Chapter 7 Disturbing My Rabbits
Lem
My conscience berates me for leaving that poor girl alone with a roomful of rather angry men. I almost turn back twice as I hasten back to the room that had been allotted to Henry and me.
I try to tell myself that there’s nothing I can do to help her.
She doesn’t want me; she made that quite clear.
And even if she did, I can’t go around marrying ill-tempered, beautiful women just because they alienate all their other prospects.
It would be terribly short-sighted to turn back and offer to whisk her away to Rhylorria so we could live happily ever after.
Plus, she did call me pathetic, so we probably wouldn’t even get the happily part.
My brain thinks this is all quite logical, but my conscience—ah, that one isn’t going to shut up any time soon.
“Henry?” I call as soon as I enter the room, but he’s not here. Probably sneaking around to find food, since he wasn’t welcomed to the ball and its attendant feast.
I huff. I wanted to complain to him. I’d say things like “Lady Agatha was quite possibly the rudest woman I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting” and “She compared me to a fungus—a fungus, I declare!” Henry would, of course, feign outrage on my behalf, which I’m choosing to believe would make me feel better.
Strange, that she’d been so charming in the woods earlier today and so vitriolic this evening. Almost like two different people, neither of whom I have any intention of seeing again. Her pretty, scornful face is burnt into my memory. I curl my lip at it.
Sulking, unfortunately, can only occupy me for so long. Where has Henry gotten to? I suppose he ran into a pretty maid and is enjoying himself in a pointless flirtation. I scowl. Probably no one is calling him pathetic.
Or, perhaps, he went back out to resume our search for a godmother. After all, he doesn’t want to stay here any longer than I do. I perk up. Yes, I bet that’s it—he’s out looking.
If Henry’s out, then there’s no point for me to stay in this drafty room.
I’ll go try to find him. Or … or maybe I could do some fairy-hunting on my own for a bit.
And Henry, wherever he is, won’t worry about me getting lost or falling into streams or any of those other things he’s so mother-hennish about.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I change my boots—no need to wear these fancy ones when I’m just going to trek through the forest again—then swap my dress jacket for the coat I’d worn while traveling.
Henry must have cleaned it, because the dust I’d accumulated is brushed off. I feel nearly respectable.
Pathetic, Lady Agatha’s voice rings in my mind.
I sniff.
Returning to the hallway, I try to assume an air of confidence, like I belong here and am allowed to skulk about at all hours of the day. It should work. I’ve been practicing for years.
A distant slamming sounds from the other wing of the house, but I shut my ears to it, stuff my conscience with cotton, and march away.
What am I even looking for?
How can I hope to find a godmother in the dark?
I’ve been stepping through the forest for hours now, and it gets more unsettling by the minute.
A strange sort of mistiness crawls over the ground, and the light of the half-moon paints it silver as it laps at my feet and the trunks of the trees.
Nightbirds hoot to each other, and intermittent rustling in the underbrush proves the presence of other creatures. But no sign of a fairy.
I set my jaw. I’ll walk all night if I must. I’ll find a godmother. I’ll make my request. I’ll make Henry proud.
There—in the distance—a faint glow. It’s not the glow of candlelight, and it’s too low to be a star. Sudden nervousness swells in my gut as I turn that direction, picking a way between sweeping boughs.
The light seems to bob, then it suddenly darts to the left and winks out. I mutter a curse.
Another light appears in my peripheral vision. I retract the curse and change direction.
It’s gone just as suddenly.
I un-retract the curse after all.
There, the first light is back—or is it the same? I turn again, but then the new light appears on the other side. I waver. Which should I follow?
And what sort of idiot am I, following mysterious lights in an enchanted forest? Lady Agatha’s pretty sneer comes back to mind. Pathetic, foolish, idiotic.
She wasn’t wrong.
Another light springs up from the ground, this one to the right, but closer. Then another appears, and another, and another, all bobbing steadily toward me. I press my back to a smooth-barked tree and wait, wide-eyed, as the greenish orbs encircle me.
I think I’ve found a fairy.
Suddenly, tongues of lightning arc out from orb to orb, making a domed web of ghastly light. I hope it’s a nice fairy. I’m not sure how to tell the difference. Clearing my throat, I say, “Excuse me? Is—is someone there?”
Silence.
I stretch out a finger and touch one of the light strands, but pull back with an immediate yelp. That burns.
Popping the throbbing finger into my mouth, I turn and look behind me. Perhaps the fairy—oh, how I hope it’s a nice one!—is behind the tree. But there’s nothing there except more freakish spiderwebs of light.
I turn again and let out a surprised yelp. Undignified for a prince, yes! But there in front of me, inside the dome and standing mere inches away, is what I can confidently say must be a godmother.
She’s short—five feet at the most—but seems to tower over me in spirit even as she cranes her head to look up. Her features almost glow in the light from the orbs.
