Then Randolf began showing him what had taken the Godmother away from home—and that it had to do entirely with his brother Octavian.
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Now, the Godmother had been keeping him fairly, if sketchily, up-to-date on the rest of his family, but it was one thing to hear about it, and quite another to see it. Octavian just astonished him; his brother had never been a weakling, but the amount of muscle that he had put on was matched only by the changed look of his face. There was thoughtfulness there, and intelligence; Octavian had once seemed a bit imitative, reflecting what others thought rather than thinking for himself.
Alexander scarcely left the mirror for anything; Lily brought him a ploughman’s lunch and he ate it without even tasting it. It was not only that he was half-starved for the sight of familiar faces, and anxious to know the welfare of his father and brother. It was that, if Octavian had managed to win his freedom, how had it been done? And could he manage, as well?
At least, that was how he had begun his vigil. But as he watched his father and brother together, and heard from Randolf what they were all saying, he had realized something quite profound.
They did not need him.
Oh, they wanted to know that he was all right, and when Elena had assured them, in rather vague terms, that he was, they clearly dismissed him and his current situation with some relief. But it had been Octavian who had been brought up at their father’s side; it had been Octavian who was the Crown Prince. The problem that had occurred with Julian had, in a lesser fashion, been going on between Alexander and his father. He’d been raised by nurses and tutors, educated by the Academy, and although he idolized his father, The Fairy Godmother
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he realized that before his return on graduation, he had probably spent less than a month in his father’s presence, all told. Realistically he was the Spare. And with Octavian hale and hearty and as like to their father as if they’d been hatched from the same egg, there was no place at the Kohlstanian court for Alexander except as a perpetual Prince-in-Waiting. Even that promised position as Octavian’s Commander-in-Chief would probably have been in name only. The Commanders of Kohlstania’s army were practiced and competent, and he was unblooded. Exceptionally well-trained, but unblooded.
So, by the time that Randolf showed them Elena, in her little donkey-cart, on her way home again, the question had been significantly altered in Alexander’s mind. It was no longer How can I get home, but Do I want to go home?
What would he do, when he got home again? Oh, he could take command of the Army, he supposed, but to what purpose? To watch them drill, and take them out on parades, and make some effort at keeping them sharp? The current commanders would be better at that than he was. He didn’t know a great deal about anything other than military matters, and to put it bluntly, he doubted that seasoned Commanders would give more than lip service to his leadership.
He had no practice, and no real experience, and they had no reason to trust his judgment. So what would he do when he got back? He had a taste of real work and real life now, and while he wouldn’t miss the blisters and the sweat and the dead-stupid physical labor, the artificial surroundings of the Court did not seem particularly attractive anymore.
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on the Council sessions and pretending he was actually contributing to the discussions seemed an utter waste of time.
And a day “filled” with games, hunting, flirting, wenching, and the like wasn’t particularly attractive, either.
Well, perhaps the wenching. But a man could only rise to the occasion so many times in a day. You couldn’t actually fill a day with wenching.
As a grumbling Rose made certain that he was out of the house and heading back to the stables, he was no longer sure that he belonged in Kohlstania anymore.
He’d had more of those dreams, of purple sands and a lovely lady. He was not altogether certain of her identity, but by now, he had a shrewd guess.
Oh, yes indeed, he could guess. The strange light had given an odd color to her hair, but under proper sun, he reckoned it would be golden. And while he’d never seen Elena in quite so little clothing, well, that could just be chalked up to the fact that his imagination was very good at creating a picture from a small amount of information.
Not that he was under any illusions that the dreams meant anything, except that he had stopped thinking of Madame Elena as an enemy and someone to blame all of his troubles upon. No, he was not about to make any overtures in that direction. He had no particular wish to go back to being a donkey most of the time. Not that she wasn’t a tasty little thing, and not that she wasn’t exactly to his particular taste, but—no. And not that she still couldn’t make his groin ache if he thought about her in that way, but—definitely no. Even if she didn’t turn him back into a don
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key, it wasn’t worth finding himself flat on his back with that sort of headache for a second time.
It was enough that as he had become less of an ass, in both senses, she had become friendlier. If she didn’t yet treat him as an equal—well, maybe he didn’t yet deserve to be treated like an equal. A Godmother was both above birth-rank and apart from it—
So, if you want respect from a Godmother, you have to earn it, I suppose.
He climbed the ladder to his loft-room slowly, and as he poked his head through the hole in the floor, he realized that tonight he was disinclined to read anything. He didn’t even light his lamp; he merely blew out the one he had brought with him and stripped down in the darkness. Instead of reading, he climbed into his bed, and lay there with his hands clasped behind his head, thinking.
