by Allison Tebo
Burndee suspected that it took her some effort to pass off the incident as nothing. He was grateful but also ashamed that a mere human should have to spare a fairy’s feelings—he had always thought he didn’t have any. He had certainly been told that often enough.
“Do you want to eat something?” he asked, making an effort to be more solicitous as he led her towards the refreshment tables.
“I’m not sure. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. But I do want to at least look. Seeing what other people have baked is always exciting.”
“Yes, it is,” Burndee agreed, noting with surprise that it might have been the first thing Ella and he had ever emphatically agreed on.
“Look at that one!” Ella pointed to a cake that had been baked and decorated to look like a ship at sea.
They both crouched so that they were on eye level with the table, examining the cake’s finer details, despite extended stares from the guests around them.
“It’s too pretty to eat,” Ella decided.
“It’s not bad,” Burndee admitted. “But too many rosettes. And I would have put shark fins in the water.”
Ella gave him a horrified look. “Why on earth?”
Burndee snickered. “Just so I could see the expression on your face right now on the faces of everybody else in the room.”
Ella cocked her head quizzically but smiled nonetheless.
“I made some of this.” Burndee clasped his hands behind his back as he observed the table with a proprietary air.
“Really? Which ones did you make?”
Burndee opened his mouth and then hesitated, feeling a curious and unfamiliar sensation he could not quite identify. He suddenly felt uncomfortable showing her the culinary creations he had slaved over. “This and that,” he said vaguely.
“Oh, tell me! Don’t be shy.”
Burndee didn’t answer; he was too busy digesting the word “shy” and wondering if that sensation had ever even passed through the outer limits of his personality. He wouldn’t say he felt shy exactly. He was simply unwilling to share something that felt so personal.
“I’ll bet I can guess,” Ella said, clapping her hands with excitement. “It’s the big one in the middle, isn’t it? It must be; it’s the prettiest thing on the table. It is yours! Your eyes just lit up.”
Burndee coughed and turned his eyes in another direction.
Ella leaned across the table to get a better look, dragging her frills through a salad bowl. “It’s perfect, Burndee.”
That didn’t mean much. Ella thought everything at the ball was perfect. Still, Burndee fancied that she had a bit more warmth in her voice when she complimented his creation.
“Would you like to . . . taste it?” Burndee asked, still feeling strangely unforthcoming about his talent, despite the accolades he expected to receive.
“This one I have to cut into, no matter how pretty it looks,” Ella declared. An attendant drifted towards them to assist, but Ella waved him gently away. She grabbed a knife to do the honors herself.
“I don’t want to eat too much,” she said, cutting a modest slice, “or I’ll grow out of this dress long before midnight.”
“That’s all right. I can expand the waistline for you, if necessary.”
Ella burst out laughing.
Burndee hadn’t intended to be funny, but he couldn’t deny that it was pleasant to see the girl really relax for once.
“All right, here I go.” She beamed at him and opened her mouth to take a bite that was less than maidenly in its size but quite a compliment as to how eager she was to taste his creation.
He could barely look at her, he was in such suspense. He turned away and spotted Portia stomping her way through a polka with all the grace of a stampeding buffalo. He chanced a peek at Ella and saw that her eyes had closed as she chewed with maddening slowness.
“Well?” he asked, impatiently.
Ella’s eyes slid open. “Oh, it’s wonderful! It’s the best cake of yours that I’ve ever tasted. It’s exactly how I imagined your spells would taste.”
“Shhh! I didn’t use any . . . er, outside assistance to make it. Just my own experience.”
“I believe you, but it still tastes magical.” She waved a hand that encompassed the ball, her gown, and her general feelings. “It tastes like this whole evening baked into one cake.”
Touched, Burndee picked up the knife. “Have another piece.” he enthused.
“I will, but not yet,” said Ella, taking another bite. “I want my second slice of your cake to be the last thing I eat tonight.” She rolled her eyes ecstatically. “Mmm . . . I could eat this for the rest of my life.”
