The Fairy's Return and Other Princess Tales (5 page)

“My jewels.” A pearl came out this time. A big one. It went into the box too.

“Honey . . . Sweetie pie . . . What are you going to do with them?”

“Give them away. Your subjects need them more than we do.”

“NO YOU DON'T!” Harold hollered. She couldn't! It was all right to give jewels away for the engagement ceremony. That was once in a lifetime, but she wanted to make a habit of it. “You can't give them away. I won't allow it.”

Rosella wrote on her slate, “I'm trying not to get angry.”

“No, no, don't get mad!” Harold started backing away. “But don't you want a new palace? I'll tell you what—we'll name a wing after you. It'll be the Rosella Wing. How do you like that?”

She shook her head. “This palace is beautiful. Look at it! It's wonderful.”

All those gems going into the box! thought Harold. Wasted! If she gave them away, soon his subjects would be richer than he was. “Tell you what,” Harold said. “We'll split fifty-fifty.”

“I won't read a million books out loud just to fill up your treasure chests.”

He counted as they fell. Two diamonds, three bloodstones, one hyacinth, and one turquoise.

He sighed. “All right, my love.”

“All right, my love. Fifty-fifty.” Rosella wanted to be fair. He had made her a princess, after all.

They shook hands. Then they kissed.

Epilogue

M
yrtle never had to come to her sister's rescue ever again. The fifty-fifty deal worked out perfectly. Harold got his new palace and golden coach, eventually. And Rosella was happy talking to her subjects and making sure they had enough plows and winter coats and leather for making shoes. Also, she built them a new school and a library and a swimming pool.

In time she and Harold grew to love each other very much. Harold even stopped trying to steal the jewels from Rosella's wooden box while she was sleeping. And Rosella stopped counting them every morning when she woke up.

Myrtle and her mother went into the bug-and-snake-racing business. People came from twenty kingdoms to watch Myrtle's races. They'd bet beetles against spiders or rattlers against pythons or grasshoppers against garter snakes. The widow would call the races, and Myrtle would take the bets. The whole village got rich from the tourist trade. And Myrtle became truly popular, which annoyed her.

Ethelinda grew more careful. Myrtle was her last mistake. Nowadays when she punishes people, they stay punished. And when she rewards them, they don't get sick.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Rosella's Song

Oh, January is the first month.
Sing hey nonny January-o!

Oh, February is the cold month.
Sing hey nonny February-o!

Oh, March is the windy month.
Sing hey nonny March-o!

Oh, April is the rainy month.
Sing hey nonny April-o!

Oh, May is the lovely month.
Sing hey nonny May-o!

Oh, June is the flower month.
Sing hey nonny June-o!

Oh, July is the hot month.
Sing hey nonny July-o!

Oh, August is the berry month.
Sing hey nonny August-o!

Oh, September is the red-leaf month.
Sing hey nonny September-o!

Oh, October is the scary month.
Sing hey nonny October-o!

Oh, November is the harvest month.
Sing hey nonny November-o!

Oh, December is the last month.
Sing hey nonny December-o!

To Martha Garner, who told me to be sweet.

—G.C.L.

One

O
nce upon a time, in the village of Snetteringon-Snoakes in the Kingdom of Biddle, a blacksmith's wife named Gussie gave birth to a baby girl. Gussie and her husband, Sam, named the baby Lorelei, and they loved her dearly.

Lorelei's smile was sweet and her laughter was music. But as an infant she smiled only four times and laughed twice. The rest of the time she cried.

She cried when her porridge was too hot or too cold or too salty or too bitter or too sweet. She cried when her bathwater was too hot or too cold or too wet or not wet enough. She cried when her diaper was scratchy or smelly or not folded exactly right. She cried when her cradle was messy or when her mother forgot to make it with hospital corners. She cried whenever anything was not perfectly perfect.

Sam and Gussie did their best to make her happy. Lorelei was the only village baby with satin sheets and velvet diapers. She was the only one whose milk came from high-mountain yaks. And she was the only one who ate porridge made from two parts millet mixed with one part buckwheat. But still she cried.

She cried less as she learned to talk.

Then one day Lorelei said, “Father dearest and Mother dearest, I'm terribly sorry for crying so much. You have been too good to me.”

Gussie said, “Oh honey, it's all right.”

Sam said, “Gosh, we thought you were the cutest, best baby in this or any other kingdom.”

Lorelei shook her head. “No, I was difficult. But I shall try to make it up to you. And now that I can explain myself, everything will be much better.” She smiled. Then she sneezed. And sneezed again. She smiled shakily. “I fear I have a cold.”

From then on, Lorelei stopped crying. She didn't stop being a picky eater, and she didn't stop needing everything to be just so. She just stopped crying about it.

Instead, Lorelei started being sick and having accidents.

If a child in the village of Snettering-on-Snoakes had a single spot, Lorelei caught the measles. If a child two villages and a mountain away had the mumps, Lorelei caught them, and the flu besides.

She loved the other children, and they liked her well enough. But if she played tag with them, she was sure to trip and skin her knee or her elbow or her chin. When they played hopscotch, she always twisted her ankle. Once, when she tried to jump rope, she got so tangled up that Gussie had to come and untie her.

“S
HE SMILED SHAKILY
. ‘I
FEAR
I
HAVE A COLD
.'”

