The Reluctant Godfather

by Allison Tebo

  “I see,” Burndee said slowly, struggling to get his brain functioning. “Uh . . . let me see what I can—”

  “Oh, I don’t need your help. I’ve already come up with a brilliant idea.”

  Burndee felt a cold plunging feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if someone had just ripped away the last vestige of something he had been instinctively clinging to. “You . . . you have? You mean . . . by yourself?”

  “Believe or not,” Colin said agreeably, too distracted to summon up any of his usual sarcasm as he rattled on. “I jumped all over Father this morning, saying he had “sort of” promised and if he didn’t keep his promise, I’d abdicate or join the Navy, blah, blah, blah. The whole time I was talking to him, Pennythistle was twittering in his ear. Between the two of us, Father finally lost his temper. He always makes his quickest decisions when he’s in a bad temper. I chose that auspicious moment to strike a deal, telling them that I will marry within two weeks”—he brandished the slipper with a grin—“provided that it be to the owner of this slipper.”

  “They . . . agreed to that?” It sounded like the most cockamamie way of planning a marriage that Burndee had ever heard. Signed contracts between monarchs made much more sense.

  Colin shrugged. “Father’s desperate. He’s stepping down from the crown in less than a year, and he wants a grandchild in time for his retirement.” He shrugged and flushed a light red. “Nothing like a little pressure.”

  “Well,” Burndee said weakly, “it worked. What about Pennythistle?”

  “Oh, he yelped a little bit, but there was Father, already signing a document and slamming his signet ring into the wax. The old troublemaker finally contented himself by noting that the slipper must belong to someone royal, because no common girl would wear a slipper like that.” Colin looked at Burndee and winked broadly before turning to gaze out the window with the distant, wistful expression again. “If all goes well, this whole thing will be settled by nightfall.”

  “So you . . .” Burndee put the scone he’d been holding for the last several minutes back down on the tea tray and began arranging the other scones in a pleasing pattern. “You . . . do like her?”

  Colin smiled briefly. “Of course, I do. I’d be crazy to do this, otherwise.”

  Burndee felt a surge of relief. More than relief—he felt as if a death sentence that had been put on his head had suddenly been revoked. His plan was still on track; he could salvage this whole situation. He could still cover himself in enough glory to appease the Fairy Council and make restitution to Ella for the way he had ruined her evening. He would apologize . . . and then give her the happy ending she deserved. Everything would still work out perfectly.

  Colin peered at Burndee with a quirked brow. “Why do you look so glum?”

  “Born that way,” Burndee mumbled.

  Colin stared at him. “Did you just make a joke? And a self-disparaging one at that! Are you sick?”

  Burndee sighed. “Bad hors d’oeuvre.”

  Colin’s tone was sarcastic. “Don’t tell me it was something you cooked up that disagreed with you.”

  Burndee took the slipper from Colin and turned it over in his hands, his thoughts wandering to its owner. “Perhaps it was.”

  7

  C olin had not been too pleased with the idea, but he had reluctantly agreed to let Burndee accompany him, disguised as a manservant. Colin couldn’t really fight a fairy that had the ability to send his future happiness up in smoke.

  Burndee stared moodily out the carriage window as Colin fidgeted with excitement across from him. The prince had been swift enough to guess that Ella’s presence at the ball and her stupendous one-of-a-kind ensemble had been Burndee’s doing, but he probably had no idea how Burndee had complicated things. Yet it didn’t seem to matter what Burndee did—for good or bad. Once again, Colin had compensated for Burndee’s mistake and come up with a solution all by himself.

  Colin didn’t really need any assistance. He seemed to have things so well sorted, he could probably give Ella all the help she needed. This whole catastrophe was just one more prime example in his mind of why humans didn’t need fairy godparents. When push came to shove, humans could work things out for themselves. Fairy godparents just seemed to create more hurt than they warranted. They didn’t need Burndee.

