by Allison Tebo
“Chaotic?” his brother, Dalasar, suggested languidly.
“Crazy,” Dusan agreed. “It makes me nervous. What are you doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m going to have a nap. Mmm—the sun has warmed this bench nicely.”
“But we need to practice our tumbling act!” Dusan protested.
Dalasar yawned loudly. “Oh, we’ve done our act a thousand times. Why trouble ourselves? Besides, it’s hot.”
“Brother, we have to practice!” Dusan sounded horrified. “You don’t want us to lose our jobs, do you? You want to make a good impression for the princess, don’t you? If we don’t practice, then I’ll feel sick. You don’t want me to get sick at the performance tonight, do you?”
“Oh, you worry too much!” Dalasar said with an exasperated laugh. “The act never changes, so I don’t know what you’re worried about, but if you insist—hup!”
“Hup!” Dusan declared, and then there was a scrambling sound and, “Hup-hup-huuup. Augh!”
There was a terrific splash, and Dalasar yelled, “Quick—pick up the goldfish!”
There were assorted sounds of wet thrashing, soft plops of fish being returned to a fountain, and Dalasar mumbling in a foreign language as his boots squelched rapidly back and forth across the pavement.
“I tell you, brother—this day is cursed!” Dusan hiccupped. “This place is cursed, our performance is cursed—something! I’m going to be sick for sure! Here’s the last goldfish.”
“Oh, don’t be such a donkey!” Dalasar retorted. “We’ll simply practice somewhere where there isn’t a fountain.”
“I’m getting too nervous to practice . . .” Dusan mumbled as he was dragged off by his brother.
Colin poked his head out of the bushes and waved a fist after them. “Now, if everyone would just leave us alone for a minute—although, really, I don’t see what any of them have to do with your reversing this enchantment.”
“Colin, I—” Burndee’s brains felt like oatmeal so thick it couldn’t be stirred. The restraining spell, thoughts of Ella’s disappointment if she found out what he had done, the number of people in this place—his nerves were vibrating. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think.
He stared at Colin and wiggled his fingers, trying to stave off panic.
At this precise moment, he couldn’t undo his own spell.
A silver trumpeting of horns broke through his scattered thoughts.
Burndee froze. “It’s the royal party—it must be! I’ll—I’ll—” I can’t undo this spell. “I’ll cover for you. Hide!”
He started running with Colin shouting after him, “Burndee! Don’t you dare walk away again—come back here! I command it! Are you listening? Oh, blazes.”
Burndee was again running along the pathways that surrounded the Hall. He was definitely earning whatever food Windslow was going to give him today. Burndee would have given a lot for one of his own crumpets to wolf down.
He galloped around the Hall and lurched onto the front drive, then gathered himself with dignity just in case anyone was watching. No one was.
A carriage was pulling up the drive, surrounded by twelve guards on horseback.
Radorria wasn’t wealthy enough to send its own coach—which was why a coachman had been dispatched to the inn in Nelease to retrieve Princess Penelope so that she could arrive in some semblance of style—but the country apparently could afford a bevy of guards. Although, for all Burndee knew, they could be former shepherds who had been thrust into uniforms to fill out their ranks and thus make their princess seem more impressive by the sheer number of her bodyguard.
Kreek was waiting at the base of the front steps to offer his assistance. Apparently, he had sufficiently dealt with the earlier confusion in the gardens and managed to disentangle himself from Madame Prudence. His master, Richard Windslow, rushed down the front steps with the dutiful Horace in tow. Sir Windslow looked agitatedly around in all directions, finally spotted Burndee, and almost threw himself at him, but he caught Burndee’s warning look and refrained from grabbing Burndee by the arm.
“Lord Burndee, there you are! Where . . . ?” Windslow paused, looking Burndee up and down with an expression of unguarded surprise and disapproval that made Burndee flush with annoyance. “Lord Burndee . . . why are you all wet?”
“Ah—a stupid accident.” The stupid part was true, at least.
Windslow looked aghast. “But you can’t greet the princess looking like you . . . you . . .”