No, I don’t think I want to go home. Not unless something horrible happens to Octavian; Father would need me then. But as long as they know that I’m all right, I suppose it wouldn’t matter to them where I am. So where should I go, and what could I do?
Julian might be able to use him; he’d always gotten along reasonably well with Julian. Truth to tell, though his brother was probably handling the civilians in his new land well enough, where the military was concerned, Julian wouldn’t have a clue. According to Alexander’s instructors, it was usually better all the way around for a ruler’s Commander-in-Chief to be someone he trusted and knew, personally.
He could probably talk Julian into giving him the position. The real question was how Julian’s new people would 376
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feel about it. And there were other things to consider; what the shape of Julian’s army was, if he even had an army. If he didn’t—well, in that case there was no doubt; there was a place for him at Julian’s side. Building an army up from nothing, or back up from decay—yes, he knew how to do that, in theory at least.
But of course, if Julian happened to have a perfectly good army, and a Commander-in-Chief that suited him, then even if Alexander talked him into the job, there would be a colossal amount of resentment. No, he wouldn’t walk into that particular tiger-pit…not without a lot of forethought and planning, anyway.
It might be worth it. Especially if he’d actually be able to accomplish something.
He tried to think of all of the possible ramifications and repercussions, and found himself drifting off to sleep. And as he relaxed and his concentration faded away, one final, very odd thought floated up through the formless, shapeless stuff of his dreams.
I wish—it’s a pity the Godmothers don’t need an army….
It was probably a good thing, after all, that it had taken Elena the better part of two hours to get home again. By the time she drove up to her door, she had managed to cry herself out, find a stream, wash her face, and get herself looking no worse than tired.
Hob was waiting for her, ready to take the donkey and cart, but surprisingly, Rose was right at the door. And she hadn’t even gotten across the threshold before Rose
made it very clear why she’d been waiting—or rather, lying in The Fairy Godmother
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wait—in order to get a very particular complaint lodged before anyone else could say anything. She started at the front entry and continued her complaint all the way up the stairs and on into the suite.
“—in your rooms, if you please, the whole day. Not a jot of work done, and that Randolf acting like the lord of the manor—”
“I did not act like the lord of the manor,” came Randolf’s voice, muffled by the velvet drapes that had been drawn across the face of the mirror. “I merely told Lily that in my opinion, and based on my presentiment, the young man needed to be here to see what you were doing with his brother.”
Elena went to the mirror and pulled back the drapes.
Randolf was ensconced squarely in the center of the mirror, looking seriously miffed. “I do not often have premonitory feelings, Godmother,” he said stiffly, “but when I do, I am not accustomed to having them questioned.” He looked down his long nose at Rose, who sniffed scornfully.
“Really, Godmother. Particularly from a creature with no experience at predictive magic, and no—”
“Thank you, Randolf,” Elena said, interrupting him by holding up her hand. “I do understand your feelings, but it is Rose’s duty to act in a manner that protects my interests.”
Rose looked smug for a moment, but Elena continued.
“However, you are entirely correct; your previous owners did use you to foretell the future in a very limited way as we both know, and although you lost some of that ability when Bella gave you more freedom, when you do feel a prescient impulse, it is wise for us to act upon it. If this hap
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pens again in my absence, I would wish you to speak with the others first, and let them know your reasons before you act, just so that everyone knows what is happening and why.”
Now both of them gave a derisive sniff, which—since it probably meant that neither of them felt the victor in the disagreement—was the best she was going to manage.
Silly geese. Randolf took the attitude that since he was entirely a magical entity, and had served only Queens and Kings among Dark Sorcerers, he was somehow higher up in the Faerie ranks than a mere House-Elf. He was, in his nonexistent bones, a snob. While Rose, who had served Godmothers for hundreds of years here, believed in her heart of hearts that any decision she made in a Godmother’s absence should take precedence; in her own way, she was just as much of a snob as Randolf, which meant that they were doomed to clash. Robin and Hob either humored her or ignored her when she was in this mood, but Lily enjoyed slyly tweaking her skirts, and it was clear to Elena that this time Randolf and Lily had conspired together to take Rose down a peg.
Well, here was the one valuable piece of advice that Madame Klovis had ever given regarding the staff— When the servants begin quarreling, stay out of it. The rest of the advice, All you will do is inflate their already bloated opinions of themselves, was utter nonsense, but the first part was right enough.