  Nevertheless, here he was, slumped in the carriage with an exuberant Colin and a prim-looking herald as they drove towards de Ghent Hall. Colin had apparently wasted no time in gathering intelligence and had discovered where the girl of his dreams lived. Burndee sighed. Colin had done everything for him. All that remained for Burndee now was to merely supervise and make sure everything worked out to Colin’s and Ella’s satisfaction. But with the surprisingly enterprising Colin on the scene, it seemed doubtful that Burndee would have to raise a finger, which was probably a good thing since he had no idea whether or not he had the ability to perform magic when he was depressed. He had never been depressed before.

  “Let me reconnoiter a minute,” Burndee murmured, as the carriage pulled up in front of de Ghent Hall and he descended to the gravel driveway with a thud.

  “Reconnoiter?” Colin asked, jumping out of the carriage, motioning for his herald to remain inside, and slamming the door in the man’s face. “What the blazes for?” Colin eyed the main doors and began pulling off his gloves one finger at a time, as if preparing for a brawl. “I’m ready now,” he said recklessly. “Hmm . . . this place is a bit of a dump, isn’t it? At least I can take her away from all this.”

  Burndee felt a slight warming of his heart—warmth that ached at the same time. “Good for you. But let me just make sure she’s at home first.”

  “Why wouldn’t she be at home?” Colin asked, puzzled.

  “Just wait!” Burndee barked.

  “All right, all right,” Colin grumbled, sitting on the carriage steps. “But hurry up about it.”

  Burndee waved a hand and turned himself invisible.

  “Great crumpets! I’ve never seen you do that before! You’ll have to show me again sometime.”

  Burndee made a rude sound that he knew Colin could hear quite clearly and snapped his fingers, transporting himself directly into the Hall.

  He was immediately assaulted by the caterwauling of female voices from the parlor.

  “How could you not tell me that the estate was in this condition, Mother? I would have quit college or gotten a job to help you—”

  “I didn’t want you to worry yourself, Cynthia dear. It was important that you find a rich hus—I mean, concentrate on your studies.”

  “—it’s disgraceful.”

  Burndee nodded his head approvingly. Good old Cynthia. She wasn’t such a bad egg after all.

  “You have no idea how difficult it is trying to maintain . . . You should have never have come here . . . Why . . . ?”

  “An old messenger told me I had been summoned to my home . . . emergency . . . I can see what he meant. Which brings me to Ella . . . All her letters say how much she works, but the place is still falling apart . . . what kind of state is she in?”

  Terrible, Burndee wanted to yell, but some piece of selfish pride held him back. He wanted to fix this for Ella. After all, she was his responsibility.

  “Why won’t you let me see her?”

  “I forbid you to go up those stairs! You’ll catch ill, and then you won’t be able—”

  “Mother, I’m a doctor—or very nearly one. I know to be careful . . . I want to see her; I’ve missed her . . .”

  Burndee realized he had too. It had only been one night, but . . . he missed Ella.

  He walked swiftly towards the kitchen but found some grim-looking peasant type mixing up a leaden batch of bread that was definitely not Ella’s. He found himself growing anxious. He had never known Ella to be replaced in the kitchen unless she was sick or hurt in some way.

  Burndee flew around the remainder of the Hall, thinking he would stumble across Ella in the middle of her chores, but he cou
ldn’t find her anywhere, and he grew more and more alarmed at her absence.

  He found himself in the main entrance hall again when he was startled out of his distracted wits by the front bell’s wild clanging. Colin had obviously decided to take matters into his own hands, whether Burndee was ready for him or not. Burndee gritted his teeth and frantically tried not to get mad, lest his invisibility spell waver.

  There was a brief silence in the parlor, followed by a pig-like squeal. Portia had apparently looked out the window and spotted the royal carriage. The door to the parlor flew open. Cynthia remained seated, looking mad enough to stab someone with a scalpel, but Countess de Ghent and Portia exploded out of the room like corks from a pair of bottles, stampeding in a less-than-ladylike fashion past Burndee into the foyer. Burndee had no idea that de Ghent could move like that, and he longed to speed her progress by following her to the door and kicking her down the front steps. He thought the better of it and raced past them up the stairs and straight for the attic.

