Lady Agatha Speaks Her Mind

Chapter 1

Agatha

“If only Melusine hadn’t been your fairy godmother,” Father says, “then we wouldn’t have to worry about it.” He stares out the window, glum despite the cheerful dancing of the late-spring leaves outside and the gentle breeze that carries in the scent of apple blossoms and honeysuckle.

“She’s not that bad.” I glide into the parlor, tea tray in one hand and packet of letters in the other. “I’m sure she won’t do anything too alarming this year. After all”—I bestow a smile on him—“she’s worked too hard on me to waste it all now.”

Father chuckles, the lines in his round face relaxing. “She has.” His gaze slips to the hem of my dress. “Perhaps she’ll finally fix your ankles tomorrow.”

Oh, heavens. Not that again. “Let me get you some tea.” Ignoring the ankle issue, I set the tray on a side table and hand Father the letters while I prepare his cup. Chamomile, which I know is his least favorite, but he needs something soothing.

He wrinkles his nose at the scent, but another smile and a “Here you are” murmured in my most charming tone have their desired effect, and he accepts the tea without complaint.

I settle into the worn chair beside him with a cup of my own; he needs my presence for a while longer.

If I leave too soon, he’s liable to spend the entire night fretting about what Melusine will bestow upon me for my birthday tomorrow.

Ever since she began deviating her blessings from the Council of Godmothers’ Standard Progression of Gifts, he worries that she’ll do something disastrous, as if skipping the Gift of Thin Ankles is equivalent to changing me into an amphibian.

It’s not a rational idea, and besides, she hasn’t turned anyone into a frog for generations, but I keep these thoughts to myself.

Father’s fingers tap the arm of his chair. “You never know with that one,” he grouses. “I wish you’d gotten a different godmother.”

“I can handle Melusine,” I assure Father. “And her gifts are better than the Standard Progression, anyhow.” I’m not sure I quite believe this, but it’s what he wants to hear.

He hums, unable to resist the Charm in my tone, which proves my point.

The Standard Progression includes a Gift of a Pleasing Voice, which is nice, but for my twelfth birthday, Melusine improved it from Pleasing to Charming.

Even in speaking, my voice is melodious, capable of soothing the most cantankerous of children—or parents.

I wrap my hands around my warm teacup and take a slow sip. Chamomile isn’t my favorite, either, but my canister of Rhylorrian Green is nearly empty, and I didn’t want to share any with Father.

Selfish, I know, but he doesn’t appreciate it like I do.

“And everything is in order to receive the guests?”

“Perfectly,” I say. My voice is quite useful for cajoling the staff and smoothing over those little disputes that frequently arise between Cook and the housekeeper, so I’ve been doing more than my share of household management for the last nine years.

Stepmother was quite willing to pass the reins to me.

“There was a bit of a disagreement over the menu, but we got that sorted; and the boys didn’t want to give up their rooms for the duke, but I convinced them that sleeping in the attic this week would be terribly exciting.

” I sip my tea again, mentally checking off tasks to be done before my suitors arrive for my birthday party.

Everything should be ready; it’s a squeeze to accommodate a dozen men and their various attendants, but the housekeeper and I managed to find a place for all of them.

Satisfied that I haven’t forgotten anything, I let my imagination drift to the party, envisioning myself surrounded by a crowd of adoring men, all anxious to woo me.

I’ll undoubtedly be engaged before the evening’s out—and just as undoubtedly, the winning suitor will be Virgle Mansfield, Duke of Glen Violet.

He’s the richest person in the country, and thus the most worthy of me.

He’s not very handsome, and I do regret how mismatched we’ll look together: him, slightly-less-than-average, and me, made perfect by my twenty-one years of fairy gifts.

Well, twenty-one tomorrow. I wonder what I’ll get this year.

Father makes a distressed sort of rumble, so I pull myself from my thoughts and lay my hand over his. “Bills?” My voice hums with sympathy.

The effect is immediate. “The butcher wants money, the miller wants money, everyone wants money.” Father thumbs through the letters before laying them aside calmly.

“But it will be all right, once everything is arranged for your marriage. Mansfield already offered a goodly sum for you.” He smiles and raises his teacup to me in a salute.

“The butcher and the miller will be happy to hear it,” I laugh back before dropping my gaze. Will he miss me, I wonder?

I don’t ask.

“And the woodsman wants to know if he should harvest from the east forest. Bah! What do I care about the east forest?” Father says jovially. “My daughter receives her final Gift tomorrow! Let us celebrate!”

I smile, but wish that Melusine hadn’t made my voice just charming.

It’s very handy for untangling my brothers’ childish disputes, or for getting Father out of one of his grouchy moods (as long as he’s not inebriated), but even Charm can’t force someone to action: in this case, convincing Father that he really should care something about the east forest.

I’ve tried, but he’s always had an excuse for why he doesn’t need to be more involved in the forestry and farming of the mountain.

He inherited his title right after my mother died and I had been claimed by Melusine, so I suspect—and I’m rarely wrong—that the reason he’s not more concerned with it all is because for the last twenty-one years, he’s been supposing that someone will pay a great deal of money to marry me, so why bother with the boring details in the meantime?

If a godmother—even such a one as Melusine—chose to bless our family, why not take advantage of it?

Why shouldn’t he relax and let the mountain continue on however it wishes until it’s time to auction me off?

While many people in our mountain country of Candor might get a fairy blessing in their lifetime, few receive the whole Standard Progression: twenty-one years of Gifts that alter a young woman from something ordinary into something spectacular.

The ways of the godmothers are mysterious, and I’ve never known why I was lucky enough to be chosen—or, perhaps, unlucky enough to be chosen by Melusine.

