Chapter 11 In Which Happily Ever Et Cetera
In Which Happily Ever Et Cetera
Janet, when Gretsella tracked her down in Bradley’s throne room, looked torn between delight at her own success and the vague unease of a young child who is just beginning to suspect that he might not actually be a faster sprinter than his father after all. “I can explain!” Janet said.
“No, you can’t,” Gretsella said. “Half of those votes for you were my doing. Don’t think you managed to get away with something without my knowing, Janet.
Your machinations were not only anticipated but entirely welcome.
Now Herman won’t have to be troubled with a kingship he never wanted, and you will receive exactly what you deserve. ”
It was, as far as a victory went, admittedly somewhat technical.
It wouldn’t exactly pass muster with the more discerning class of witch.
If word got out that Gretsella had been forced to scramble after an untrained upstart like Janet with a little last-minute magic just to maintain the upper hand, it would be the talk of all the covens of Evermore for weeks.
Not a total humiliation, but certainly a blow to the witchly ego.
And what did Gretsella have if not her witchly ego?
Bradley was the answer. Not one that she would repeat before a bunch of stuffy old-fashioned witches, of course.
Not a very witchy answer at all. It was more than a little embarrassing to be forced to admit that your real reason for being was something as soft and weak and dull and unimpressive as love.
It was also the only true answer. And the strongest witches of all, Gretsella had found—the old ones, the wise ones, the ones as dug into their power as an ancient tree into the earth—would toss aside a thousand pounds of interesting or impressive for a tiny, precious scrap of something true.
Janet would just have to learn that for herself, one day.
Still, Gretsella couldn’t just let her think she’d gotten away with it. So she looked Janet straight in the eye and said, “I curse you, Janet.”
“Oh, please,” Janet said. “I’ve heard you say that about three dozen times in the past month. You drank too much champagne the other night and then cursed a chambermaid for dusting too loudly the next morning. You never actually curse anyone.”
Gretsella gave her head a regretful shake.
“It really is a shame that you never trained as a witch, Janet,” she said.
“You could have been a good one. You’ve been denying your nature, though, so you don’t understand how a real witch thinks.
” A dark storm cloud gathered directly over their heads.
This alone would have been unnerving, considering that it was a fine, clear day.
As things were, it was even more disconcerting, considering that one couldn’t usually look up and see storm clouds gathering around the ceiling light fixtures.
“A witch never allows herself to become predictable. And I curse you, Janet Findimatabar. I curse you with a curse that shall abide unto death itself.”
Janet scoffed, which meant that she snorted a little air out of her nose in a skeptical and disrespectful sort of way.
Gretsella had never really understood what it meant in books when they said that someone scoffed, and she was grateful to have been given, at long last, a live demonstration.
Not grateful enough to stop cursing Janet, though.
You couldn’t scoff at a witch who knew what scoffing meant and expect to get away with a warning.
There was another threatening roll of thunder.
“I curse you, Janet Findimatabar, with honesty.”
A bolt of lightning streaked across the room and incinerated part of a particularly elaborate fresco installed by the same historical king who’d added the cherubs to the stableyard.
A prancing nymph had been deprived completely of a bunch of grapes, and a leering satyr lost the portion of his anatomy that had, presumably, fueled the leer.
A few feet below these developments stood Janet, looking as if the mighty dam that defended her reservoir of self-confidence had sprung a small leak.
“Honesty, Grandmother? What, exactly, does that mean?”
“When you have to ask what honesty is, Janet Findimatabar, you know that you’ve got problems with it,” Gretsella said, with extreme smugness.
“And from this day forward, you will only ever be able to speak the pure and honest truth, which will come in handy over the course of a career in politics. The people will praise the name of Honest King Janet for generations!”
“You’re a nasty, spiteful old hag,” Janet said, her evident horror mingled with what Gretsella was quite sure was grudging admiration.
“Thank you,” Gretsella said.
“You know what a horrible curse that is for someone in my situation, don’t you? It could end up getting me killed.”
“I do know,” Gretsella said. “And there’s nothing keeping you as king other than you wanting the job. You could give it up just like Bradley did.”
“I’m not Bradley,” Janet said. “I didn’t just stumble into this. I’ve been making my way up in the world since I first left my village when I was eighteen. I’m not giving up now just because some old witch wants me to.”