  He tried every door and found what he thought might be Ella’s room—a grim little closet with a wrought iron bed—but it was empty. The only other door he had not opened was locked, and no sound came from within.

  Burndee waved a hand and rematerialized, fully visible, on the other side of the door.

  He was in a large attic stuffed with everything from chairs to holiday decorations . . . and a very forlorn Ella.

  She gave a little shriek of surprise, looked again, and then laughed for joy. “Burndee!” She launched herself into his arms and threw her arms around his neck. “Ow! I knew you’d come! I knew it!”

  A fairy godfather couldn’t wish for a more gratifying reaction to his appearance, but as strangely enjoyable as her affectionate greeting was, he now knew that he didn’t deserve a particle of it.

  Burndee held her close, his pulse hammering and nearly choking him with a surge of indignation. “They locked you in!”

  “I told you, she recognized me last night,” Ella said softly into his waistcoat, obviously holding back a cringe of pain.

  “Ella . . .” He choked a little over the unfamiliar words that crouched on the tip of his tongue. “I’m . . . sorry about last night. I was selfish and rude and . . . altogether abominable. But I’ll make it up to you, I promise. There’ll be a good ending to this mess yet.”

  Ella made a happy sound and hugged him tighter. “Ouch! I knew you’d forgive me.”

  “There was nothing to forgive you for,” Burndee murmured.

  “I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me and that you’d come to help me.” Ella tilted her head back and smiled at him. “You always show up when I need you most.”

  “Now, now, now,” Burndee coughed, disengaging her hands from around his neck. “Save all that for the prince.”

  Ella looked perplexed. “The who?”

  Burndee pushed her gently to arm’s length and let go of her hands, forcing some sprightliness into his voice. “The prince of your dreams that’s going to come rescue you.”

  Ella frowned. “But I thought you were rescuing me.”

  Odds fish, this wouldn’t do at all. “No, no, no—not me. Now . . .” He forced himself to imitate her customary cheerful tones. “You just sit tight, and something wonderful will happen; I guarantee it.”

  “But—” Ella began.

  “Won’t take long.” Without stopping to pause or think—it felt as natural as breathing—Burndee leaned down and kissed her gently on the top of her head.

  “Ouch!” Ella wailed. “My head—ugh, my head!” She clutched her forehead and grimaced.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh! I know what I’ll do for your birthday this year! I’ll give you some of my magic. That way you won’t get shocked when I touch or kiss you.” He felt himself blushing furiously, a curious and utterly foreign sensation. “Not that—that will happen often.” He backed up to the door, trying to walk backwards through it, but he was so flustered he had forgotten which spell to summon.

  “Er . . . um . . . please don’t cry.” Burndee gathered his thoughts hastily and waved a hand, vanishing through the door and reappearing in the hall. He blinked at the locked door a moment, feeling like an uncommon fool.

  Giving himself a mental shake, he focused his thoughts and rematerialized outside the open parlor door. He stepped casually into the room to find the prince sitting down to tea with Countess de Ghent and her two daughters. Colin’s herald had stationed himself by the door and he jumped like a startled cat at Burndee’s sudden appearance. Burndee strode past him and threw himself onto a slick, overstuffed chair, bracing his feet to keep from sliding to the floor.

  De Ghent froze in mid-motion of pouring tea and consequently spilled it all over the floor. “What is this man doing here? Who is he? How dare you walk into my parlor and make yourself comfortable!”

  “He’s my . . . er, assistant.” Colin took a nervous sip of tea.

  Burndee nodded stoically in confirmation.

  “Oh . . . I, uh . . .” Countess de Ghent gulped. “I see.” She gave Burndee a cool frown, and he gave her one in kind. He fought the itching desire to seize her by the neck and throw her through the window. Locking Ella in the attic, pretending she didn’t exist . . . His jaw ached from clenched his teeth and he mentally went over his spell for turning people into frogs, even though he knew it by heart.

