by Allison Tebo
“It’s difficult to make Radorrian cream puffs in Ambian ovens,” he answered evasively. “I tried to tell Windslow that, but no. He must have Radorria’s national dessert for his precious princess.”
“You mean Horace’s precious princess,” Colin smirked.
Again, Burndee felt a faint stirring of pity for the unfortunate Horace, who had been trapped without any consultation in an arranged marriage, but he dismissed the inclination instantly. If anyone were ever made to be pushed around like an inanimate object, that person would be Duke Horace Windslow—the most apathetic, slow-minded creature Burndee had met in years. Even Ella’s dim-witted stepsister, Portia, had enough personality to throw tantrums. Horace Windslow reminded Burndee of a flavorless and undercooked pudding sitting forgotten on a sill and destined to be thrown to pigs at any given moment. It was regrettable that this sorry person was Colin’s second cousin and now some kind of vaguely distant relative to Burndee himself, though he tried to cram that mental skeleton into the blackest recesses of his mind. He comforted himself with the knowledge that he and Ella were only related to Colin and his insipid cousin by marriage; there was no shared blood between Horace and himself.
Though he knew Horace, Burndee knew nothing about the girl who would be arriving today as the human sacrifice to peace and goodwill between the dukedom of Windslow and the tiny country of Radorria. His stepsister-in-law and Colin’s wife, Princess Cynthia, had informed him over tea last week that she had seen the introductory letter that had been sent to Horace’s family several months ago.
“It’s rather odd that the letter hardly mentioned any details about Penelope’s personality.”
“Perhaps there’s not much that deserves mentioning,” Burndee had suggested. “Like Horace.”
Cynthia had eyed him sternly. “And no mention of her interests.”
“Perhaps she has none,” Burndee ventured. “Like Horace.”
“And no personal letter from her to Horace, which is unusual,” Cynthia continued.
“Perhaps she can’t write.” Burndee had started to warm to his absurd criticisms and chortled. “Like Horace.”
Cynthia sailed on, trying to ignore him. “And there’s no portrait of her—which really is unusual.”
“She’s a ghost, a nonentity. Like—”
“Don’t say it, Burndee. I wish Ella had come for tea instead of you.”
Burndee had shot her an icy look and said gloomily, “She has a cold. I don’t care about giving you two the plague, but she does.”
Cynthia rolled her eyes, and Colin, who had until then been more concerned with a plate of cream tarts than gossip, managed to say around a mouthful, “The reason there’s no portrait is because the country probably couldn’t afford it.”
Hence the marriage, Burndee thought as he now turned to gaze up at Windslake Hall, squat and ostentatious—like its owner. Everyone knew Radorria was practically hanging on to its existence by its fingernails and that Windslow was an ambitious Ambian nobleman unashamedly striving for the social elite. A wealthy alliance would be beneficial to both parties.
But it will do nothing for my constitution, Burndee thought wearily as the watch Colin was still spinning suddenly flew free of his finger and sailed towards an ornamental hedge.
“Oops,” Colin said with an indulgent laugh as he strolled over and plucked the watch from the bushes.
“Where’s Cynthia?” Burndee asked, wishing Colin had some way to occupy himself—and what better way to keep his two in-laws occupied than to have them be preoccupied with each other?
Colin laughed at him. “You lump, she and Ella are coming here together later, remember?”
Burndee was embarrassed; he had just blurted the first question in his head without thinking. Ella had told him last night that she was going to collect Cynthia after she was finished at Thornwild. But it wouldn’t do to admit to Colin that he was so distracted. He opened his mouth to give an acidic reply, but Colin’s face had gone into a dreamy reverie at the mention of his wife.
“I asked Cynthia to rest this morning and avoid too much excitement.” Colin grinned, a luminescent expression that looked as if it would split his face in half. “The baby will be here in the next month or so.”
“That’s . . . nice.” Burndee said politely.
Colin laughed at his tone and shook his head with a tolerant expression before changing the subject. “So, what do you say, Burndee? What should we do to liven this ceremony up?”