Gretsella raised her eyebrows. “You’ve been working your way up all this time, hmm? Plotting and scheming and grasping at power. It didn’t make Bradley very happy when he had it. Do you think it’ll be different for you, Carrots?”
Janet went pale. “How did you—”
“A witch has her ways,” Gretsella said. “Why Carrots? Your hair isn’t red.”
Janet blushed. “I got a terrible sunburn when I was eight,” she said. “All over my legs.”
“Ah,” Gretsella said, “I see.” Then she said, “Don’t look at me like that, girl. Curses don’t mean anything to people like us anyway.”
“I’m not a witch,” Janet said.
“Whatever you say,” Gretsella said. “When you change your mind about this silly king business and decide that you want a real job, come and find me. Just walk into the forest and ask for the witch, and you’ll be sent straight to me.”
“That doesn’t even—” Janet started, then gave up. Gretsella had already swept out of the room.
With the election out of the way, there wasn’t much left to do but for Bradley to give a (very touching) concession speech (there was barely a dry eye under the balcony, no matter how fervently he beseeched Evermore not to cry for him).
Bradley also insisted on hanging around for a few more days to assist in the peaceful transfer of power, as much as Gretsella would have preferred to let the formerly less-than-scrupulously-honest king-elect figure things out on her own.
On the day before they were due to leave, Bradley made a tour of the palace to personally thank and bid goodbye to all the employees, which set off more crying.
Gretsella took the opportunity to get copies of Prune’s cake recipes.
The woman really did make excellent cake.
Then, that evening, they were invited to attend the party that Lady Cordelia had organized as a goodbye-King-Bradley-hello-King-Janet-isn’t-the-peaceful-transfer-of-power-nice-and-please-take-note-of-the-fact-that-no-one-has-literally-or-figuratively-lost-their-heads gala.
It was the inaugural event of its kind, so everyone had been calling it “the inauguration,” which Gretsella thought sounded like exactly what a bunch of dreary, earnest democracy enjoyers would call a party.
Gretsella was extremely irritated when the party turned out to be one for the books.
Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised: Half of the guest list was made up of jesters, and they drank almost as much as journalists, who made up a good portion of the rest of the attendees.
The merrymaking was at a fever pitch. Even Gretsella got into the spirit of things, drank three large glasses of punch—it was served in flames, which she found gratifyingly diabolical—and ended up leaning very heavily on the strong left arm of Herman.
“You know,” she told him mushily, “you’re very shenshible—for a man. ”
“Thank you,” he said. “And you’re very sensible for anyone. And clever. And—beg your pardon, ma’am, and meaning you no disrespect—a very handsome woman. With piercing eyes full of intelligence and discernment, ma’am.” His face had gone very pink above his excellent mustache.
“Ooh!” Gretsella said, and waggled a finger at him. “Getting very shmart! Getting—cheeky! Saying words with your very nice mustache!” She leaned in closer to him. “It is a very good mustache,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, looking her in the eyes.
“None of that!” she said, and tried to spin on her heel 180 degrees. She overshot by about forty degrees, reoriented herself, and marched determinedly—if somewhat circuitously—toward the gardens for some badly needed fresh air.
Once outside, she got briefly lost in a hedge maze, and emerged into the rose garden just in time to see Sir George gallantly going down on one knee in front of her son. Gretsella, obviously, listened in.
“I don’t see why,” Bradley was saying, wetly. “I was a terrible king, and I’m not even the king anymore. I’m just a village hairdresser, and one day I’ll be old and wrinkled and have hair growing out of my nose.”
“I like your nose,” George said. “And I suppose that one day I’ll like the hairs too.”
“I just don’t understand,” Bradley said. “Maybe I’m just too slow.”
“I see,” George said. “Well—have you ever heard of a holly dragon?”
Bradley gave a damp laugh. “You’ve already explained inflation to me.”
“I don’t want to explain inflation,” George said. “I meant that you’re…like the holly dragon.”
“I guard the door?”
“No,” George said. “You’re indispensable. Nothing else will do. And I’d pay any price if I had to. If it meant I didn’t have to go without you.”
“Oh,” Bradley said. “So are you. You’re the holly dragon who guards the door.”
“What?”