Now this is an otherworldly creature. I feel silly for ever thinking Lady Agatha, beautiful as she is, could be a godmother. There’s something distinctly inhuman to this fairy’s eyes, which are gazing at me intently.
I press my back a little closer to the tree trunk. “Excuse me … Godmother?” I croak.
“You’ve been making a lot of noise while I was trying to think,” she says, not taking her eyes off of me. “Why are you disturbing my rabbits?”
“Rabbits?”
“They’ve been complaining about your clomping for hours!”
“I—” My forehead furrows. “I’m sorry?”
The godmother swats me on the arm. Her touch has a faint buzz to it.
“You should be!” she says. “I had a very busy day! Now, if you’ll be so kind as to walk more quietly—float, if you can—although that might disturb the pigeons—” She takes a step back, snapping her fingers.
The lights wink out and the webbing puffs away to nothing.
The sudden darkness has me blinking. “Godmother?” I say. “Are you still there?”
I wince when a larger orb of bright-white light floods my vision. The godmother is still there, one palm out to hold the orb, which makes no sense; it’s floating.
“What? Are you lost?”
“Yes, but that’s not what—”
“You’ll get to the road if you turn left every time you see a yew tree that’s over one hundred years old.” She pauses. “Or is it two hundred, now? I can never keep track of your human years. Goodnight.” The light winks out.
“Godmother!” I call. She can’t just leave me like this! I haven’t even made my request yet!
“What is it now?” This time, there’s no orb; she herself glows pink. She’s perched on the branch of a tree, hair trailing behind her in an unfelt breeze. “Let me guess: you don’t know how to tell the age of a tree. It’s very simple: just ask them.”
She’s gone again.
“Godmother!” I take a step forward in the darkness and trip on a loose rock. Stumbling to my knees, I yell, “I want to ask you for a favor!”
The forest seems to go silent at my request. I wait, crouching on the forest floor and holding my breath.
“Godmother? Please?”
She shimmers into visibility, inch by inch, from her toes to her head. When her face finally appears, it’s frowning.
“I already gave one gift today. At least, I think it was today. What year is it, by your reckoning? Wait—don’t answer—I can figure it out.” She begins counting on her fingers, growing new ones when she runs out.
When she’s up to twenty-three, I stand up, brush my knees off, and interrupt impatiently. “I came seeking a favor only a godmother can do.”
She flicks her extra fingers away and crosses her arms with a pout. “Now I lost count.”
“I’m sorry, Godmother. I just—”
“Wait!” She holds up a hand, thankfully with the correct number of digits. “A lie, and it smells familiar!” She taps her chin. “Ah! Agatha! Yes. You must have been with her.”
“You are Lady Agatha’s Godmother?”
“Of course.” She stares at me as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “What? Did you think she came by that golden hair naturally?”
“I thought she was a fairy herself when I first saw her,” I admit.
She giggles. “You see now how silly that was.” She hops off the tree branch and floats to the ground.
“Absolutely.” I chew the inside of my cheek. How can I get her back to the point?
She steps over to me and jabs a finger into my chest. “Why did you lie to me?”
I’m surprised. “Did I lie to you?”
“You said you were sorry. You weren’t sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, “I don’t remember—”
“There it is again!” She gives me another jab and frowns. “I will not deal with a liar.” Her illumination begins snuffing itself somehow.
“Wait, please!” I fall to my knees before the half-visible godmother and clasp my hands in supplication. “I promise I’ll be truthful. But please, please, hear my request!”
“Why should I?”
I falter. “Because … you’re the only one that can help me?”
“Doubtful!” The godmother laughs again. “Tell me, honestly, that you’ve tried to solve your problem in at least three other ways.”
My mouth falls open. “I—well—” Have I tried anything else? I don’t know. I was sort of just … existing … until Henry had this madcap idea and we ran off impulsively. If I admit this, she’ll never help me; but I already promised her to be truthful. Will she be able to tell?
I clear my throat. “I’ve tried—I’ve tried—” I begin. My chest deflates. “Nothing else. I just thought you could do it.”
The godmother tips her head to one side, hair still streaming behind her. “Well.”
I slump. All this tedious journey for nothing. And now I have to return home in shame, and Henry will be disappointed, and I’ll be stuck in court again—
“Fine.” The godmother’s crystal voice startles me out of my slump. “I like honesty. But I warn you, my solution to your problem will probably be much more unpleasant than if you put in the work yourself.”
“I doubt that,” I say.
“Never doubt a fairy,” she snaps. “Come, follow me to my glade. You can tell me about your problem there.”
I rush to obey.
“Leave your boots.” When I hesitate, she adds, “They smell of horse. I don’t like that in my glade. Upsets my equilibrium.”
Stooping, I yank my boots off and leave them between the roots of the tree that, I swear, tilts forward to enclose them. The godmother twinkles away through the trees, and I jog to keep up.
I feel a grin break out across my face as I dare to dream of the life the godmother is about to bestow on me.
Finally.
I’ll be free.