by Lynn Kurland
Pippa shuddered and stood up. “I’m not about to go looking in her drawers. I don’t want to know what else is hiding there.”
Peaches slung her arm around Pippa’s shoulders. “How is it with parents like these we turned out to be so normal?”
“Don’t ask,” Pippa said darkly. That was the last thing she wanted to think about. She’d spent her entire life fighting against her parents’ lifestyle, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.
She paused. That wasn’t exactly true. She had, at fourteen, been sprung for a couple of months from Aunt Edna’s Gloomy Victorian Boardinghouse to go with her parents to England. She’d loved the place so much, she’d happily spent her time brewing herbal tea and creating Renaissance-inspired tofu delights to sell at all the reenactment gatherings they could find. One place she had fallen particularly in love with had been a castle on the northern coast. Artane, she thought its name might have been. She had been standing near that castle early one morning, when she could have sworn she’d seen—
Well, never mind what she’d thought she’d seen. She’d been fourteen at the time, an age particularly prone to vivid imagination. Gorgeous guys in chainmail just didn’t pop up out of the mist, even in England. She’d been taking the whole reenactment thing too seriously, eaten too much refined sugar, and her mind had played tricks on her.
Never mind that she’d gone back to that exact spot every morning for the week they’d been there, hoping beyond hope to catch another glimpse—
She took a deep breath and rubbed her hands over her face. She was losing it. Maybe it was smoke inhalation, or the off-gassing of too many sequins. What she remembered most about that summer was that even though she’d done a very brisk business in medieval and Renaissance faire food, her parents had grown tired of her and dumped her with her aunt again so they could go back to doing their own thing. She had gone back to her usual habit of denying the existence of anything magical, wearing it even through college like a badge of honor.
And if she made cone-shaped headgear with sweeping netting cascading down behind them, or crowns of flowers with streamers placed just so, or low-waisted gowns with slight trains, it was strictly business. She had never indulged in any more romantic imaginings about the women who might have worn them and the medieval knights in shining armor who might have loved them. No sir. And she had definitely never indulged in any speculation about the more fantastical and magical items she made for fairies and their ilk. She was a steely-eyed, determined businesswoman sitting on a suitcase full of samples. The chance to impress an investor with her reasonably priced, impossibly charming line of little-girl fairy clothing and further impress him with an equal number of very subtle, medieval-inspired grown-up things had been an opportunity she hadn’t dared turn down.
Maybe having her life burn to the ground in front of her had been a blessing in disguise. She had no choice but to go forward and put all her eggs in an English basket.
The Winnebago circled the block three times until it found a place to weigh anchor. It took a moment or two, but the door finally opened and belched out its occupants. Pippa pushed her hair back out of her face and braced herself for the onslaught.
First came her mother in a multicolored muumuu that set off her long, henna-dyed hair to perfection. She looked a little dazed, but since that was her usual condition, Pippa didn’t think anything of it. Her father came stumbling down the stairs next in acid-washed jeans and a ratty Grateful Dead T- shirt, and a dozen strands of Mardi Gras beads hung around his neck. The cowboy hat he was wearing was iffy, but it was probably made of hemp so she gave him a pass.
They both came to a screeching halt and stared at the ruins of Pippa’s apartment. They couldn’t seem to drag themselves away from the sight, but then again, they were probably being dazzled by the sequins.
Her mother held out a tin of something toward her husband. He fumbled inside it, pulled something out, and ate it, still gaping at the ruin in front of him.
“Those look like brownies,” Pippa murmured.
“Just don’t ask what’s in them,” Peaches muttered in return.
Pippa managed a smile. “You know, even though I don’t have the warmest of feelings for them, I’m not sure I’d count them as karmic retribution.”
“I don’t think it was the parents you needed to look out for.”
“Then who?”
Peaches pointed back toward the motor home.
Pippa looked at the doorway, then felt her mouth fall open.
