by Allison Tebo
“Burndee, if this is your idea of a joke . . .” Colin said between his teeth.
Burndee ignored Colin and studied Cynthia’s still-extended foot. “This isn’t the glass slipper I made! Her foot is at least three times larger than Ella’s.”
“Thanks a lot,” Cynthia snapped, lowering her skirts self-consciously. “Wait a minute . . . what about Ella?”
“Ella?” de Ghent said in a strangled voice.
“Ella?” Portia yelped.
“Burndee, who the blazes is Ella?” Colin said, trying to keep a smile plastered to his face.
Burndee tumbled in slow motion to the floor, sitting there in a heap as he stared at Colin in astonished fury. “You . . . you dog! You substituted the slipper!”
Colin gave him a long look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, as cool as cream.
“This is a trick! Somehow, you got one of Cynthia’s shoes and had a copy made in the middle of the night.” Burndee yanked the slipper off of Cynthia’s foot.
“My first impression of you was right—you are so rude,” Cynthia huffed, glaring at Burndee.
He examined the slipper feverishly and then cast it down on the couch beside Cynthia. “Here—take your fake slipper! This isn’t the slipper I made. This doesn’t count!”
Colin leaned back on his heels looking infuriatingly superior. “My agreement with Father and Pennythistle was that I would marry the girl whose foot fit the glass slipper that I found last night.” He nodded to the shoe beside Cynthia. “I found that shoe last night.”
“In some shop, I wager,” Burndee scoffed.
“My father didn’t ask for any particulars,” Colin said tranquilly. “I told you, he was in a hurry.”
“You planned this!” Burndee shouted. “You were the one that had Cynthia brought here! You got one of your minions to send her a mysterious summons.” His eyes narrowed. “You wanted to have out your little scheme on neutral ground, didn’t you? So no one at the palace could interfere!”
Colin ignored Burndee and grinned shyly at Cynthia. “How do you feel about lots of children, Thia?”
Cynthia smiled back at him. “I’ve always wanted lots of little upset tummies to doctor.” She cast a pointed glance at Burndee, who gargled furiously.
Countess de Ghent was beaming. “Oh, sweetheart! I’m so happy for you.” She kicked Portia, who made a half-hearted effort to act fractionally less sulky. “How nice to have you closer to home now! And of course, it will be so wonderful to have His Highness,”—she tittered—“my son-in-law, nearby!”
Cynthia looked chagrined, and Colin stooped to give her a congratulatory kiss on the cheek, whispering in her ear in a voice that only she and Burndee could hear, “Don’t worry. I’ve asked Father to give us an estate on the other side of the country as a wedding present.”
“Colin!” Burndee spluttered. “Get a grip on yourself, boy! You’ve actually fallen for this . . . this gold digger?”
Colin spun around, fixing a cold eye on Burndee. “Careful what you say, Burndee. I don’t care who you are—if you insult Cynthia again, I’ll rip your nose off.”
“Who is this man?” de Ghent said shrilly. “I will not permit a servant to call my daughter such vile names.”
“If you do it again, I’ll punch you myself,” Cynthia said, eyeing Burndee as if she wished she had her surgical needle handy.
Colin turned his back on Burndee and faced Cynthia again. “Let me do this properly.” He went down on one knee and took the signet ring off his little finger. “Cynthia de Ghent, will you be my wife?”
“Yes,” Cynthia laughed, obviously finding the whole scenario amusing but quite satisfactory.
Colin slipped the ring onto her finger. “It’s too big.”
“Of course it is. I’m a large girl, but I’m not that big, Colin.” She glared at Burndee again.
“You’re not large at all,” Colin objected. “You’re perfect.”
“Try the middle finger,” Cynthia advised with a smile.
De Ghent hovered over them, watching the signet ring slide onto her daughter’s hand with an avaricious glint in her eyes. “What fun we’ll have planning the wedding, Cynthia! The deepest wish of my heart fulfilled! To see my eldest child married to a good man.”
“Now, everybody just hold it!” Burndee shouted. “This is not going according to plan—you people are not cooperating. I’ve had it; I’m taking over!”