She’s a little too eccentric to stick to the Progression, but as I said, she improved some of them.

As long as no one scrutinizes my ankles too closely.

Otherwise, I’m objectively the most enchanting young woman most people ever have or ever will see. I’m fit to grace even the richest duke as a bride, and Father’s right that he should be able to get a very fine price for me.

As long as nothing alarming happens, I’m all set to glide into the charmed life I was made for.

Lem

If I never have to make the journey from Rhylorria to Candor again, it will be too soon.

No one from the royal family has visited this small, insufferably mountainous country on our border since the days of some long-ago king whose name I never could remember.

After jostling on horseback for four days, the mountains transforming from hazy blue smudges on the horizon to suffocatingly leafy glens and ridges, I understand why.

Nothing to see but trees and rocks, few cities to stop in on the way, a quite nasty exertion on the horses, and at the end—what?

Some lady who’s probably only called pretty because she’s got nicer teeth than the rest of these mountain folk?

And the godmothers. I shiver.

“Do you suppose she’s really as beautiful as they say?” Henry yawns. Neither of us slept at the smelly, flea-infested little hostel last night, and we’d gotten up before dawn to finish our journey. He leans forward, peering up the winding road. Why? To see more trees? Are they so fascinating?

When I don’t answer him, he tears his attention away from the stunning vista to look at me. “Having second thoughts, my prince? You seem out-of-sorts.”

“I’m not out-of-sorts,” I say in a way that sounds very out-of-sorts, even to myself.

“Ah, nervous then.” His gray eyes glitter with teasing. “Afraid of this great beauty, who will surely overcome your heart in a single glance?”

I sniff. “I’m not nervous.”

“You should be!” Henry angles toward me. “Really, if she’s half as charming as the reports say, she’ll want nothing to do with you. You couldn’t charm a frog.”

“Why would I need to charm a frog?”

“If I may speak frankly, Your Highness”—he doesn’t wait for permission—“it’s perfectly natural that you’re feeling uncertain.

What do you have to offer such a blessed maiden?

Not looks—that’s obvious enough, and as we’ve already established, your personal charm is also quite low.

I’ve heard that every eligible man rich enough to own his own donkey is invited to this soirée, which means you have—let me see.

” He rubs his chin in a mockery of thought.

“Ah, yes. Absolutely zero chance!” He nudges his horse closer to mine and pulls a pitiful face. “Don’t bother denying it.”

“You forget that I own considerably more than donkeys,” I say dryly.

“Pshaw, you think this paragon of beauty and grace cares about such worldly things as status and royalty?”

I refuse to dignify his nonsense with a rebuttal, snapping the reins to prompt my white mare to pull ahead. His spirits are not repressed.

“No second thoughts, and you’re not nervous about the wondrous Lady Agatha,” Henry says. He keeps pace easily. “What’s bothering you?”

I look away. What a surprise—more trees. “Nothing is bothering me.”

“Of course not. You’re just snappy and glum because that’s your usual demeanor.” He pauses. “Well, actually, that’s fairly accurate.”

I roll my eyes. “Do you have any other cheery remarks, or should we travel in silence for a while?”

“Whatever my lord prince commands,” Henry replies, far too cheerfully. “I can continue insulting you or let you stew on your own.”

“Then I’ll stew, thank you.”

Henry shrugs, a half-smile still on his face. He knows me too well to press.

For a moment.

Then, “We don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to. It was just my idea—”

“It’s a good idea,” I interrupt. Henry already knows that I’m not going to say no to his plans, no matter how outlandish and terrifying they are.

I’m not clever enough to come up with any on my own, and I don’t have the force of will or determination to just …

decide. It’s probably a helpful character quality in a younger brother, the ability to go along with the whims of the older.

It’s a decidedly unhelpful quality when the younger accidentally becomes the crown prince.

“Good,” Henry says happily. His gelding snorts at a golden-winged bird swooping across the road. “Think of it, Lem! Once we find a godmother, you can go back to Rhylorria and do whatever you want. No more court, no more—well, court is the main thing, isn’t it?”

I nod, which pleases him, and he trots on, his head turning side-to-side as he scans the landscape to count the endless trees. Or maybe the rocks.

Guilt squeezes like a band across my chest. Poor Henry.

He was always the one with big plans, big dreams, but he laid them all aside to accompany me when I became prince.

He doesn’t complain, but I’m sure he’s as eager to be free of it all as I am.

So when he came to me last week, waving a crumpled invitation to some birthday party deep in the Candori mountains and talking about ancient curses and godmothers and the tantalizing thought of being freed from it all …

of course I went along with his idea, even though the thought of fairies makes me squirm.

As a rule, Rhylorrians pride themselves on the fact that our country isn’t overrun with the pesky things, so I was surprised by Henry’s idea that we should find one.

But This is your chance, he’d said, so here I am, taking it.

The king and queen were a bit confused by my sudden desire to travel to Candor, but the report of Lady Agatha’s famous beauty had reached our courts years ago, and they accepted her birthday party as a reasonable explanation.

The queen even offered vaguely to help with wedding-planning, if it came to that, although I doubt she ranks my chances any higher than Henry does.

No one seemed particularly worried about my safety—Rhylorrian princes are easily replaceable, even if we can’t abdicate—and it didn’t take too much effort for Henry to convince the guards that I didn’t need any additional companions.

A cloud of gnats swarms me as we begin another uphill climb. My whole body aches from the constant jostling. I set my jaw. I hope this plan works. But, I remind myself, it was Henry’s idea, not mine—which means there’s a good chance.

I just have to find a godmother.