Disenchanted

  As I chewed, slowly savoring the morsel, I mumbled, “You have been baking?”

  “Silly girl. Of course not. These were a gift from the witch next door.”

  I choked and spit out what remained of the leg onto my plate. Mal laughed and said, “Relax, Ella. It really is just gingerbread, not something that will give you warts or place you under some kind of sleeping spell.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I muttered, washing my mouth out with tea. Unlike Mal’s inept spells, I had heard it rumored that Delphine possessed considerable skill when it came to the arcane arts.

  “Delphine would never serve me such a trick,” Mal said. “Despite her obnoxious cat, she and I get on quite well. I believe the old gal is a bit smitten with me.” As though to convince me, Mal scooped up a gingerbread man and bit off its head, chewing and swallowing with great relish. “She often trades me cakes or pies for some of my herbs, although the gingerbread was a gift. I do have a birthday coming up which I daresay you have forgotten about.”

  “How could I possibly forget your birthday?” I retorted with a wry smile. “You would never let me. So have you decided yet what you want?”

  Mal crammed the rest of the gingerbread into his mouth but still managed to mumble, “I may just possibly have thought of something.”

  He settled back into his chair, his eyes narrowed, a mysterious smile on his lips. He clearly wanted me to coax it out of him. I refused to oblige, knowing he would tell me soon enough.

  Mal and I have never purchased birthday gifts for each other. Instead we have traded favors. It was a tradition that started back years ago, during the annual Festival of the Flowers. This was celebrated every spring with a parade, dancing and feasting in the streets and the awarding of prizes for the best gardens. There were also foot races, archery contests and even jousts in the town square. Because what demonstrates the joy of spring better than one great lummox attempting to knock another lummox off his horse?

  The highlight of this festival was the pageant for young girls in which one simpering miss was chosen to be crowned Princess Rosebud and preside over all of these celebrations. Imelda once proudly bore the title and she was determined that at least one of her daughters should achieve this dubious honor. When I turned ten, the age of entry, I was selected to become Imelda’s first victim.

  In vain did I plead, trying to convince her I was not the stuff of which princesses were made. Even if I had been, I could not hope to compete with any of the young ladies from the Heights with their poise, their jewels and costly gowns. No “Middie” girl had ever been crowned Princess Rosebud, I told my stepmother, but Imelda insisted I would be the first.

  I was groomed, primped, frizzed and curled. I was subjected to endless lessons on how to walk, sit and smile, skills that I thought I had performed quite adequately most of my life. I had to endure endless fittings in a frothy taffeta gown that made me itch and was so restrictive I could not bend or raise my arms.

  As the day for the pageant approached, I felt ill with apprehension, imagining making a total fool of myself by tripping on the hem of that ridiculous dress or by sneezing, belching or farting when I paraded before the judges. I dreaded the hoots of the obnoxious boys whose parents forced them to attend the event and the superior sneers of the Heights girls.

  I knew there was no hope of appealing to my father for rescue. He would only say what he always did, Obey your stepmother, Ella. She knows far more about raising a daughter than I do. If I was going to be spared this ordeal, I needed to find a way to save myself, and on the eve of the pageant, I came up with a simple but brilliant plan.

  I asked Mal to punch me in the eye as hard as he could. Horrified by my request, Mal adamantly refused, but I reminded him that it was almost my birthday and this was all I wanted from him. If he would comply, I would do anything he wanted on his birthday. I begged, badgered, goaded and gave Mal no peace, but it was not until I threatened to hit myself in the face with a hammer that he finally gave in. He drew back his fist and popped me a good one.

  Mal was so distressed by what he had done, he actually cried, but I was elated because the results were spectacular. My eye swelled shut and my cheek sported the most glorious greenish-purple bruise. Imelda took one look at me and shrieked in horror, castigating me as the most wicked, ungrateful hoyden of a girl who ever lived. But never again did she attempt to make a Princess Rosebud out of me.

