Alma and the Fairy

He stepped back into the crowd. Lady Alma came forward, shorter than everyone in the room and as wide as she was tall. Her four chins jiggled as she walked.

  Two courtiers pulled back my velvet blankets and satin sheets, and I stepped onto the carpet. Lady Alma raised an eyebrow at my wrinkled nightgown and tangled hair. I ignored her questioning gaze and walked to the center of the room. Light from every window blinded me as I stepped into the sunny spotlight. My hair reflected even more colors onto the wall, a dark rainbow of blue, purple, and green that drowned out the pink light from the wig.

  Lady Alma snapped her fingers. Silver sparkles swirled around me until I could see outlines of the crowd, but no details. My nightgown disappeared. A red breakfast gown with a high collar and frilly sleeves replaced it. I gained two inches in height as shoes materialized under my feet. Jewelry appeared on my wrists, neck, and ears. My hair rippled in a breeze until the tangles from the sea wind became gentle waves hanging down my back.

  The sparkles dissolved, and the courtiers gasped and applauded. Sir Quill pulled the feather from his cap, dipped it in the inkwell balanced on top of his head, and wrote. I followed Mother out of the room. Everyone bowed as I passed. Lady Alma walked directly behind me, and the courtiers trailed behind her in order of importance. The string quartet’s music faded as we walked down the hall, and a trio of flutes replaced it when we entered the breakfast room.

  Father stood in the doorway. Mother took his right arm, and I took his left. Courtiers pulled out chairs for us at the breakfast table. We sat next to each other, facing a wall of windows with a view of the sea.

  “I trust you had productive meetings this morning, Nicholas?” Mother said.

  Father nodded and took a bite of oatmeal.

  “Because you missed waking our daughter. Again. On the eve of her birthday.”

  The low murmur of a crowd entering the room obscured his mumbled reply. Mother glared at them, and everyone fell silent. They stood behind a velvet ribbon held by guards and watched us eat.

  “Is there any news from the Colonial Delegation?” I asked.

  Perhaps they were delayed by bad weather and sent a message?

  Father shook his head.

  “I insist you sanction them if they do not arrive in time for our treasure’s birthday celebration,” Mother said.

  “It isn’t their fault they’ve been delayed by the Dragon!” I said.

  “Piracy is hardly suitable breakfast conversation, Salara,” she hissed.

  Father ate his oatmeal and read a scroll of parchment.

  A courtier escorted the crowd out of the room. A new group replaced them. I pulled a rose out of a vase and twirled it between my fingers. The Dragon was a human pirate, but I had overheard enough conversations to know he was causing far more trouble than most. He sank several official Salarian trade vessels last month, in spite of a naval escort. They called him the Dragon because he set the ships on fire before sending them to the bottom of the ocean. If he attacked the Colonial Delegation, I could only imagine the trouble it would cause.

  I couldn’t do more than imagine it because I was never allowed into council meetings.

  “So your meetings were productive this morning, Father?” I asked. “Did you work on the new treaty?”

  “The treaty is finished,” Father said.

  “Unless the Delegation is late for Salara’s birthday celebration. And then you will sanction them,” Mother said.

  Another crowd entered. Their whispers created a quiet buzz.

  “What does sanctioning them mean?”

  I leaned forward, trying to look at the parchment in Father’s hands.

  “We are not sanctioning anyone, Ingrid,” Father said.

  “Unless they are late,” Mother said.

  “The Dragon stole another shipment of salt. Castana is threatening to take action against us if a shipment does not reach them by the end of the month. The guest list for a birthday party is the least of our concerns.”

  I sat up straight, trying to look grown up.

  “What action would Castana take?”

  “Just raise taxes or something,” Mother said.

  She dismissed Father with a wave of her hand and turned to me.

  “Do you have your lines for the opera memorized?”

  “Yes, but what about the sanctions? What about Castana?”

  “That really doesn’t concern you.”

  “I’m heir to the throne. I need to-”

  “Get ready for your portrait sitting,” Mother said.

  She stood. I looked at Father. He shrugged and turned back to his oatmeal.

  Typical.