The Ugly Stepsister (Unfinished Fairy Tales Book 1) (28 page)

“Lysander begged me to stay. He said his body might look young, but in heart and mind he was older than me. I even heard someone suggest to him that he use a spell di amor.”

My ears prick up. “A love potion?”

“Not quite, but close. Instead of drinking a potion, you rub this magical powder on your thumb, or whichever finger you like. Whoever you touch will instantly fall in love with you. Whatever you say, he will do it.”

My eyes grow wide. Sounds kind of creepy.

Lady Gregory nods. “You understand it’s not a desirable condition to be in. I was determined, if Lysander dared to use it on me, I’d run away at first opportunity. But he was only silent for a while, and refused. He would rather have me leave of my own volition than stay in a body controlled by magic. I nearly stayed, but in the end I couldn’t. Whenever I looked in the mirror, I was reminded of every new wrinkle, every line on my face. So I told him I had to say farewell.”

Her voice softens; she looks down on her hands, wrinkled and papery.

“Wasn’t there any problem when you came back?” I can’t help asking.

“To my advantage, time passes a great deal faster in fairy land,” she says. “When I returned to the mountains, I found that only two weeks had passed here. It works out to be a day here for a fairy year.”

“So…” I process everything that I’ve learned so far. “So do you know how to get back? Can you still remember?”

She shakes her head sadly. “I never tried to return. But if you truly wish to go, there might be a way. Can you do me a favor?”

I nod. “If I can manage it.”

Lady Gregory rises and slowly crosses to a chest of drawers beside her bed. From the lowest drawer, she takes out a beautiful carved box with a ruby in the lid. She opens the box and produces the most exquisite bouquet of lilies I have ever seen. They are silvery-white and the contours seem to glow. She removes one lily from the bouquet and hands it to me.

“Take it,” she says, pressing the flower in my hand. It’s cool and soft, like it’s made of silk. “When your carriage passes into the mountains—stop at a source of water, be it a river or pond, and say, ‘Lysander, come to me.’ Perhaps he will appear, and you can inquire of him about the fairy you’re searching for.”

“You never went back?”

“I can’t,” she says softly. “But if you see him, give him this.” From the box, she lifts out a delicate crocheted heart-shaped bag, filled with dried flowers. Two letters, ‘L’ and ‘M’ are crocheted in the middle, entwined with each other. “The ‘M’ stands for Margaret, my name,” she explains. “I’ve always wanted to give it to him, but I never had the courage to go back. Or found someone I trusted, or would believe me, to give it to him. Can you do it for me?”

I want to persuade her to come with me, but I don’t. From her silver-white hair and wrinkled face, I’d put her at sixty at least. Even if Lysander doesn’t mind, I know that Margaret Gregory will.

My hand closes over the bag and lily. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, dear,” Lady Gregory smiles. “I wish you the best of luck. I hope you will break this curse and achieve what you wish for.”

I smile back, but I can’t tell her this: part of me doesn’t want to break the curse anymore.

It’s clear what I have to do. I must go to Ruby Red.

But how? It’s enough trouble prodding Van awake or bribing him to drive me in the city. How am I going to engage a carriage for several days? Is there a railway system yet? I have no idea how long it’s going to take. Damn, I need Google Earth. More than ever, I miss the modern world.

I stare out the window at the carriages shuttling along the road. I’ve gotten used to taking the carriage, but on a journey that can take days…urgh.

“Hey girlie,” a familiar voice interrupts me. “You’ll lose chunks of your hair if you keep tearing it like that. Dear Eddie wouldn’t like it.”

I whirl on him. “Krev, I need a flying carpet. Or a portkey. Or a wardrobe from Narnia. Anything for long-distance travel, just not via horse-and-carriage.”

“What do I look like to you, the Almighty?” he says waspishly. “What’s gotten into your head?”

“I think I know where the fairy godmother might be. I have to leave the city.” I tell him as fast as I can about everything I’ve learned from Martha and Lady Gregory. I even show him the lily.

Krev looks impressed. His eyes go large and he picks up the lily, turning it over in his grubby little hands. “Looks like you’ve made good progress, girlie. Should go tell the king—”

“Wait a second! There’s still a long way to go—literally. How am I going to get to Ruby Red?”