Burndee picked up a napkin and dabbed some frosting off her nose. “I’ll make it for you again,” he said in an unexpected burst of generosity.
“You will?” Ella mumbled delightedly.
“Certainly.” He hesitated and added thoughtfully, “I don’t mind baking to order if someone really appreciates it.”
Ella licked her fingers. “Rather like your spells.”
“Pardon?”
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Maybe you’d like being a fairy godfather more if you realized how much your wards appreciate your abilities and your help.”
“Ahhh . . . I don’t think so.” He struggled to maintain what he thought might be a polite expression.
“Why do you like baking so much?” Ella pressed.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just . . . inside me, I suppose.”
“So is your magic.”
“It’s different,” he floundered, cutting a piece of cake for himself. “Baking has order; it has a recipe you follow.”
“Your spells have recipes, don’t they?”
Burndee glared at her and took a savage bite of cake, spraying crumbs everywhere in his venom. “Humans don’t have recipes.”
Ella gazed at him as he chomped moodily. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she said tentatively. “The human element is the part that . . . makes you nervous.”
Burndee gagged on a candied flower. How had this little ninnyhammer suddenly gotten so intuitive? His magic must be more powerful than he had thought. He struggled to clear his throat and lied automatically. “I’m not nervous.”
Ella studied him thoughtfully and twirled a loose curl around her finger. He wished she wouldn’t do that. If she continued looking so cute, he might find it difficult to stay mad at her.
“And you don’t like things that make you nervous,” Ella continued.
Burndee crumpled a napkin into a tiny ball. “I’m not nervous.”
“Weren’t you nervous when you first started baking?”
“Not especially.”
“But didn’t you think things might not turn out exactly as you hoped?”
“Probably not; I rarely think that.”
“With baking you don’t think that,” Ella clarified. “But with humans, you’re afraid that things might not turn out exactly as you intended.”
“I’m not afra—”
“And I think you’re wrong, Burndee. Humans do have recipes, but just like baking, there’s that little surprise in there. Why, the two things are so similar, I would think you should enjoy being a fairy godparent just as much as you enjoy baking.”
Burndee gave her the dirtiest look he possessed and hissed between his teeth, “Cakes don’t psychoanalyze you.”
She paled, looking a little like the scared mice he had caught earlier in his web of magic. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to help,” she said softly. She studied him wistfully. “I don’t like seeing you unhappy.”
Burndee opened and closed his mouth in complete stupefaction as he struggled for words. He was astounded to find that she had been right, surprised that she had noticed in the first place, and unnerved that she would even care. “I’m not unhappy.” His lie came out more gently this time.
Ella looked encouraged by his more mellow tone and almost visibly took her courage in her hands as she
ventured one last comment. “I just feel that you could be as brilliant a godparent as you are a baker. I know it’s harder, but I don’t think that would stop someone like you.” Her mouth quirked self-consciously, and she glanced at herself in a gilded mirror, stepping away from her reflection as if she was ashamed of it as she reached up a hand to tug at her mask again.
“I . . .” Burndee began, trying to gather his anger and dignity as he felt it oozing away from him like melted whipped cream, thawed by Ella’s innocent intentions. “I appreciate your concern,” Burndee said gruffly, surprising himself a little. “I . . . I really do. I’ll think about it.”
Ella turned to smile at him. “I know I’m fortunate to have you as a fairy godparent.”
If she had punched him, she couldn’t have given him a greater shock. Did she really mean it? Would people actually count themselves lucky, blessed, to have him as their fairy godparent? Would his magical abilities—something that was so intrinsically personal—someday be as in demand as his baked goods? Could someone actually one day want . . . him?
“Thank you,” he croaked. “I guess I’m . . . fortunate to have you as a ward.” He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the confounded squeak. “You’re so . . . easy to please.”
He was suddenly aware that people were beginning to watch them again, and no wonder. The greatest and most public ball in the land, and two people were rooted like lawn ornaments in the corner, gawking at food and one another.