Burndee took the edge of his cloak and wrung it out again, flapping it vigorously to remove as many wrinkles as possible. He couldn’t do much about the food stains.
“You don’t look so bad,” Horace volunteered with a surprising amount of graciousness.
Windslow gave him a look that sent Horace promptly hurrying away to greet the princess’s carriage. Windslow turned back to Burndee with a low groan and eyed him as if he were a bug that had crawled out of the garden. “Never mind. It can’t be helped, I suppose. Where is Prince Colin?”
When in doubt, answer a question with a question. “Where is His Honor?” Burndee countered.
Windslow frowned. “Valyns is inside, resting. He said he felt a trifle hot and might have been hallucinating earlier. Something about people running through bushes, and skunks.”
“Ah.”
“Where is Prince Colin?” Windslow demanded in a voice teetering on the edge of hysteria.
He’s not coming; I turned him into a skunk. It was dreadfully tempting to see what Windslow’s reaction would be to that little surprise, but Burndee had no interest in having to hold up an unconscious Windslow; he wasn’t sure his arms would reach around the man, for one thing.
“His Highness is temporarily indisposed,” he said at last.
Windslow’s eyes bulged, making him look remarkably like a fish in need of water—Colin should have pushed Windslow into the fountain—and clutched desperately at Burndee’s arm.
How Burndee loathed being touched by anyone but Ella. He realized with a shock that Windslow hadn’t flinched from discomfort. The restraining spell had so greatly muffled Burndee’s magic, his skin no longer radiated stinging pain to any human that touched him. Burndee held back an involuntary whimper at the thought of being defenseless to having his personal space encroached upon and barely restrained himself from slapping Windslow’s hand away.
“But . . . but the princess is here,” Windslow finally managed to gasp. He gave Burndee a slight shake, as if he thought Burndee might have the prince stowed away in his tunic and Colin might drop to the ground like a lost button.
“Well, Colin isn’t,” Burndee said mercilessly.
“But this isn’t how it was supposed to be . . .” Windslow looked and sounded like a party balloon rapidly losing its air. Burndee was almost certain the man lost an inch or two around the middle as he spoke.
“Well, I’m here, at least,” Burndee pointed out.
Windslow gave him an unpleasant look and turned on his heel, stumbling limply back to the front steps where Horace was already stationed.
Burndee sighed and followed Windslow towards the carriage, feeling slightly regretful. Not because Windslow was worried but because he had made the situation more difficult without meaning to.
This morning he had known what was expected of him—some boring conversation, surviving the pre-wedding hysteria, and catering nearly the entire event. Now he felt off balance. He hadn’t envisioned himself being wet, wrinkled, stained, and frazzled when he greeted the princess. Not to mention trying to hide the fact that he had turned a royal personage into a small, striped creature. Colin’s little trick had upset him and disrupted his careful control, allowing his natural uncertainty and dislike of people and social situations to come flooding in. And with that growing agitation, came the fear that the ability to filter what entered his mind and poured out of his mouth would completely disappear.
The really aggravating thing was that he hadn’t used to care two p
ence about any of this until he had fallen in love with Ella and been introduced to the uncomfortable idea that he might need to modify his behavior towards other people.
It must be dreadfully inconvenient to be nice and polite every day, he thought drearily. And caring what other people think takes up an awful lot of time.
But he did care what Ella thought, and because of her, he found himself avowing again that today he would be a model of deportment, a prince of diplomacy. His exemplary behavior would have to cover his less-than-impressive appearance. Ella would be so pleased. She had wanted him to be nice today. Well, he would be nice. He would do the socially correct thing and oil this marital wheel and give it a swift shove for good measure, if he had the opportunity. He would be the proper guest and feign as much excitement for the doomed fools as he could. He would ensure that this wedding went off without another hitch.
His mind drifted dreamily to Ella. Her eyes would shine and then she would give him the gentle kiss that meant more to him than anything else in the world.