  Thus the tradition of the birthday favor was born, although Mal made me promise there would never again be any wishes that involved him hurting me. Most of my requests over the years had been quite mild. This year, when my birthday came, I intended to ask Mal to help me unstop the library chimney.

  As for Mal, he had never asked anything that extreme of me either, although he did enjoy making me guess what he wanted. But as he continued to sip his tea in silence, I realized he was not just being coy. He really did seem reluctant to tell me what he desired.

  I finally grew impatient. “Come, Mal, whatever it is, you know I would do anything for you. Just tell me.”

  He fortified himself with another gulp of tea. Holding his breath like a swimmer about to plunge into an icy lake, he blurted out, “Iwantyoutogototheroyalball.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to go to the royal ball,” he said, enunciating each word more clearly.

  I still couldn’t believe I had heard him right. I must have borne a close resemblance to the village idiot as I sat there, gaping at him. Had Mal entirely lost his wits? He wanted to escort me to the ball as though he was my suitor or my betrothed?

  There had never been any question of anything like that between me and Mal. There had been that time when we were twelve and had experimented with kissing. It had been such an awkward business, involving bumping of noses and banging of teeth, that we had never been tempted to repeat it. We had always been content to remain close friends—or so I had thought.

  I reflected uncomfortably about some of the remarks Mal had made that afternoon, about me being beautiful, about being madly in love with me. He had been jesting, hadn’t he? Bad enough that the stern Commander Crushington harbored some foolish fancy for me, but if Mal was about to confess to such a thing, I could not endure it. Not my just-like-a-brother, dearest friend Mal! It was unthinkable.

  I remained silent for so long, Mal gave an uneasy laugh. “It is not that outrageous of a request, Ella. Do say something.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I never dreamed you would—seriously, Mal, you wish to take me to the ball?”

  Mal blinked. “Take you to the ball? Oh, frap no. A thousand fiery dragons could not force me to attend such a mutton-headed event.”

  So this was all just another of Mal’s jests. I expelled a breath, torn by relief and a strong desire to kill him.

  He continued, “I couldn’t go to the ball even if I wanted to. After that business between my grandfather and the king, all Hawkridges were banned from coming anywhere within a league of the royal palace. You ought to remember that, Ella.”

  Mal was right. I should have remembered. Even though this had all occurred before either Mal or I was born, we had both heard the story often enough from Grandmother Hawkridge.

  Mal’s grandfather had been a mage of great power. Fully licensed, a member in highest standing of the Sorcery Guild, Hiriam Hawkridge had often been consulted by the king until the unfortunate occasion of the king’s tenth jubilee.

  Every year, the king celebrated the anniversary of his ascension to the throne with a grand parade to the town square where he would modestly accept a gift from the good citizens of Midtown and then deliver an address to his loyal subjects.

  The king prided himself on being a brilliant orator, which meant he knew how to smile, flatter and lie shamelessly to his subjects with the greatest sincerity. He always fortified himself with a cup of claret before mounting to the podium. That particular year he had several cups.

  The king’s speech began well until he started to slu
r his words and reel on his feet. He lost his place several times and finally meandered into a diatribe of disastrous honesty in which he sneered and said he regarded all the people of Midtown as a “fat, greasy bunch of porkers who needed to be fleeced.” And if Midtown did not come up with a better present than some paltry golden candlesticks next year for his jubilee, he would puff and blow the entire town to bits like a gale force earthquake. It was difficult to say which affronted his audience the most: the insults, the threats or the way the king mixed his metaphors.

  Many assumed the king had been drunk, but it was later discovered that his claret had been laced with Truth Elixir and the culprit was none other than the king’s grand ducal wizard, Hiriam Hawkridge. When brought before the king, Mal’s grandfather had at first denied responsibility and then declared it had all been an unfortunate accident. He had been experimenting with a potion designed to render the king’s voice more golden and had added the Truth Elixir to the wine by mistake.