A foot had appeared in view, a foot wearing a shoe that had to have had at least a five-inch heel. A calf followed the foot, followed by more of a leg that went on forever. And then, as if the possessor of those incredible legs was eternally trapped in a Bob Fosse musical, the rest of the body appeared with a slinkiness that had left an endless trail of males in various stages of swoon for as long as Pippa could remember.
Cinderella Alexander, the bane of Pippa’s existence.
Cindi glided over in her best beauty-queen walk, then stopped and looked at Pippa from a face so perfect, it made Pippa’s teeth ache.
“I hear there’s going to be a party.”
Pippa retrieved her jaw from where it had fallen yet again to her chest. “What?” she asked, pretending to wiggle her ear to hopefully dislodge whatever it was that prevented her from hearing properly.
“In England. A party.”
“Ah,” Pippa began.
“And that fairies are involved.”
Pippa looked at Peaches, who only lifted an eyebrow knowingly. No help there. Pippa turned back to Cindi.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, lying without a moment’s hesitation or guilt. “Hadn’t heard a thing.”
“You’ll need a queen. I’ve decided to come along and be that for you.”
Pippa would have sat back down on her suitcase, but that would have drawn attention to it and perhaps led Cindi to become more acquainted with her wares than necessary. Pippa settled for not hitting Peaches when she began to pinch her arm, hard. The pain kept her from either swooning or bursting into tears—if she’d been the sort to do either, which she most definitely was not.
She was left with no choice but to admit the truth of it. She’d been cocky. She had stared Karma right in the face and dared her to do her worst. The platinum blonde bimbo unconsciously preening in front of her was proof enough that Karma did not like to be messed with.
Pippa knew she had every reason to hate her older sister. Cindi hadn’t had to work her way up through her chosen employment as professional beauty queen; she’d pretty much started at the top. And once she’d realized Pippa could sew, she’d had her sewing at all hours, continually preparing for ball after ball where the prince always noticed Cindi, always proposed, and always went away dazzled and disappointed. Pippa never even got to meet the evening’s leftovers. She was too busy slaving away over the next gala’s gown, which of course had to be more elaborate than the last.
She could have lived with that if the indignities had ended there, but they hadn’t. Every time Pippa thought she might have a meeting with someone useful, Cindi would somehow catch wind of it, then arrive in all her glory and walk off with all eyes on her, leaving Pippa to metaphorically slink along behind her, carrying her train.
She had gone to ridiculous lengths to ensure that this time Cindi would have no idea what was up. She’d sworn Tess to secrecy, made Peaches pinky swear she wouldn’t tell, and threatened her other two sisters with grievous bodily harm if they breathed a word. She couldn’t imagine how Cindi had found out.
Obviously, Karma had been busy.
“Where are your things?” Cindi asked imperiously.
Pippa eased in front of her suitcase protectively. “I have them packed away safely.”
“Not that it matters,” Cindi said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’m bringing my own designs.”
Pippa blinked. “What?”
“Oh, didn’t I t
ell you?” Cindi purred. “I’ve been working on a line of fairy-tale fashions. I had lunch with David Jacoby last month and he mocked them up for me.” She frowned, a perfectly elegant creasing of her equally elegant brow. “Did I forget to tell you?”
Pippa could only gape. Words were beyond her. The Jacoby studio was so far above where she’d ever hoped to even attempt a submission of her portfolio, she could hardly wrap what was left of her smoke-fogged brain around the thought.
“He shipped them to England for me last week. I imagine Tess has them now.” Cindi reached out and patted Pippa on the cheek. “I just thought that since you’d been working so hard, I would take some of the pressure off you. You’ll be bringing along your little costumes, though, won’t you, darling?”
Pippa nodded.
“They’re so sweet. I can hardly wait to dress up the girls and lead them around the castle.” Cindi frowned suddenly, then looked slightly unsettled, if that was possible for a woman for whom everything in life clicked into place with a perfection that was truly appalling. “Oh, I’d forgotten about the castle. Tess said it was drenched in things I might not like.” She looked at Pippa narrowly. “She mentioned drama.”