He felt a huge, foolish grin spread over his face as he embarked on a pleasant reverie of his wife. He could almost see—
“Well, it’s about time we got here,” a voice exclaimed shrilly from the interior of the carriage, effectively shattering Burndee’s daydream.
4
A veritable river of silk and feathers poured out of the carriage as Princess Penelope of Radorria lurched from her seat and down the carriage steps. None of her guards dismounted to assist her, essentially confirming Burndee’s suspicions that they were mere rubes in uniform. Kreek hurried forward to help the princess, but she neglected to take his offered hand—she didn’t even appear to see it.
She waved her arms wildly as she navigated her way to the ground, one heeled shoe stepping directly in a cracked flagstone that resulted in an astonishing display of stomping and arm-waving as she attempted to regain her balance but careened into Kreek instead.
Penelope pulled herself off of him, glowering and wrenching at her skirts like a child about to have a tantrum. “You nearly let me fall on my face, you fool!”
Kreek, who had presumably learned what a sandwich filling might feel like after Penelope had plastered him against the side of the carriage, peeled himself away from the vehicle and stammered, “Your Highness, I do beg your pardon—”
“Oh, shut up,” Penelope huffed.
“Charming,” Burndee said under his breath.
Windslow sailed up to Penelope, burbling goodwill and solicitude. “Your Highness! Welcome to Windslake Hall. Welcome to my family!”
Burndee cringed. What a welcome.
Penelope looked slightly mollified, even charmed, when Windslow bowed and kissed both of her hands. “Pleasure to meet you too, I’m sure,” she said haughtily and then somewhat belied her haughtiness by curtsying.
Windslow blinked at the princess’s slightly unconventional response but scurried on through the introductions. He gestured to Burndee. “May I introduce His Highness—”
“Your Grace,” Penelope exclaimed with a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a titter, automatically assuming that Windslow had been about to say, “His Highness,” instead of, “His Highness’s brother-in-law.”
This seems to be my day for getting confused with idiots, Burndee thought. How could anyone possibly assume that he was Horace or Colin?
Penelope sank into a curtsy so low Burndee feared it might take several attendants to right her again, but she managed to rise with only the tiniest noticeable wobble. He resisted the urge to applaud.
Windslow produced a muffled choking sound and waved his hands. “No, no, no. This isn’t Prince Colin. This is his . . . his . . . friend.” Burndee could understand his doubtful tone. “Or rather, his brother-in-law.” He paused, flustered, and finished hastily, “Er—Lord Burndee Rosedale.”
“Oh.” Penelope eyed Burndee resentfully, as if he had made her use her best curtsy on purpose.
He smiled between his teeth at her as she gave his soaked appearance a long, disapproving glance. Apparently, she had been willing to overlook his bedraggled state when she had thought he was Prince Colin; now he received the benefit of her disdain.
Windslow rushed on with the introductions in an effort to cover up Penelope’s embarrassing blunder.
“Your Highness, may I introduce”—Windslow dropped his voice to a suitably romantic murmur—“my son, Duke Horace Windslow of Windslake Hall.”
Horace—who had, until this point, looked like he was on the verge of either sleeping or fainting—stepped forward with a mechanical but perfectly correct bow. “Your servant, Your Highness,” Horace spoke with the same tone someone might use to ask his dinner companion to pass the salt.
He straightened, and his gaze met Penelope’s—hers was bold and detached, while his appeared vaguely uncomfortable. Neither of them looked exactly thrilled to bits with their perusal of their future spouse.
“Did you have a pleasant journey, Princess?” Windslow blurted, in an effort to cover up the uncomfortable pause.
Penelope whipped her face towards Windslow, her eyes lighting up with the fervor of a lifelong complainer. “Ugh, no. The roads from Nelease to Windslake Hall are absolutely atrocious. I’ve never seen so many potholes! I have never had such an uncomfortable journey in my life.”
“I never found that road particularly difficult,” Burndee piped up before Windslow could respond.
“That’s because you aren’t a princess of a delicate nature,” Penelope said with a tight laugh and a brave attempt at flirtation.