De Ghent gaped first at him, then at Colin, who watched Burndee with a wary look but stayed quiet. “Your Highness, aren’t you going to remove this . . . this servant that dares to speak to us in this way?”
“Shut up,” Burndee snapped.
De Ghent gasped, and then she stared at Burndee with an expression that made her look remarkably like a fish that had been pulled out of its natural habitat.
“Let’s get this wagon going the right way again.” Burndee took a calming breath and turned to Colin. “Your Highness . . . you remember the lovely young girl you danced with last night?”
Colin hesitated.
“This isn’t a trick question,” Burndee said witheringly. “I’ll repeat this one more time. You remember the wonderful, beautiful girl you danced with last night, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Colin met Cynthia’s eyes and they smiled at one another.
“Not her!” Burndee bellowed. “Ella, the girl with the glass slippers and the blue-and-silver dress with the net overlay and the puff sleeves and the diamond—”
“Oh . . . her.”
“Yes, her.” Burndee sneered.
“Your Highness,” de Ghent broke in, agitated. “Perhaps you and your future bride would like to have a moment alone—”
Colin ignored her. He was too focused on Burndee—giving him a look that was both aloof and suspicious. “Yes, I remember her; get on with it.”
Burndee raised his voice to drown out de Ghent’s stammering explanations. “Well, that girl is actually the stepdaughter of Countess de Ghent. She’s nobility by birth, but once her father, Earl William Rosedale, died, that”—Burndee thrust a finger in de Ghent’s direction, unable to bring himself to even say the woman’s name—“that thing in the corner turned Ella into a slave. She’s abused Ella for years, even though she’s part of this so-called family. Not only would she not allow Ella to attend the ball, when she found out Ella was the mystery girl with the slipper, de Ghent locked her in the attic, where Ella is still wasting away at this very moment.”
“Mother!” Cynthia leaped to her feet and headed towards the door. “How could you?”
“Stop!” Burndee exclaimed, barring her path. “You can’t rescue her; that’s Colin’s job.”
Colin frowned—but this time at de Ghent. “Is all this true?”
“Yes!” Burndee yelled just as de Ghent shouted, “No!”
“Mother?” Cynthia demanded, her hands on her hips. “What have you been doing to Ella?”
De Ghent was trembling with rage as she ignored her daughter and turned to Colin. “Your Highness, I must protest at how you are allowing this idiotic servant to malign me in this manner. He is obviously insane, and I insist that you make him leave this room immediately.”
“Countess,” Colin said calmly, “I know exactly how you feel. There are times when I have suspected that Burndee is both idiotic and insane, and I have often wanted him to leave the room. However, neither you nor I can order him about, since he is not really a servant but a fairy, as well as my godfather. So unless we all want to be turned into toads, I suggest all of you stay where you are and remain as civil as possible.”
“What?” De Ghent went white.
“Toads?” Portia squawked, obviously missing the most important bits of the conversation.
“A fairy godfather?” Cynthia gazed at Burndee in surprise.
“Yes,” said Colin, answering everyone at once.
The herald was trying to edge out of the room, and Burndee took real pleasure in exercising the new res
pect that had suddenly been directed towards him by pinning the man with a single look. The herald made a fluttering motion in the direction of his heart and remained plastered against the wall.
“Now,” said Burndee, feeling some of his good humor returning, “I will make the demands. Prince Colin, you will toss this woman and that one”—he pointed at Countess de Ghent, then Portia—“into prison. You’ll forget all about her”—he pointed at Cynthia—“and you will rush up those stairs, rescue the woman you love, reinstate her as Lady of Rose Hall, and then marry her and give her lots of little—”
“No,” said Colin, calmly.
Burndee goggled at the prince and it was several moments before he could form coherent words. “What? What did you say to me?”
“I’m not going to toss anyone into prison until I’m quite clear about what’s going on.” Colin folded his arms. “Furthermore, I simply can’t go barging around accusing people and searching their attics.”