Burndee had to admit that the idea was tempting, but he gave Colin a stern stare to indicate his disapproval of the idea. This day didn’t need any more complications than it already had.
“Your Highness!” a voice burbled, and Burndee and Colin turned to watch as Sir Richard Windslow finally billowed down the front steps of the Hall to meet them, his arms flung wide as if he wanted to hug the world, while his son, Horace, trailed behind him like a pale shadow, edging down one step at a time after his father.
The elder Windslow launched himself towards Colin, who, to his credit, stood his ground as the nobleman doubled over in a bow and kissed Colin’s hand. Burndee wrinkled his nose.
“I am truly honored by your presence, Your Highness!” Windslow declared, fairly bursting with ingratiating goodwill.
“Of course, Sir Richard,” Colin said politely. “Not only is it our royal duty and pleasure”—That was a lie, Burndee thought—“Horace is, after all, my cousin.” Colin’s smile was perfectly set and straight.
“Poor blighter,” Burndee murmured.
Colin shot him a look, but since he obviously couldn’t be sure whether Burndee was referencing Horace or himself, he didn’t comment and Burndee didn’t bother to elaborate. In his opinion, the comment could suit both assumptions.
“Ah yes, cousins . . .” Windslow beamed, and he looked like a miser counting his life’s savings; although, in this case, Burndee knew Windslow was counting how many heirs were between Horace and the throne. Horace was Colin’s second cousin, and the third in line to the throne. But those chances would dwindle once Colin and Cynthia’s child was born, an event greatly anticipated by most of Ambia’s people . . . though not all of them. Gossip indicated that Windslow had been one of several who had hoped and predicted that Colin would never marry. But then, turning expectations—and the kingdom—on its head had always been Colin’s specialty. Windslow and his ilk had been vastly disappointed when Colin married a college friend. Colin’s now-pregnant wife—and his own acceptance of his future responsibilities—ensured an heir to the throne for years to come. The fact that Cynthia was considerably less connected than the Windslows added insult to injury. Colin and Cynthia were either blissfully unaware of the uproar they had caused, didn’t care, or—more than likely—reveled in the fuss.
Windslow had no chance at the throne himself, since he was only related to the royal family by marriage, and possessed a mere courtesy title. It was Horace who was descended from the royal line and carried the title of duke, and it was on him that Windslow had pinned all his hopes.
Burndee couldn’t care less about all of Windslow’s political maneuvering. The one concern he did share with Windslow was the upcoming birth of a royal prince or princess. He dearly hoped he wouldn’t be named godfather to a miniature version of Colin and Cynthia. The thought was enough to make him want to leap out a window.
Windslow clasped his hands and leaned towards Colin. “Your presence is nearly all I could ask for my beloved son’s wedding, Your Highness. If only our king, your royal father, could have attended as well.”
Colin made a sympathetic noise and tilted his head in grave agreement, but Burndee bit the inside of his mouth to hold back a smirk. The official reason for King Alfred not attending the wedding was because he was occupied elsewhere—determinedly courting Duchess Ranilla Blackmoor. Unofficially, Windslow wasn’t important enough to have the king show up for his son’s wedding. He was lucky that Colin was there. Like everything else at this wedding, Windslow was
getting the cut-rate edition.
“And Lord Burndee!” Windslow dove into Burndee’s personal space like an aggressive fly, causing Burndee to jerk away instinctively. “I’m so glad to have you with us!”
Burndee resisted the urge to wipe his face. Sir Richard was, regrettably, one of a breed of people that tried to make up for lack of importance with volume, and he seemed to splutter a great deal in the process.
“A beautiful day for a wedding, isn’t it?” Windslow asked with a smile so saccharine it made Burndee’s teeth ache. Windslow turned to Colin. “And, like you, Your Highness—Horace will soon be a happily wedded man . . . to a royal princess.” Windslow’s slight emphasis indicated, in a not-so-subtle way, his opinion of Cynthia.
Colin’s mouth tightened into a hard line.
“A fine and fitting match for Horace,” Windslow chattered on. “And Horace . . . Horace! Step up, son!”