“Let’s try that dancing again,” Burndee blurted, taking her plate from her and setting it down on the table, along with his own. “Here.” He waved his hand. “You’ll have about ten minutes of pain-free contact now.” He grabbed her and spun her out onto the floor. “It’s very simple. I’ll show you.”
“No, it’s all right!” Ella said in a rush. “You don’t have to do anything, please! I . . . can waltz.”
Burndee blinked in surprise as Ella glided easily into his arms, her sparkling slippers sliding effortlessly after his own feet as he began leading her towards the center of the room. “You little fibber!” he exclaimed after a moment of hushed appreciation. “I thought you said you didn’t know how to dance.”
“I’m not a fibber!” Ella said indignantly. “I meant I’ve never really danced. I’ve danced with an imaginary partner before, and a broom, but I was only imitating what I had learned by watching Portia dance.”
“Well,” Burndee admitted after a pause. “You’re better than Portia.”
“Thank you,” Ella said humbly.
Burndee suddenly realized that Ella’s eyes were a bright, clear green. He had never noticed it before, and it bothered him that he noticed it now. He had always thought of Ella—and people in general—as possessing neutral, nondescript features, and he didn’t think it was a good idea to actually notice too much about them, especially something so inconsequential as eye color.
He sternly rearranged his thoughts, reminded himself of why he was here, and steered Ella purposefully across the ballroom with renewed vigor.
“What are you doing?” Ella asked, struggling to keep up with his energetic pace.
“I’m going to get you a dance with Prince Colin,” Burndee said determinedly.
Ella shook her head, her earrings tinkling. “Oh, I couldn’t.”
Burndee kept moving her inexorably towards the prince. “Yes, you can.”
Ella blushed. “You won’t make me . . . jig again . . . will you?”
He was stung that she would bring that up when he was still feeling delicate about it. “Of course not.” He bit back any further words with a great effort.
She still looked uncertain.
“Don’t you want to dance with Prince Colin?” Burndee asked in exasperation. “I thought that would be every girl’s wish—the culmination of a perfect evening.” He jerked her around so she could observe Prince Colin over Burndee’s shoulder. “Look at him. He’s tall, handsome, royal, wealthy, and generally good-natured.” He waited expectantly, and when Ella didn’t speak, he prompted, “Don’t you like him?”
Ella gave him a slightly amused look. “I don’t know him.”
“That, my dear, is painfully obvious. That’s why you should dance with him so you can get to know him.”
Ella tilted her head, an unreadable expression on her face. “What did you just call me?”
“Ah . . . uh . . .” He had meant it facetiously but sarcasm, as usual, was lost on Ella. My eye! She thought he had meant it literally! He put his head down and capered rapidly across the room, dragging Ella along with him as he forced his way past the other dancers.
“What if he doesn’t like me?” Ella asked breathlessly as they aimed for the prince like a pair of arrows.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Burndee chuffed, promenading right between a couple that had separated to bow and curtsy to one another. “Pardon us. It’s impossible not to like you, Ella.”
She gave him another curious look. Her face was hard to decipher. It almost looked like an expression of pure delight but his mind automatically chose not to elaborate on the assumption. “It is?” she asked, smiling.
The girl was driving him to distraction. “Yes,” he said wildly. “Now be quiet and follow my lead.”
“I am following your lead.” She looked down at their feet with a frown of intense concentration.
Burndee gritted his teeth and tried every relaxation technique he could recall offhand. None of them worked.
“Your left eye is twitching,” Ella observed.
“I know, I know!”
He bumped headlong into Colin and his partner, nearly sending them flying into a potted plant.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” cried Ella, even though she hadn’t been the one steering.
Prince Colin steadied his partner and then turned to face them. “Hello, Lord Burndee,” he said with a perfectly straight face. “I thought it might be you.” He turned to his partner. “Are you all right, Cynthia?”