Pippa didn’t dare look at Peaches. The drama the castle was drenched in would increase exponentially when Cindi arrived, but there was no sense in saying as much.
“Do you know anything about that?” Cindi asked suspiciously.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s drama you have to worry about,” Peaches said without hesitation. “Tess was probably trying to give you a subtle warning that what her castle is really drenched in is ghosts and rumors of mayhem in times past.”
Cindi took a step backward, looking now definitely unsettled. “Ghosts?”
“And mayhem,” Peaches repeated. “And other things that go bump in the night.”
If there was one thing Cinderella Alexander couldn’t stand, it was things that went bump in the night. The creaking wood in Aunt Edna’s Victorian House of Warped and Hand-Scrubbed Boards had just about done her in. Pippa knew that because she had hopped up and down on the floorboards next to Cindi’s door more often than necessary on her way to the bathroom in the middle of the night, just to hear her sister shriek.
She suspected Karma had definitely taken note of that.
Cindi took another step back, then turned abruptly. “Dad looks like he’s been sniffing too much of something. I’d better go rescue him.”
Pippa watched her sister slink off, her perfect legs that went easily up to her ears carrying her away as if she’d been a black widow—perhaps a rather more nervous than usual black widow—reaching out to cover ground between her and supper in the most expedient way.
Peaches put her arm around Pippa’s shoulders. “I tried to get rid of her for you, but I don’t think she was terrified enough to cancel her trip.”
“I appreciate the effort,” Pippa said, trying to sound cheerful, “but don’t worry. After all, how much trouble can she possibly cause?”
“I don’t think you really want the answer to that,” Peaches said with a half laugh, “so I won’t give it. Let me go see if there’s anything edible in the parents’ fridge. You sit there and rest. I think you’re going to need it.”
Pippa agreed, so she sat and attempted a smile because she was, after all, going to England. Surely nothing else untoward was going to happen to her.
Then she realized what Cindi had said.
“Hey, Peaches,” she said before her sister got too far away. “What was Cindi talking about?”
Peaches turned around. “What do you mean?”
“I mean about the castle. Cindi said there was drama and you said there were ghosts.” She laughed dismissively, because she wasn’t at all unnerved by creaking floorboards or other things of a more paranormal nature. “I mean, really. You weren’t serious, were you?”
Peaches smiled. “Well, Tess did say her castle has some strange things going on. She might have mentioned ghosts. And stuff.”
Pippa felt her mouth fall open. “Get out.”
“That’s probably what Tess tells the ghosts all the time,” Peaches said. “And there is a rumor about murder and mayhem, but I’m not sure if that applies to former inhabitants or if Tess knew ahead of time that Cindi was coming along for the ride.”
“You’re not funny,” Pippa said darkly
Peaches laughed. “I imagine you’ll know much more about it in the end than I will. You’re not afraid of ghosts, are you?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Famous last words.”
“Peaches, you’ve been reading too many novels,” Pippa said with a snort. “Let’s just leave paranormal happenings safely tucked in your romances, where they belong. I’ll stick with stuff that’s firmly grounded in reality—”
“Like fairy-tale clothing geared to leaving women thinking they’ve stepped back in time hundreds of years?” Peaches interrupted dryly. “Yeah, you’re a realist, all right. Come on, Miss Cynic. Maybe Mom went completely off the rails and bought sugary breakfast items for you.”
Pippa couldn’t imagine she would be so lucky, but she picked up her suitcase anyway and followed her sister over to the motor home with as much spring in her step as she could manage. Never mind that she had no apartment, no transportation, no underwear. She had a suitcase full of impossibly adorable fairy costumes, people across the deep blue sea who would appreciate them, and probably a sturdy castle guardroom she could lock Cindi in for the duration of their stay.