“That I’m not,” Burndee said fervently. “So, do you mean there aren’t potholes in a country like Radorria?” he asked, deliberately emphasizing the name of her country. The moment the words left his lips, he inwardly kicked himself as he remembered his former resolution to be polite, but he had to admit he enjoyed the expression on her face.
Penelope looked as if she were about to explode at the obvious slur against her piddly little nation. She pulled herself together with a visible effort and snapped, “Well then, perhaps it was the carriage springs that made the journey so intolerable.” She flicked a shoulder at Burndee, dismissing him, and turned to Windslow. “You definitely need a new carriage, Sir Richard,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes and simpering in a way that was probably intended to be coy—but came across as boorish.
Burndee eyed her. For someone who had entered Ambia via oxcart and hadn’t even been able to arrive at her intended’s home in a carriage of her own, she had a lot of nerve.
The hired carriage driver lowered a trunk to the pavement with a bang and then handed down what appeared to be a cloth-covered birdcage.
“Well, of course,” Windslow stammered, flushing. “But perhaps it was merely the road. It is a difficult passage. Horace made that journey just last month. Wasn’t it arduous, Horace?”
“Hmm, ahem, er—what?” Horace asked, tearing his gaze away from his shoes and looking at a point somewhere beyond Windslow’s left ear.
“The roads, Horace, the roads!” Windslow hissed.
“Oh. What about the roads, Father?”
The tantalizing idea of cramming Penelope, Horace, and Sir Richard into the carriage and sending it back over that potholed road wafted through Burndee’s mind, but he reluctantly dismissed it.
Windslow looked as if he were about to burst like a dropped squash. Penelope eyed Horace with distaste. Burndee cleared his throat, trying to think of something to bridge the awkward silence. “What’s in the cage?” he blurted.
At least everyone was staring at him now instead of the unfortunate Horace.
“Lord Burndee—” Windslow began warningly.
“It’s my dumovai,” Penelope said curtly, interrupting Windslow. Burndee supposed that was one thing in her favor; she recognized Windslow as a person that didn’t need to be listened to and should be interrupted with great frequency.
“Why, how charming,” Windslow exclaimed, delighted, although
he very likely would have reacted the same way if Penelope had said she owned a pet newt. “We’ve heard of them, of course. Perhaps the little fellow would like some fresh air?” He smiled at her ingratiatingly. “You’ll indulge me by letting us have a peek, won’t you, my dear?”
Penelope hesitated and looked very much inclined to respond with a raucous negative, but then she shrugged and flicked the cloth away from the cage.
The cage had a wooden base, but metal bars, with a heavy padlock on the small door. A brown lump uncurled itself and peered at its surroundings.
Burndee studied it curiously. He had heard a lot about dumovai; they were the Radorrian equivalent of fairy godfathers, since there weren’t any fairies in that country.
Dumovai were far more limited in their magical abilities than fairies. They could help their human, but they could use none of their magic for themselves and could only rarely use it for someone besides their master. Their abilities were mostly relegated to making sure there was always bread in the breadbox and toasting their masters’ blankets in wintertime. They were a household amenity to make life more convenient—in the same way a kitchen pump versus a courtyard pump made life more convenient—and they graciously doubled as a family pet, albeit an invisible one, since they often stayed out of sight in the walls or the basements of their masters’ homes. They weren’t independent like fairies but were dependent upon their humans to feed them. Dumovai also didn’t speak, but it was undeniable that they communicated in their own way and understood human speech.
This particular dumovai was about the size of a cat, with a round, stumpy body covered in brown hair that was both spiky and soft. It had large, pointed ears that stuck out from either side of its head and huge, dark eyes that seemed to take up half of its face. It was rumored that dumovai never blinked. Its only defense seemed to be its short foreclaws and, presumably, its teeth.
Burndee could only assume that this dumovai was a reasonable representative of its kind, in which case, dumovai were rather a sorry-looking race. The creature looked undeniably scraggly and pathetic. But then, if Burndee had been in a cage surrounded by staring people, he wouldn’t have looked his best either.