told Stepmother . . . I ought to be able to go, since . . . the invitation was for every eligible maiden . . . and that includes me!”
“Yes, that’s true.” Burndee patted her softly on the back.
“You’re still shocking me.”
“I’m sorry.” Burndee scooted away from her and put his hands in his lap.
Ella wiped at the tears that poured seemingly without end down her cheeks. “I wasn’t going to give her any trouble or do anything that would cost any money. She said I could go so I . . . I found my mother’s old dress and . . . f-fixed it up. But . . . when they saw me . . . they tore it.” Ella began to choke again as she picked up a frill that had fallen at her feet and cradled it like a bird with a broken wing. “They tore my mother’s dress. They ruined it.”
Burndee was so furious he felt as if he was about to pass out. He leaped to his feet and turned the stone bench over in a surge of wrath. Ella shrank away from him with a frightened cry, and Burndee stopped kicking the heads off daisies with an enormous effort.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m just . . . angry . . . at them.”
Ella dropped her head into her arms, huddling away from him miserably.
Burndee couldn’t believe it. Ella had finally tried to take matters into her own hands. She had fixed up her mother’s dress and apparently declared her intentions to go to the ball. If only he had been there to see Ella tell de Ghent her rights. It had probably been one of the nicest and most polite bits of rebellion ever committed.
An unpleasant feeling came over Burndee as he suddenly realized that this had very likely happened because of him. Ella had tried to defend and better herself based on his recommendation, and had gotten this sorry treatment for her efforts. It was pathetic, but it was typical Ella. The one time she stood up for herself, she nearly got torn limb from limb.
Burndee set the bench upright again and tried to swallow the lump of guilt in his throat. “Here, please get off the ground.” He took her gently by the arms.
“Owwww! Ella howled.
“I’m sorry!” Burndee rarely touched humans, not only because he had little desire to, but also because the invisible spell dust that clung to him had a painful effect when it came in contact with mortal skin. “Here—sit down.” He helped Ella onto the bench, quickly letting go of her as he sat beside her. He immediately bounced nervously to his feet. He was about to break the rules again, but perhaps Fey would understand that he really was just trying to help a ward that had hit rock bottom.
“I have a surprise for you,” he announced impressively.
Ella looked at him with a disappointing lack of enthusiasm. “But you didn’t bring your peddler’s cart.”
Burndee frowned impatiently. “Not that. This is something that will change your life.”
Ella—who thought a new cheese grater could change her life—closed her eyes as if she couldn’t bear the idea of any more life-changing events that evening. “For . . . good?” she asked anxiously.
“Of course for good,” Burndee snapped. “Would I look so happy if it was bad news?”
“Maybe,” Ella said timidly. “And besides, you don’t look happy.”
“Oh. Well . . . have I ever hurt you?” He faltered and ducked his head, unwilling to see if there was even the slightest hint of recrimination in her face as he added with a gruff cough of shame, “Ahh . . . deliberately?”
Ella wiped her eyes. “No.”
“Well then.” He waited until Ella had stopped blowing her nose, and then cleared his throat and declared in a stentorian voice, “I . . . am your fairy godfather!”
She gaped at him for a full half-minute. “You?” she gasped at last, clutching at her heart.
“Yes, me,” said Burndee, beginning to feel a tiny bit irritated. He had expected surprise—but not outright stupefaction.
Ella looked at him wonderingly. “I didn’t even know I had one. I didn’t know I . . . was important enough to have one.”
“Of course you are,” Burndee said in a burst of generosity. “And I’m about to grant you a wish.”
Ella actually jumped to her feet—surprising Burndee—and looked at him with a peculiar expression. “You are?” she asked, and for an instant, Burndee thought she looked almost coy. “How?”
“By magic, of course,” Burndee responded. Dummy. “I am going to send you to the ball.” He paused for effect.
Ella blinked. Burndee couldn’t tell if she looked disappointed or not, but he assured himself that she just needed a moment to process his words. He was relieved when she finally smiled. She wasn’t as ecstatic as he had thought she would be, but Ella was always slow.
“Thank you!” she said simply, trusting implicitly in his abilities.
That was more like it. Burndee smiled at her benignly. “You’re welcome. Now, first of all, we have to dress you.”
Ella looked ready to cry again as she remembered her dress—or lack thereof—and Burndee hastily moved on to avoid any more teary scenes. “This might feel a little funny. Ready? Here we go!”