“No idea. Guess you need to buy a travel guide. And no, don’t look at me like that. I don’t have any power to transport human beings.”

My shoulders slump. So it seems that even if I can make it to Ruby Red, I still need to be gone for days. I wonder how the road is these days. Lady Gregory was mobbed by robbers.

Krev settles on the window sill. “Girlie, you have done more than you think. If that Lady Gregory isn’t lying, you’ll find the fairy godmother soon enough. And I daresay your little problem with Eddie will be taken care of. You don’t need to seduce Duke Henry anymore.”

“What do you mean?” I eye him warily. Krev’s suggestions usually backfire.

“The spell di amor she mentioned.” Krev shows his pointed teeth, his eyes gleaming. “Have Elle use it on Eddie. He’ll fall in love with her, and there’s your happy ending.”

THIRTY

“SHUT. UP.”

Krev somersaults in the air and blows a raspberry.

“Don’t you think it’s a brilliant idea, girlie? With Eddie being dead gone on you, this looks like the only way to turn his attentions toward Elle.”

But I don’t want him falling for Elle. “Isn’t this considered cheating?”

Krev cackles. “What, you don’t want him to marry Cinderella?”

“I’ll do anything but use a love potion,” I say desperately. “Even if I can’t end up with Edward, he’s still my friend. I can’t do this to him.”

“Sure, but soon you’ll return to your family. A little sneaky manipulation won’t hurt.”

Yeah, I’m sure your morals are impeccable.
Still, even if I could bring myself to use this spell di amor of the fairies, how am I going to convince them to give it to me? Not to mention that I still have no clue how to get to Ruby Red.

When Bianca and I return from a picnic, Lady Bradshaw sweeps in the dining room, looking like she has won the lottery.

“Girls!” she exclaims, flourishing a large white envelope with an oval-shaped red seal on it. “At last the king and queen have decided to hold the ball! ‘You are cordially invited to the palace ball given by His Royal Highness Edward.’ Bianca dear, we simply must go shopping the first thing tomorrow morning. You need a new dress, slippers, gloves, everything! It is imperative that we do everything so you can catch His Highness’s eye.”

She talks like I’m invisible. I cough to gain their attention. “Does the invitation state that the prince will choose a bride at this ball?”

“Silly child!” Lady Bradshaw sends me a contemptuous glare. “Of course they wouldn’t put something like that on the invitation, but we know the intention of this ball. I wormed from Lady Mansfield the other day that the king and queen had a private meeting with the prince. Edward has agreed to the ball, provided that they honor his choice.”

“It would be highly embarrassing if the message mentioned that the prince was looking for a wife,” Bianca says, also sending me an identical look of contempt.

Yeah, that does sound like Edward. It’s like putting an ad on Match.com, only he totally doesn’t need to. I wonder why in the original fairy tale the prince allows his messenger to broadcast to the entire kingdom that he’s in need of a wife. Sounds too desperate for a royal.

“Dance with me, Kat,” he had said, with such a hopeful look in his eyes. I take a sip of coffee and grimace at the bitter taste; the cook must have over brewed it today.

Lady Bradshaw clears her throat. “No matter what, we must outfit your wardrobe for this ball as soon as possible. I’ll sell the family jewels. Once you’re queen, you shall have the finest carriages and clothes in the nation. Oh, and you also, Katriona,” she says, as though it just occurred to her that I exist. “Do not give up on Duke Henry yet. Although the duchess has attempted to introduce him to a few ladies, so far he has not agreed to have tea with any of them a second time.”

My reluctance must show on my face, because she folds her arms and says, “I’ve had enough of your sulking in the corner, Katriona. Bear in mind that your utmost duty is to make a brilliant match. Although you pale in comparison to your sister, as long as you keep out of her way at the ball, there is still a chance that someone else will notice you. As far as I am concerned, your gauche behavior is more at fault than your face.”

So that’s how I am dragged to High Street the very next day. When Bianca enters the clothing store, every dressmaker’s gaze is turned toward her. Maybe it’s the announcement of the ball and thus the prospect of becoming queen—she seems even more beautiful than when I first saw her. Her eyes sparkle like black jewels, her figure is slim yet curved at the right places, her manner is as graceful and confident as any queen’s.

I am almost bored to tears as the dressmakers fuss over Bianca, complimenting her face, her hair, her figure.