Horace, who had been standing a few feet away and looking lost, drifted up like a dandelion puff that had been separated without warning from its stalk. He looked like a dandelion puff, with a great deal of softness and no substance. His pasty face looked as if it had been plopped on top of a voluminous and exceedingly white silk-and-lace jacket. Beneath the jacket were shiny, cream-colored trousers, cream-colored boots with white stitching, and dazzling diamond buckles. Burndee could barely take his eyes off those doorknob-sized shoe buckles, but he was forced to, due to Horace’s fidgeting. If Horace was good at one thing, it was fidgeting. Every time the young duke shifted his weight, the sunlight glanced off the diamonds and nearly blinded Burndee, encouraging him to look away.
Horace’s voice sounded a bit indistinct too, like a gust of wind that couldn’t decide where to blow. “Your Highness,” he huffed, lolling his head forward in a bow that made him look like a limp doll with a broken neck. “I am honored to have you here.”
Burndee began to fidget and then realized he was mirroring Horace and stopped.
Colin returned Horace’s bow. “The honor is mine, cousin.”
Burndee fought down the overwhelming desire to start running and not look back.
It was going to be a long day.
Windslow had dragged them into the gardens not only for a brisk constitutional before tea, but also to show off the latest renovations to Colin.
Burndee, who had spent the previous day helping Ella in Rose Hall’s garden, didn’t want to look at another flowerbed for a week . . . or at least until the spasms in his neck and lower back eased and the blisters cleared up.
The only thing less tolerable than more dirt and flowers was Windslow’s endless monologue. Mercifully, after ten minutes of talking about mulch and masonry, Windslow excused himself, asking that he might have a word with his son. He motioned Horace away and the two of them fell behind, engaged in a private conversation.
Burndee couldn’t possibly imagine what a conversation between those two would sound like and was chagrined to realize that he was lucky to find himself alone in Prince Colin’s company. He kicked at a lilac bush and wondered again how long it would be before Windslow fed his guests.
He noticed that Colin looked restless. Hoping to head off any mischief, Burndee spoke up. “When will Cynthia be here?”
“Not for another five hours,” Colin said gloomily, obviously suffering from a severe case of separation anxiety.
Burndee sighed. At least when Cynthia arrived Colin would have someone to play with and be so preoccupied he wouldn’t make this day any more stressful than it already was.
Burndee glanced around and realized the Windslows had disappeared. He had no great desire to rejoin their company and decided to remain in the garden as long as possible. He wandered over to an enormous fountain and looked idly over the rim to see if there were any fish.
And then two hands placed themselves firmly against his back and pushed.
Burndee crashed headlong into the fountain, completely immersed in water. His knees struck the bottom with a crack. He met a goldfish face-first, and the sorry thing was squeezed and flung to one side as Burndee grasped wildly at fistfuls water in an effort to right himself. He tried to surface and then slipped on a rogue penny that some idiot had once made a wish on and went down again, thrashing and spewing water like a whale. He was dimly aware of a slightly-damp Colin standing by the fountain, bent over, hands on knees, as he laughed uproariously.
Burndee was too shocked to feel anything, even anger, but his fingers and mind moved almost by instinct. He barely even realized he had done it, and there was too much water in his eyes to see every detail, but he was aware of a sudden shifting of everything, and then Colin disappeared.
Burndee finally managed to stand, water streaming from his clothes. The surprise was sluicing away with the water, and in its place came a ferocious indignation. He sloshed to the edge of the fountain and looked over the edge, opening his mouth to give Colin the lambasting of his life.
A slightly-wet skunk huddled on the pavement in the middle of Colin’s crown—like a lion sitting in a ring at the circus—and gazed up at him in surprise.
2
W hat happened?” the skunk said in Prince Colin’s voice. Colin looked down at himself and emitted a gasp as he nearly went cross-eyed staring at the tip of his velvety muzzle.
Burndee stared at him stupidly, utterly speechless, but his mind automatically sorted his thoughts into an explanation. He had clearly reacted by instinct to protect himself; a spell must have been startled out of him. As far as changing his unseen attacker, Prince Colin, into a skunk, clearly his subconscious had been at work.