  Cynthia, whose mouth had been too full of scone to comment previously, swallowed her prodigious mouthful and gawked at Burndee. “What are you doing here? I thought you were Lord—”

  Burndee frowned terribly at her and raised his eyebrows.

  Cynthia didn’t appear to be cowed, but she did shut up, though not before turning to Colin in silent question. He shrugged and raised his eyes to the ceiling in a martyred expression. Her mouth quirked, and she shrugged back at him.

  Burndee cleared his throat—loudly. He didn’t want Colin wasting even amused glances on any girl but Ella.

  “Forgive me, Countess”—Colin placed his tea cup on a low table—“but I really must move on to the business that brought me here. I have a very busy day planned.” He appeared to be positively sick with anticipation and excitement.

  Burndee frowned. Why hadn’t the royal dunderhead asked where Ella was?

  “Of course, Your Highness,” de Ghent enthused. “You must forgive us for wanting to keep you all to ourselves.”

  Burndee rolled his eyes and blew out his breath. He had never been much for subtlety himself, but this was revolting.

  Colin motioned for the herald. The herald bowed and stepped forward with a small leather case. He opened it and removed the glass slipper. He knelt before Portia, and the girl eagerly thrust out her leg.

  Why didn’t Colin just demand to know where Ella was? Why waste time on these two ninnies? Burndee considered intervening, but he was a little leery of meddling after a night of having all his plans backfire. Perhaps Colin just meant to humiliate the de Ghent family a little before revealing his true intentions. Burndee could go along with that.

  Everyone watched as Portia slipped the shoe onto her foot. Everyone except Burndee, who amused himself by playing with his new watch, letting the sunlight from the window catch its reflection and then directing the beam into de Ghent’s left eye. She shook her head, blinded, and glowered at him. He smiled sweetly and directed the beam at her nose, wondering if he could make her go cross-eyed.

  De Ghent stood up and stalked over to stand behind Portia, casting a threatening glance in Burndee’s direction before rapping Cynthia sharply on the shoulder. Cynthia, who seemed to be trying to send Colin silent messages and growing more and more disgruntled when he refused to look at her, frowned at her mother and slouched in her chair.

  “It fits!” Portia crowed, quickly casting her skirts down over her feet as she stood up.

  “Let’s see her walk in it,” Burndee suggested pointedly, as he opened and closed his watch face over and over, deliberately making an irritatin
g clicking sound.

  Portia tossed her head at his challenge and took several strides, immediately tripping and flying headfirst towards Burndee, who leaped out of the way to avoid physical contact. She knocked into his chair, gripping at the slippery fabric, but found herself dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.

  “I don’t think it fits!” Colin said loudly and not very diplomatically.

  For a moment, Burndee thought Portia might burst into tears, and he steeled himself for the unpleasant sight.

  “Let your sister try, darling,” de Ghent said, giving Portia a warning frown—clearly radiating disappointment, as well as greedy anticipation, as she turned her attention to her other daughter.

  The herald hauled Portia to her feet. Portia removed the too-small slipper with a petulant expression, and her hand twitched as if she were about to throw the slipper at the fireplace in a temperamental fit. Colin dove forward to snatch it from her and then turned to Cynthia. “May I?” he asked.

  Everyone in the room, including Burndee, started and watched in astonishment as the Crown Prince of Ambia motioned the herald aside and knelt before Cynthia, placing the slipper on her foot with his own hands.

  “It fits!” Colin exploded jubilantly, jumping to his feet and then immediately kneeling again. “Lady Cynthia de Ghent, will you—”

  “Stop!” Burndee shouted, tearing across the room and throwing himself at Cynthia’s feet beside Colin.

  Cynthia gaped at him, speechless. De Ghent gasped, stunned that a servant would dare to compete with the prince’s proposal.