He waved his hand, concentrating all of his skills to make a ball gown to end all ball gowns. There was a brilliant flash of light and the tinkle of bells that only he could hear. No matter how many times Burndee practiced his spells, he never failed to be impressed by his own magic. In a matter of seconds, Ella’s torn dress was swallowed up by the gown that began to take shape. Yards of pale-blue silk seemed to leap up from the ground and cling to her in shining swaths. Silver festoons and diamond jewelry appeared. Ella’s hair was twisted up into a bun and secured with diamond pins. The light seeped over her and she seemed to wobble for a moment, slightly out of focus. Then, with another even more dazzling spark of light that left glittering cinders of spell dust around her, the gown was complete.
Ella’s head rolled limply, rather like a doll recovering from a severe beating by an unruly child. She was panting as if she had run a race as her glazed eyes dropped to take in her gown. She gasped aloud.
“You look . . .” Burndee began, but then his voice trailed off as he simply stared at her. She smiled uncertainly at him, and he immediately directed his gaze to study the details of her hemline, though he saw very little detail. “You look . . .” He struggled for a word, slowly raising his eyes to her face again, then blurted, “Neat.”
“Thank you!” she said with delight. She spun and laughed as her skirts swirled around her. He didn’t think he’d ever heard her laugh before. It sounded a little like the tinkle that accompanied his spells. “Thank you, Burndee! It’s so beautiful!”
Ella’s gratitude over the slightest bit of magic was pathetic. It was just a dress. What a deprived, miserable existence she must lead. Burndee scuffed the ground with his shoe, examining the dainty glass slippers that graced her feet, feeling uneasy.
She stroked the folds of her skirt and looked around. “I wish I could see myself.”
Burndee cleared his throat and pointed a finger at the courtyard wall, turning a section of it into a brilliant mirror.
“Oh!” Ella gazed at herself for a long moment and then turned and smiled at him, a trembling, glowing smile. He found himself smiling back. It was impossible not to—she looked so happy. He felt his chest expanding fractionally. This happiness business wasn’t so difficult. Perhaps this job wasn’t that bad after all.
“You look different when you smile,” Ella observed shyly. “So nice and twinkly.”
“Nice? Twinkly?” Burndee pondered the ramifications of the two words that he had never heard applied to himself before. Coming from a human, he viewed them as faintly suspicious, possibly insulting. But observation had told him that Ella didn’t have an insulting bone in her body. She had probably meant it as compliment, which meant he had to be polite about it.
“Thank you,” he said awkwardly, and he turned quickly away. She was not only making him smile far more than he had ever been obliged to, he was starting to feel nice and twinkly, which wouldn’t do at all.
“Let’s get going—time’s wasting.” Burndee looked around, and his eyes fell on the garden. “Aha!” Starting to get into the spirit of things, he gave a dramatic sweep of his hand and bowed to Ella as he pointed to a large, pale pumpkin. “Madam, your magic carpet.”
“But that’s a pumpkin,” Ella said slowly, looking at him kindly and a little worriedly, as if she thought something was wrong with him. “I’m not sure I could ride that to the ball.”
The image of Ella astride a pumpkin in that immense gown was humorous enough to keep Burndee from losing his temper at her dull-wittedness. “You’ll be able to ride it when I’m through with it.” He waved his hand over the pumpkin.
For a moment, nothing happened. Ella coughed politely and looked down to fiddle with a glove, obviously embarrassed for him.
Burndee smirked, waiting, as the pumpkin started to tremble, the skin pulsing and flexing as some inner force pushed at it. A flash as bright as lightning filled the courtyard. The pumpkin expanded rapidly, spell dust swirling over it in a miniature snowstorm. Vines thrashed wildly, whirling into wheel shapes. The pumpkin turned white, details and accessories appearing, and then, with one last great, thundering clap of light, a magnificent coach burst into view, dominating the garden with its splendor.
Burndee turned to Ella, waiting for applause. She dropped her hands away from her eyes, squinting like a newborn kitten. “I couldn’t see anything; that flash was so bright.” She must have seen the disappointed look on his face, because she hastened to assure him. “But I believe you did it! And it’s so gorgeous! Thank you, Burndee.”
Burndee bowed stiffly in acknowledgement of her thanks, distracted by the frustration that swept over him. What was the fun of doing incredible feats of magic if the recipient couldn’t see his prowess?
“Here, hold my hand,” he said, stretching out his arm. “Then you’ll be able to see it as I do.”
Ella had an almost anticipatory look on her face as she slipped her hand into his after a slight hesitation. “Oh!” She jumped, looking surprised. “It . . . keeps stinging . . . I mean, touching you tingles.”
“That’s because I’m magical and you aren’t.” Burndee managed to sound magnanimous and noted vaguely that he felt some tingling himself. He coughed. He wasn’t accustomed to holding hands. “Let’s see . . . you’ll need a footman and a coachman.” He scanned the courtyard and spotted two furtive white shapes scuttling for cover behind a watermelon. They had probably very nearly been killed by the pumpkin’s explosive transformation. He might as well complete their unpleasant evening. “Those mice will do.”