But ghosts? Ridiculous. Tess’s castle was just a pile of old rocks that had acquired a few, well, quirks along the way: drafts, crumbling mortar, the odd bird nesting in an out-of-the-way spot. Nothing unusual, nothing spooky, nothing to worry about, just smooth sailing from now on. After all, she’d gotten all her rotten luck out of the way that morning. What else could possibly go wrong?
She decided it was probably better not to know.
She took one last look at the disaster behind her, then put her head down and marched off to find breakfast before she had to face the fact that she suspected her adventures in the unexpected had just begun.
Chapter 2
SEDGWICK CASTLE, ENGLAND PRESENT DAY
’T was no secret that Hugh McKinnon favored a well-turned seam.
He was actually quite proud of that, for he considered it proof that he had improved himself over the course of his unlife. When he’d had a mortal frame, he’d been mostly concerned with the turn of a nicely revealed bit of intestine or the arc of his blade as it dispatched without alacrity whomever was troubling his clan. It had been a violent life, and he had been a product of that. He had considered himself fortunate in that he’d lived out a full tally of years instead of succumbing to an early death thanks to the elegant curve of another’s slice across his gut.
He wasn’t quite sure when it had happened, but at some point during his undeath, he had begun to look at other things: the weave of a particularly well-fashioned plaid; the drape of a woman’s gown; the happy coupling of velvet and lace. His vague interest had eventually turned to enthusiasm, then passion. He had traveled far from home in search of things that he could imagine were soft and silky and luxurious to the touch.
That love of all things lovely had led him to locales he’d never in his life dreamed he might go. Across the Pond, to the Continent, into the bowels of theaters whose age and reputation had given him pause. Of course, the pause had been brief before he’d once again taken up his quest to breach their defenses and mount an assault on their prop chambers. It had been the overwhelming passion of his afterlife, his most pressing duty, his one and only goal—
He paused as he stood in the barbican gate. Perhaps his one and only goal was being less than honest. He had another work, of course, a goodly work that required delicacy and diplomacy and called on all the skills at reading men’s hearts that he’d learned over the course of his years as head of the clan McKinnon. Perhaps there was no shame in admitting
that he was first and foremost a matchmaker and that fondling fabric came second.
He was waging Cupid’s war by himself for the moment because his companions were off laying the groundwork for another particularly troublesome case. Well, that and they had no inkling he’d taken up the cause of love on his own. But how could he have done otherwise? His compatriots weren’t the ones with their ears pressed to the boards where rumors of costumial triumphs and matches unmade whispered along the well-trod wood.
He paused a bit longer. Very well, so he’d been eavesdropping in a swanky theater in Seattle and heard tell of a fabulously skilled seamstress who had created the garb for a rendition of a modern, lush version of Cinderella he’d quite thoroughly enjoyed for several nights in a row. Taking a wee peek back in her family tree had revealed that one of her ancestors had been the fifth cousin thrice removed of one of his cousins, which no doubt gave him the authority to see to her. She was surely ready for matrimony, and she sewed a marvelously turned seam. How could he not be the one to look for a proper mate for her?
All of which had led him to where he was at present: walking along the fixed bridge that led over what had originally been a moat but was now a pristine lake. The castle that rose up before him was stunning, despite its unfortunate flaw of being located not in the Highlands. He had popped in a time or two over the past fortnight to see the lay of the land, as it were, and prepare for the arrival of his vict—er, his project, whose sister owned the keep he was now walking into. That sister was in the business of dressing up and leading people in feasts where they pretended to live in the Middle Ages. She was missing several critical components such as disease, terrible food, and surgeons who thought less of sewing a man’s flesh than they did repairing his boots, but he hadn’t had the heart to tell her that. Yet.
His project—Pippy, he thought her name was—was set to arrive in a pair of days to put on a celebration for a wee gel who had a great love of faeries. Hugh had seen the lass and her parents a handful of days beforehand and approved of them all. And given what a lovely child she had been, he thought it wouldn’t be inappropriate to have a look at the preparations to ensure they were as they should have been. After that was seen to, he would turn his mind to more important matters.