“A dress for the ball, madame? Ah, this one will certainly stand out among them all!”

When it’s my turn, the enthusiasm is more lukewarm. And since I don’t look terribly enthusiastic either, the process is quicker.

“Ow!” I yelp when the dressmaker tightens the measuring tape around my ribs. “I can’t breathe if you make the dress that tight!”

“Then you shall spend the whole month on bread and water,” Lady Bradshaw says, her tone frosty. “Really, Katriona, how many times have I told you not to touch dessert? I must have a word with Martha when we return.”

“But I can’t dance if I can’t breathe,” I say.

“You’ll manage. If every other young lady can slim down, there is no reason why you cannot accomplish the same.”

In what seems like a hundred years, we’re done. Bianca announces she has to purchase new shoes. I refuse.

“I don’t need any high-heeled slippers,” I say. “If I have to dance half-starved, I’ll certainly trip and fall over.”

“Do not use that tone with me!” Lady Bradshaw glares. “Fine, then. At least few people will notice your feet. Come, Bianca dear. We’d better take a strip of that dress material to ensure the colors will match your shoe.”

While they go shoe-hunting, I wander aimlessly down the street, pondering how much magic Krev can perform in order to help me sneak away to Ruby Red. But if he had a lot of power to begin with, then I wouldn’t have gone through so much trouble.

I give a huge, dramatic sigh and turn round a corner. Discordant sounds—sounds of hollering and yelling—reach my ears. Before me lies a long, narrow street that’s teeming with people. Judging from the smart yet neat style of their clothes, my guess is they consist mostly of the middle-class.

“Miss?” A pasty-faced young man hands me a yellow pamphlet with black bold printing. “Care to take a look at our campaign?”

I take the paper and almost drop it. The headline reads,
The Curse of the Factory System
. My report, complete with the twelve interviews, occupies the front page and the next. A few places are edited—I’ve made some spelling and grammatical errors—but all the gruesome, horrifying details are kept intact.

“It’s all over the headlines now,” the young man tells me. “Don’t suppose you’ve read the story of the miserable fate of those children working in factories?”

Of course I have. ‘Cause I wrote it. I look for my name, but it isn’t printed with the report. Only something like “An investigator has visited the factory and conducted a series of interviews…” is revealed in the first paragraph.

At the end of the street, the people are densely packed around an elevated platform. The few men who stand on the stage look familiar—a man turns around and his ponytail reminds me of Godfrey. Actually, it is Godfrey!

“We are here,” Godfrey bellows, “to declare that no more blood shall be shed! We are here to protest that the murderers of our children shall not be allowed to carry on with their killings!”

Cheers rise from the crowd.

“Well said!”

“No more killings!”

Godfrey continues, “You have all read the report, which faithfully records what our little ones have been suffering. Tell me, do you want the future of our kingdom to grow up in this hellhole? Or to not even be able to reach adulthood?”

“NO!” The crowd shouts. A few punctuate their passion with fists raised in the air.

“Do you agree it is murder to work a child more than twelve hours a day?”

“YES!”

“Do you agree a law must be made to prevent more injuries, more killings?”

“YES!”

The other men beside Godfrey—familiar faces I recognize from Mr. Wellesley’s shop—start distributing stacks of paper.

“Then I urge you,” Godfrey shouts, “to sign this petition, so we can convey our fury to the government! Let our voices be heard! Let the cruelty be stopped!”

My eyes fill up. When I wrote the report, I only wanted to do what I could to help. But even then I hadn’t expected the impact would be this big.

As the petitions are circulated and the crowds scramble for pens, another voice comes over the noise.

“Excuse me sir.” A man dressed in an immaculate black suit mounts the stage. “I beg to question the veracity of this report.”

Godfrey regards him with slanted eyes. “What have you to say?”

“Since you ask,” the man says. “How are you to prove that everything written in this report is true? For one thing, all the children are given false names.”

“That is to protect their identities,” Godfrey growls. “A precaution never hurts.”

“Then what of the author?” The man wags his finger. “Is he a coward who writes inflammatory material, yet does not bother to sign his name? If the plight is truly as miserable as you say, then how was the author able to visit the factory and interview so many children in one afternoon, when they’re supposed to be working and there is an overseer to supervise their activities?”