Ella let out a bloodcurdling scream and launched herself at Burndee, literally crawling up him to perch on his shoulders, her voluminous skirts nearly smothering him as she screeched, “Ouch, ouch, ouch! Oh, get them away, get them away!”
“Get off me!” Burndee growled, getting a good grip and depositing her promptly on the stone bench.
Ella whimpered and drew her skirts around her, dancing up and down nervously on her custom-made slippers. “You won’t let them get me, will you?”
“They’re just mice,” Burndee said disdainfully. “Mere vermin you can easily squash under your foot. Like some people I know.”
Ella stopped hopping and stared at him, horrified. “You stomp on mice?”
Burndee would not spare her an answer for a question like that. He waved his hands over the mice, and they instantly began growing.
Ella fainted. One minute she was standing on top of the bench, and the next she was toppling over sideways.
“Ella!” Burndee had managed to partially break her fall, but she had still slid to the ground. “Wake up! You’re missing it,” he urged, startled as well as disgusted. Ella remained inert, and Burndee leaned over her, smartly tapping first one cheek, then the other.
Ella’s eyes flew open, and she instantly grabbed him by the arm, nearly pulling him down on top of her. “Ouch! They were growing!” she babbled. “They were growing! Please make them go away!”
Burndee looked over her shoulder and saw two diminutive, slightly mousy-looking men in bright-scarlet livery. “They’re not mice anymore, Ella. Now, will you get up?”
Ella sat up and peered suspiciously at the two men, giving a small peep of alarm. “That one has whiskers!”
Burndee took a second look and had a bit of a start himself. The footman had a set of long, pointed whiskers that would put a seal to shame. “A lot of men have whiskers,” Burndee said in exasperation, trying to conceal the fact that his spells were not quite in tip-top order. He didn’t practice much.
“Not like that,” Ella said stubbornly. “I’m stupid, but I’m not that stupid.”
“I’ll make him turn up his collar.” Burndee promised. “Will that help?”
Ella looked fully prepared to be difficult. He couldn’t believe he had never thought to turn de Ghent and her daughters into mice. Ella would have finished them off or run for the hills years ago and Burndee wouldn’t have to be here at all.
“Horses next,” said Burndee, looking up at the night sky and noting that time was running out. The moon was partially blocked by a gigantic oak tree, and Burndee spotted two birds observing them from what they probably thought was the safety of their nest. “Ha! They ought to ensure that you get there in time—you’ll fly there!” Chuckling at his own pun, Burndee snapped his fingers. “All right, watch this time,” he said sternly, taking Ella’s hand again.
Ella gave another gasp as Burndee’s magic washed over her in a stinging wave. Burndee lessened his grip on her hand and gestured for her to observe closely.
The birds gave startled twitters as they transformed, growing to at least twenty times their normal size. Ella shrieked in horror at seeing birds the size of cows and then gave a gasp of wonder as their fea
thers disappeared. Legs took shape, then hooves. Their bodies expanded, and tails materialized. The creatures writhed in one last spark of light, and the metamorphosis was complete, leaving two magnificent white horses standing somewhat dazedly before them.
“That was incredible,” Ella whispered, and then she shuddered. “I’m not sure I liked it.”
Burndee gave her a pitying look. “To make an omelet, one has to break a few eggs. Or rather, to get to the ball, one has to work with what one has and alter animals. Here, get up, will you? Did you hurt yourself?” he asked as an afterthought. She shook her head as he hauled her to her feet. “Well, at least all that dress cushioned your fall,” he added, a little more kindly. “But look, you’ve wrinkled it. See how little good it does to faint?” He touched her skirt with his fingertip, instantly removing dirt and wrinkles. “Now—off to the ball.”
Ella looked at the coach with what Burndee thought was a shameful lack of enthusiasm. “You’re not going to leave me alone with a coach being driven by . . . mice . . . are you?”
“For goodness’ sake, they’re not mice now. If you say that word one more time, I’ll shake you.”
She still looked wilted and feminine and ready to launch herself at him at any given moment.
He lost no time in creating some space between them. “And no, I’m not going to send you off by yourself. It would look ridiculous to show up at a ball without an escort. I do know that much about social graces.”
“You’re going with me?” Ella exclaimed, clasping her hands together and turning as pink as an apple blossom.
“I just said that,” Burndee said warily, remembering a certain day at an inn when Ella had shown equal delight at being seen in his company.
“Oh good . . . then, let’s go.” Ella bounded towards the coach and took the hand of the footman without a murmur.