When Lorelei turned fourteen, Gussie died. Sam and Lorelei were heartbroken. Sam swore never to marry again because Gussie was the sweetest wife anybody could ever have.

“Besides,” he added, “all the old tales say that stepmothers are mean to their stepdaughters. You'll never have to worry about that, Lorelei honey.”

Two

S
am knew that Lorelei couldn't cook and clean for him and be her own nurse too. Besides, he'd be leaving soon for his annual trip to shoe the horses of the Earl of Pildenue, and someone would have to take care of Lorelei while he was gone. So he looked around for a housekeeper.

A wench named Trudy had helped the shoemaker's family when their twins were born. The shoemaker said that Trudy was a hard worker, so Sam hired her. Trudy wondered why a blacksmith with a grown daughter needed a housekeeper, but she took the job.

As soon as Trudy walked in the door, Lorelei ran to her, stumbled, and fell into Trudy's arms.

“Dear Trudy, I'll do anything to help you. To the outer limits of my meager ability.”

Nobody had ever called Trudy “dear” before. So she thought this could be a pretty cushy spot, even if she understood only one word in ten that the lass said. But then again, if the girl wanted to help, why were the dirty dishes piled as high as a horse's rear end? Trudy shrugged and pumped water into the sink. “Here, lass. You can start on these.”

“Oh, good!” Lorelei took the soap and started to scrub a plate.

Trudy looked around for a mop.

“Oh dear,” Lorelei said.

“What's amiss?”

Lorelei raised her arms out of the soapy water. Trudy was horrified. The girl's arms and hands were covered with a bright-red rash.

“Does this happen whenever you wash a dish?” Trudy asked.

“I don't know. I've never washed one before.”

Never washed a dish! Her poor dead mother had let her get away with that? Had the woman mistaken her daughter for a princess?

“Mother kept the unguents and the bandages in the hutch,” Lorelei said.

Trudy opened the hutch door. There were enough potions and herbs and simples to set up shop as a wisewoman.

“That one. There.” Lorelei pointed to a big jar.

Trudy spread the salve over Lorelei's rash.

“It has to be wrapped in clean linen.” Lorelei pointed again.

Trudy wrapped up Lorelei's arms—three times. The first time the bandages were too tight. The next time they were too loose. An hour passed before Lorelei said they were just right.

At last! Trudy thought, Her majesty is satisfied.

“The dressing has to be changed every two hours,” Lorelei said. “I'm sorry to be such a bother.”

Trudy frowned. It wasn't exactly her highness's fault, but over an hour had gone by and the dishes were still dirty. The floor hadn't been mopped, and there was a mountain of laundry in the basket. She'd be working half the night to get it all done.

Trudy worked half the night that night and every night. For a month she took off bandages and put on bandages. When the rash was gone, Lorelei offered to help again.

Trudy hadn't been able to do any spinning because of all the bandaging. Surely, she thought, her majesty can't come to grief spinning. “Can you help me with the spinning?”

Lorelei smiled happily. Gussie had never let her near the spinning wheel. She knew exactly what to do, though, because she'd watched her mother so often. She sat down at the wheel and got started.

Trudy nodded. There. She began to dust.

“Oh dear.”

Trudy turned around. Lorelei had stabbed herself in the hand with the spindle, and blood was pouring onto the cottage's wooden floor. Trudy ran for the bandages.

While Trudy bandaged her, Lorelei apologized at least a thousand times. After that, Trudy spent an hour scrubbing blood off the wooden floor and wondering what the bungling ninny was good for.

Not much, Trudy soon discovered. Lorelei could hang laundry on the line, and she could make a bed neatly. But the only thing she was really good at was embroidery. And Trudy had no need for embroidery. What she needed was to scream, long and loud.

Every day Trudy got madder and madder. While she washed Lorelei's satin sheets, her ladyship would be sitting at her ease, embroidering by the window. As Trudy kneaded Lorelei's special millet-buckwheat bread, the lazy thing would be lying in bed because her poor little throat hurt. Or her poor little left eyebrow. Or her poor little big toe.

Then came the joyous moment when Trudy thought of doing Lorelei in. Cooking her highness's goose. Rubbing her pampered self o-u-t.
Out!
Trudy started whistling.

Lorelei looked up from embroidering the outline of a potato on one of Sam's breeches. She smiled. “I'm so glad you're happy here, Trudy.”

“Oh, I am, lass, I am. Happier every minute.”

Three

I
t was lunchtime in the nearby court of the king and queen of Biddle. Queen Hermione rang her little bell to let the Royal Servants know they could bring out the first course.

The Chief Royal Lunchtime Serving Maid carried a platter heaped with crab cakes into the royal dining room. King Humphrey helped himself to a tiny crab cake. Queen Hermione helped herself to a tiny crab cake. Prince Nicholas took a dozen or so crab cakes and started eating.

King Humphrey tasted his crab cake. Queen Hermione tasted her crab cake. They shook their heads. Queen Hermione rang her bell again. The Chief Royal Lunchtime Serving Maid stepped up to the royal table.

“I'm so sorry,” Queen Hermione said. “These crab cakes taste a bit too fishy to me.”

“We beg to differ or disagree,” the king boomed. “They're not fishy enough.”

“Crab isn't a fish,” Prince Nicholas said, chewing happily. “My compliments to the chef.”

“Please bring grapefruit instead,” the queen said.