  It was a feeble excuse, but Hiriam was a great favorite of the king’s, so he might have escaped retribution if he had not been imprudent enough to add that surely little harm had been done, because no one ever really listened to the king’s speeches anyway. Some suspected Hiriam might have been dipping into his own Truth Elixir, but Grandmother Hawkridge stated bitterly that it was because her husband never knew when to keep his mouth shut.

  Whatever the reason, Hiriam’s flippant remark sealed his fate. He was convicted of practicing malicious and deleterious magic against the Crown, which should have resulted in a swift visit to the Lord High Garroter or at least a lifetime of incarceration in the Dismal Dungeons. Perhaps our king had been more mellow in his youth or perhaps he was a bit afraid of Hiriam’s magical abilities. Grandmother Hawkridge never fully explained how her husband escaped the king’s wrath.

  Instead of meeting his doom, Hiriam was stripped of all his high offices and membership in the Sorcery Guild, forbidden to practice magic or come within a league of the palace ever again. Grandmother Hawkridge always concluded her story of those long-ago events by sternly reminding Mal that both of those bans applied to Hiriam’s heirs as well. While Mal ignored the ban about practicing magic, to the best of my knowledge he had never defied the edict regarding the royal castle.

  As I took another sip of my tea, I said, “I ought to have remembered you are not allowed near the palace before I allowed you to tease me with the notion you wanted to escort me to the ball. Considering how distressed I already am about this stupid ball, I think it very mean of you.”

  “I wasn’t teasing you, Ella. You merely misunderstood me. What I said was I want you to go to the ball. And you needn’t worry about the cost of it. I will pay for your ticket, your gown, your carriage, everything.”

  I was certain he still had to be joking. But I could usually tell when Mal was teasing me. I attempted to probe his eyes as he reached for another cookie from the tin. I found no sign of duplicity, but I sensed he was not being entirely forthcoming either.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why would you want me to go to this wretched ball?”

  “Because I think it would be good for you,” he mumbled around another mouthful of gingerbread.

  “Good for me! To display myself before that dolt Prince Florian, like some heifer brought to market—”

  “You don’t need to worry about the prince,” Mal interrupted. “If I thought you were likely to be troubled by him, I would never send you to the ball. But there is not the least chance Florian would ever choose you for his bride.”

  I had no desire to wed the prince, but Mal’s remark nettled me all the same. “Truly? Am I so repulsive then? And after you just assured me how beautiful I am.”

  “You are beautiful. Dazzlingly so. The problem would come when you opened your mouth.”

  “Oh? There is something wrong with my voice then?” I huffed.

  “Not your voice, Ella. It’s your tongue. It’s sharper than my barber’s razor.”

  “I suppose you are still miffed with me because of those remarks I made about your hair. I have already said I am sorry.”

  “It’s nothing to do with my hair,” Mal said, raking his hand back through his pompadour and then looking in disgust at the strands that came loose. He brushed them off on his breeches as he continued, “You have a habit of making sarcastic quips, sometimes downright caustic. You never used to be that way. When you were younger, you were so sweet…well, you were never exactly sweet. But you were much softer, less cynical and more hopeful. You still believed in magic, dreams and romance, or so I thought. Have you never even considered the possibility of falling in love?”

  I did not answer immediately. Mal was my closest friend. But I had never told him about my trysts with Harper. Mal had been away that bittersweet summer I had fallen so desperately in love with my bard. By the time Mal had returned, it was all over and I was finished weeping into my pillow. My memories were still far too raw and painful to share, even with Mal.

  Something, either in my hesitation or my face alerted Mal. He leaned forward in his chair and said half-teasingly, “You have been entertaining thoughts of romance. Who is it? Never tell me you are harboring tender feelings for the Crusher?”

  “No! Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “For who then?”

  “For no one,” I snapped.

  An odd smile played about Mal’s mouth. If he sensed I was keeping any sort of a secret, he could be worse than a ferret shredding the lawn digging for rabbits. I made haste to change the subject.