“I’m fine.” The prince’s companion, a tall, large-boned woman in a yellow dress that somehow managed to look sensible despite being a ball gown, smoothed her dark-red hair and offered Ella an amused smile. “Don’t worry. Everyone has trouble dancing in the beginning.”
Ella gave a fair imitation of one of the tomatoes in the Hall’s garden at the overt reference to her previous jig. Her was mouth slightly open, her eyes riveted on Cynthia. Burndee tried to nudge her surreptitiously, but his foot couldn’t reach her through her skirt.
Colin turned to his partner. “Allow me to introduce Lady Cynthia de Ghent. We attend college together.” They smiled briefly at one another. “Cynthia and I have several of the same classes.”
Burndee gaped openly, and his heart seemed to squeeze into a hard, uncomfortable lump. He had not planned on Ella coming this close to one of her relatives. He suppressed a growl by clenching his teeth together. Of all the people for Colin to be dancing with! He almost believed the prince had invited Cynthia to the ball on purpose. If necessary, Burndee could always use his magic to keep Cynthia from recognizing Ella.
Ella’s fingers toyed with the string of her mask, as if she were tempted to lift it and reveal herself to her stepsister. She looked questioningly at Burndee, and he shook his head slightly.
Cynthia smiled at Ella. “I wasn’t looking forward to this party very much—I don’t usually attend many of them—but it’s not too bad if you have friends going with you.” She nodded at Colin.
Colin laughed and continued the introductions. “Cynthia, this is Lord Burndee . . . er . . . an old friend of mine.”
“How do you do.” said Cynthia, politely.
Burndee jerked his head in greeting, jiggling nervously from foot to foot.
“And this is . . . ?” Colin coughed pointedly when Burndee failed to introduce Ella.
Cynthia was peering at Ella with an inquiring look. “Forgive me, but—I do know you, don’t I? You remind me so much of—”
“Would you care to dance?�
�� Burndee boomed in Cynthia’s face.
She jumped. “Ah . . . ah . . . yes.” She gave him her hand and was yanked away from the prince as she cast one final glance over her shoulder at Ella.
Burndee gave Colin a grim look, trying to will him into dancing with Ella, but Prince Colin wasn’t one to let grass grow under his feet and he had already engaged her. Ella and Colin began to drift across the dance floor. Burndee relaxed and allowed himself a self-congratulatory smile, trying to ignore the sudden twitch between his rib cage. It had been a long time since he had danced; perhaps he had pulled a muscle.
“Have you known the prince long?” Cynthia asked, breaking the lengthy silence.
“Oh . . . yes,” Burndee said absently, glancing down at her.
“He’s a nice fellow . . . don’t you think?”
“Oh yes. Excellent husband material,” Burndee said firmly.
Cynthia looked startled. “I suppose he is. But only for the right girl.”
“Oh yes, of course. The right girl.” Burndee flicked his eyes past Cynthia’s ear to see Ella listening attentively to the prince. Excellent, excellent . . . The twinge in his stomach suddenly tightened as Ella threw back her head and laughed. He ignored the spasm—it must be a bad hors d’oeuvre that was disturbing him. Burndee grimaced and redirected his eyes to Cynthia.
“Are you all right, Lord Burndee? Forgive me for saying so, but you look a trifle ill.”
“A bad hors d’oeuvre,” Burndee mumbled absently. “Inconsequential.”
Cynthia stopped dancing and put her hands on her hips. “Well, spinning in a circle certainly isn’t going to help you. A cup of hot tea will be just the thing for you. It always does the trick for me.”
She startled him thoroughly by dragging him bodily towards the refreshment table, shoving a cup of hot tea into his hands, and advising him to drink it slowly. Burndee was speechless. The girl certainly had a lot of nerve—and no difficulty taking control of a situation or a person. He was surprised that Ella liked someone who was so incredibly bossy.
The little snip actually had the audacity to thump him on the arm with her fan, causing him to spill hot tea on his fingers. “You’re drinking it far too quickly. It will just make your stomach worse to chug liquid.”