“Why not?” Burndee snarled. “You’re a prince; you can do whatever you want. If I was in your position and I couldn’t search someone’s house whenever I pleased . . . I’d quit!”
Colin smiled a little. “I can’t quit my job whenever I want, Burndee—just like you can’t quit yours.”
That was a slap. Burndee folded his arms, imitating Colin’s pose, and fumed silently.
“As I was saying,” Colin continued, “not only will I not do anything rash, but most importantly, I am not in love with this Ella girl you keep talking about.”
Burndee felt something like despair and relief crash over him in a wave so intense he took a step backwards. “You’re . . . not?”
“You’ve been standing here the whole time, Burndee! I just proposed marriage to Cynthia. Weren’t you listening?”
Burndee heard himself begin to babble. “Merely misplaced affection—”
“I know exactly where I’m placing it,” Colin said firmly. “I’m in love with Cynthia. Like a fool, I didn’t realize it until my father pushed me towards marriage. We’ve known each for four years. Cynthia has been the truest friend I could ever have, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”
Cynthia made a slightly suppressed motion of joy and Colin turned to her, reaching out a hand to take hers. “This is the woman I’m going to marry,” he said proudly.
“Let go of her hand,” Burndee ordered, panicked. “You can’t go around holding any old girl’s hand, Colin. You’re going to marry Ella.”
“No, I’m not,” Colin said calmly.
Burndee resisted the urge to start kicking and throwing things and instead clutched Colin by the shoulders, his voice sounding dangerously close to petulance. “But I put you two together!”
Colin burst out laughing. “So?”
Being laughed at in a moment like this was more than Burndee could stand. Burndee hauled back and punched Colin in the face, sending him tumbling into the settee so hard it knocked a squalling Portia to the floor.
“Colin!” Cynthia gasped, rushing to his side.
“Mother!” bawled Portia.
Colin spoke to the ceiling in a voice that was disappointingly cheerful. “You must be head over heels if you’d resort to doing something so pathetically human as punching someone. You could have turned me into a frog, Burndee. Oh wait, I forgot. You can’t! You’re angry!” He burst into another round of delighted laughter.
“Someone do something!” de Ghent begged. She looked at the herald but he was busy trying to get as far away from Burndee as possible.
“I am done being your fairy godfather,” Burndee stormed at Colin. “Ella is far more docile than you. From now on, I’ll focus on making her happy.”
Colin sat up, holding his jaw and grinning in a way that enraged Burndee. “Why don’t you? If Ella really is up in the attic and you’re so anxious for her to be rescued—why don’t you go and do it yourself? You’re a fairy godfather; you don’t have to worry about offending anyone—you can do anything you please. And even if you couldn’t, you’d do it anyway.”
Burndee took a deep breath, trying desperately to concoct a scathing and dramatic rejoinder, but his agile tongue felt deadened and his mind utterly blank . . . save for the consuming thought that Ella was still sitting up there in the attic, alone.
“Everybody stay where you are!” Burndee shouted as he charged towards the door then stopped, reeling back around. “Wait a minute. Hand over the real slipper, Colin, or I’ll really let you have it.”
Colin took one look at Burndee’s face, seemed to realize he meant it, and dug stoically in the leather satchel at his hip, handing Burndee the small wooden box he had shown him back at the palace.
Burndee checked inside to make sure it was still there, saw the reassuring glitter, and snapped the box closed. He gave Colin a cold look, his lip curling. “Trickster.”
“Not any more than you,” Colin said indignantly.
Burndee headed for the door again, cramming the box under his arm. “You’re not good enough for Ella! Nobody’s good enough for her!”
Some of his control was coming back, and he flicked his fingers over his shoulder, turning a teapot that de Ghent had just picked up into an anvil—just to encourage everyone to stay put.
De Ghent certainly would. The ensuing crash and shriek behind him suggested that she might have dropped the anvil on her toes.
Burndee charged up the three flights of stairs, never pausing for breath until he was outside the attic door. Summoning all his strength, he ran into it full tilt.