Colin rose unsteadily to his hind feet—he was still clad in small leather boots and a tiny silk doublet—and looked down at himself in dismay. “Now look what you’ve done!”
Vexation thawed Burndee’s shock quite nicely. “Look what I’ve done? You brought this on yourself!” The truth be told, he was nearly as unnerved as Colin, but he managed to hide his consternation. “You wanted something to happen—well, it has.”
“But this is ridiculous.” Colin looked at one of his furry paws in disgust. “Put me back to rights immediately!” Colin glanced down at the crown he was standing in and waved an imperious paw. “And pick that up this instant—it’s disrespectful to leave the royal crown lying about on the ground. You can’t even get your spells right, can you? While having my clothes shrunk to fit me is much appreciated, you might have at least shrunk my crown too.”
Burndee snatched up the crown and shook it under Colin’s nose. “I know where I ought to put this—right between your eyes.” But incensed as he was, Burndee realized he felt quite faint as he stared at Colin’s new form and the result of his unguarded magical abilities began to sink in.
Colin leaned back to remove himself from Burndee’s shadow and fell over with a furry plop. He managed to regain his balance and made a visible effort to gather his dignity. “Now see here, Burndee, be reasonable,” he said, obviously straining manfully to modulate a voice that was teetering on the edge of outrage and hysteria. “It was just a joke—”
“A joke?” Burndee choked.
“I’ll wager you had thought about shoving me in, hadn’t you?”
Burndee did not deign—or dare—to answer that question. He crammed Colin’s crown into the sizable pouch that dangled from his belt and buttoned it shut.
Colin folded his arms awkwardly and glared at Burndee. “You’d better fix this.”
Burndee couldn’t resist crushing Colin a little. “You said this event needed some livening up. You’re such a clown—maybe you’d enjoy being the entertainment.”
Burndee could have sworn Colin raised his eyebrows. “I am going to be king in a few months. I’m fairly certain Father would kill me if I make a public appearance like this.”
“Wouldn’t Windslow like that,” Burndee said bitterly. “Horrible Horace would have a better chance at the throne.”
“Burndee . . .” Colin warned.
“All right, all right,” B
urndee barked. “I didn’t do it on purpose, and though I might have liked to see you as a skunk on any number of days, this was certainly not one of them. Here.”
He flicked his fingers.
Nothing happened.
“Try again,” Colin said, his whiskers beginning to twitch anxiously.
“I’m . . . trying.” Burndee’s own voice was rising in volume and sounding strangely shrill. He snapped his fingers with growing anxiety, closed his eyes, and tried to block out Colin. He couldn’t focus. His magic was like a delicate instrument, and right now it felt as if a dozen invisible gremlins were banging on it with frantic fists. He was used to anger interfering with his magic—both he and Colin knew that flashes of temper prevented Burndee from using his magic—but this was new. It was as if all of the stress of the last few days and the social interaction of being at Windslake Hall had rushed to his nerves and melted them like butter, and his nervousness oozed freely, out of control.
He couldn’t believe that spell had escaped him so carelessly. What if he had turned Colin to dust? What if . . . what if he couldn’t undo such an error?
That vaporous, hideous pinch of doubt was not something Burndee was accustomed to. Its very presence made him panic even further. The more he told himself to focus, the less he was able to.
“It won’t work!” he blurted—and then wished he hadn’t as humiliation washed over him like putrid water. At that moment, as he stared down at Colin, he was as powerless as when he had made Ella dance a jig at last season’s royal ball. His magic had escaped him, and he was too stunned to do a thing about it.
This is why I told Fey I didn’t want godchildren, he seethed inwardly. What do they expect? Perfection? If Colin hadn’t been such a donkey, I never would have done this. It’s all his—
“—this is all your fault, Burndee!”
A silvery trill of horns from the front drive of Windslake Hall caused Burndee’s tumbling thoughts to pile into a heap.
“What is that?” Colin asked, alarmed.