  “Back to the matter of this royal ball, I still do not understand why you are so eager for me to attend an event that I despise as much as you do. It would be dreadful of me to sally off to the ball when my poor Amy and Netta are positively breaking their hearts to do so. I could not be so cruel as to go without them.” I paused, eyeing Mal speculatively. “Unless you might also afford to include them—”

  “I could, but I won’t,” Mal said. “The ugly stepsisters must simply learn to accept their disappointment.”

  “Don’t call them that! Amy and Netta are darling, lovely girls.”

  “They are spoiled brats and your wicked stepmother is even more selfish. Do you know why your father even married her? My gran always said it was because he saw Imelda in the park, cooing over her girls, and got this fool notion she would make you a good mother.”

  “And do you know why Imelda married my father? She saw him as a knight in shining armor coming to carry her off to his castle where she would live happily ever after. So they were both doomed to unhappiness and—” I heard my voice starting to rise and checked it.

  Mal had nothing but contempt for Imelda and my stepsisters. It was one of the few things we ever quarreled about and I had no wish to do so again.

  An uncomfortable silence fell between us. Mal finally said, “I am sorry, Ella, but the problem is if your stepsisters accompany you to the ball, they might get in your way.”

  “In the way of my what?”

  “Of you doing what I need you to do,” Mal replied vaguely. The manner in which he avoided meeting my eyes roused all my former suspicions that he was keeping something back.

  “Enough, Mal. What is the real reason you want me to attend the ball? This is supposed to be your birthday favor, something that will benefit you. So what is it?”

  Mal pulled a rueful face. “I would have had to tell you eventually. But perhaps we should have some more tea first.”

  “No more tea,” I said, moving the pot out of his reach. “Quit stalling, Mal, and just tell me.”

  “Oh, very well. It has been brought to my attention recently—never mind how or by whom,” he added hastily. “That’s not important, but someone has informed me that the king has a crystal orb that he keeps locked up in his treasure chamber. That orb belonged to my grandfather and I want it back.”

  “I still don’t understand what that has to do with me attending…” My words trailed off as comprehension smacked me over the
head. “Oh, no, no, no!” I said, vigorously shaking my head.

  “Oh, yes.” Mal gave me his most charming and wolfish grin. “You have to admit the ball will be the perfect distraction for you to slip into the treasury chamber and retrieve the orb.”

  It was fortunate I was no longer holding my teacup or I would have bounced it off Mal’s head, and I thought my aim was every bit as good as Granny Hawkridge’s. Instead I gasped, “Have you completely lost your mind? That’s why you are so eager for me to attend the ball? You want to steal from the king?”

  “It is not stealing. That orb was my grandfather’s, so by right, it belongs to me.”

  “I doubt the king will see it that way when I am caught.”

  “You won’t be caught. I have planned the whole thing out carefully, a way for you to slip easily past the guards and unlock the chamber. The orb is so small, you can easily hide it in your reticule.”

  “Ladies don’t carry reticules to a ball,” I said.

  “Then we’ll have a special pocket sewn into your ball gown. It will be easy, Ella. You will be in and out of there in five minutes.”

  “And on my way to the Dismal Dungeons.”

  “That won’t happen, I tell you. Do you think I would ever ask you to do anything that would put you in serious danger? I have devised an enchantment that will afford you extra protection.”

  “Another one of your enchantments? I might as well choke myself and save the Lord High Garroter the bother.”

  “Thank you very much.” Mal’s face suffused with annoyance. “You are as bad as my grandfather was. Neither of you have any faith in my magical abilities.”

  “I wonder why that would be,” I said as another clump of Mal’s hair fell out and hit the table.

  Mal swept it impatiently onto the floor. “Do you know, Ella, I actually thought you might show a spark of enthusiasm for this venture. You used to enjoy taking risks. You had such a sense of adventure—”