The door gave in with a crash and a thousand splinters as he exploded into the room. The box with the slipper fell to the floor with a bang. His entrance could not have been any more impressive—though perhaps less ignominious—if he had summoned up smoke and lightning.
Burndee picked himself up off the floor, massaging his stomach where it had made contact with the doorknob then shaking bits of wood from his clothes with an impatient brush of his hand. Ella was standing against the far wall. Actually, she was sliding down it, looking as if she were about to faint.
“Ella! Are you all right?” he demanded, racing to her and fanning her with the edge of his cloak. “Are you suffocating up here?”
“No, Burndee. You scared me,” she sighed. “Why didn’t you just come through the wall like last time?”
“But you said that scared you!”
Ella sighed and put a shaking hand to her forehead, pressing her temples. “What are you doing here, anyway?” Her tone sounded a touch reproachful—even downright hostile—and it did not sweeten Burndee’s temper any, since he knew he deserved it.
“I’m here to rescue you,” he said bad-temperedly.
Her hand dropped to cover her eyes, and she continued massaging her forehead. Burndee observed her apprehensively and saw that her shoulders were shaking—whether from tears or laughter, he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was both.
“Ella.” Burndee crouched beside her and softened his voice, dreading the effect his news would bring. “I’m sorry, but . . . Prince Colin . . . has decided to marry Cynthia.”
She looked up in surprise. “Really? Why, that means he’ll be my brother-in-law!”
Burndee stared at her, stunned. “You mean . . . you’re not disappointed?”
She tilted her head quizzically. “Of course not. Why should I be?”
Burndee wasn’t sure whether to pound his fists on the floor in frustration or dance a jig around the attic. “Because . . . I put you two together. I was trying to matchmake you.” He ducked his head, his voice soft with embarrassment. “I wanted to make the two of you happy.”
Ella shook her head and gave a tired smile as she reached over and thoroughly electrified him by running her fingers through his hair to brush splinters out of it. “Ouch! Burndee, you can’t make people happy; no one can do that. Fairy godparents aren’t required to make their wards happy; they’re just supposed to help them.”
“But, I thought that was what you wanted,�
�� Burndee murmured sheepishly. “I was going to give you the greatest happy ending I could contrive.”
“You did give me what I wanted. I wanted to go to the ball and have a lovely time. And it was lovely . . . until the last bit.”
“That sounds like all my magic spells,” Burndee said bitterly, sitting on the floor beside her.
Ella poked him in the knee but stopped when it shocked her. “Don’t feel sorry for yourself. That’s one thing I can’t stand.”
“I know.” Burndee looked up at her, and for the first time in his recollection, he finally forgot about himself as he thought only about Ella. Wonder washed over him as he thought back over the years he had known her. He couldn’t remember one time when she had complained. “You’re an amazing woman, Ella.”
Ella gazed at him, tears suddenly spilling down her cheeks, and she jumped up, walking towards the door.
Burndee scrambled to catch her, standing in the doorway to block her exit. “Wait, Ella, wait.”
She stopped, but she turned her head away, which was discouraging. A small sound between a sob and a hiccup escaped her, and Burndee wasn’t sure whether it was the cutest or the most pathetic sound he had ever heard. Either way, it moved him to action.
He dropped heavily on one knee before her and gave a roar of pain. Her head snapped back towards him. It wasn’t how he had planned to get her attention, but it had produced the desired result.
“Are you all right?” she asked, concerned.
“Just a splinter,” he said impatiently. He took a moment to collect his thoughts as he looked up at her entreatingly. “What is it that you really want, Ella?”
She looked back at him. Her eyes were wet, though her voice was quite steady. “If you don’t know the answer to that question, Burndee, you are not only a bad fairy godparent, but you are not my friend.”
They looked at one another, and Burndee felt his heart hammering against his ribs. She knew that he knew the answer—he was simply afraid to say it.
“What you want . . .” His voice wobbled, and for a moment he wanted to run as Ella had at the ball. But when he looked into her eyes and recalled her years of resolving to love despite all obstacles—he knew he could do no less. “What you want,” he said softly, “is to be loved. Really and truly, unconditionally loved.”