“I would have told the Prince everything anyway,” Elena continued, ignoring the sniffs, “but I don’t think anything but good can come of his actually seeing it all unfold. It will The Fairy Godmother
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probably give him extra motivation to prove that he has reformed and is ready to go back to his family himself.”
That last cost her a pang; she ignored it. Rose looked a little more mollified, but Randolf frowned. “But, Godmother, that’s—” he began, but once again Elena cut him off. “Rose, I am wearied to death. Could the rest of this wait until morning?”
Rose flushed, mortified at being caught at permitting her own grudge to interfere with the well-being of the Godmother in residence; as Elena well knew, it was the only thing that would shake her off her current crusade. “I beg your pardon, Madame Elena!” she said. “Of course it can wait. Your bed has been turned down and warmed, and there’s a tidbit waiting on your bedside table.”
“Thank you, Rose,” Elena said, but she was already gone, whisking herself away as only an embarrassed House-Elf could.
Now she turned back to Randolf. “So what was it about your presentiment that was so important you were going to set Rose off again? ” she asked with more than a touch of impatience.
“Madame,” Randolf said, with immense dignity. “Godmother. It was important, because if I am correct, what is going to happen is unprecedented. My sense is absolute that Prince Alexander is perfectly ready to pass any trials of his nature that you or anyone else may set him—and also, that when he does so, he will never leave here. Make of that what you will; it utterly baffles me. I certainly cannot imagine a Prince of the Blood being content with laboring as a common farmhand.”
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to thank Randolf gravely before dropping the curtains over his mirror. But inside, the emotions that she thought she had brought into check roiled up again.
If she had not been so tired, Randolf’s words probably would have kept her up late into the night. But after a glance out the window to see that there was no light in Alexander’s loft-room, she found herself so exhausted that she nearly fell asleep with the glass of honeyed milk in her hand.
She caught herself just as it started to slip from her grip; she drank it down quickly and got into bed, and was literally asleep before she even turned on her side to her usual sleeping position.
The little, shallow waves of the amethyst ocean were as warm against the skin of her feet and calves as the milk she had just drunk. She noticed that the filmy little halfhearted excuse for a skirt she was wearing barely came to her knees; well, at least it wasn’t going to get wet while she waded. The silky-soft sand was even softer under the water. Experimentally she reached down to touch the slowly undulating waves, then brought her fingers to her lips.
The water was sweet, not salty. Interesting; she wondered what that meant, since dreams had their own logic.
“Elena! Are you going to paddle out there all night?”
She looked up; Alexander was standing just above the waterline, watching her with a huge grin on his face. Unlike her, he was attired in real clothing, rather than the few bits of veils that she was wearing.
What on earth was her dream trying to tell her?
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the water on her feet. When she was near enough, he held out his hand to her, and she took it.
“You called me by my name,” she said, curious to hear what the dream-Alexander would say to that. “You’ve never done that before.”
“Well, I finally figured out who you were,” he replied.
“And it doesn’t matter what I say to you here, anyway,” he continued, impudently. “You aren’t a Godmother here; you can’t punish me in a dream. I can say what I like and I won’t end up as a donkey, or on my back with a splitting head. I can do this—” he took her in his arms “—and this—”
He wound both his hands in her hair, bent his head and kissed her; his lips were already open, and hers were parted, but in surprise rather than initial arousal, because she had just realized, not only what he had just said, but what it meant.
This wasn’t her dream.
Or to be more accurate, it wasn’t just her dream; it was their dream. They were sharing it.
His tongue teased hers, and his hand slipped inside the flimsy bodice of her gown to caress her naked nipple, which hardened immediately. She thrust all other thoughts aside for later. This was a dream, and she was going to enjoy it—
He slipped the straps of her gown off her shoulders, and her breasts slid free of the silky fabric. The warm breeze played over her shoulders. Each of his hands cupped a breast now, and his thumbs made little circles on the exquisitely sensitive skin. Little lances of pure pleasure and incredible sensation followed
every movement of his fingers, and her groin tightened as she opened her mouth to his probing.
He took his mouth from hers and began to lick and nib
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ble at her neck; she discovered that (ah, the wonders of the dream-state!) his shirt had vanished altogether, and she moved her hands over his chest, the muscles moving marvelously under her palms as he breathed, until her fingers found his nipples, and it was her turn to make him gasp.
But he took his revenge immediately; before she knew what he was about, his head had moved lower, and he fastened his mouth on her breast.
And his tongue and teeth were so much cleverer than his fingers had been that it was all she could do to stand upright.
Dream-logic again, for the very next moment they were lying in the soft sand, both of them utterly naked. He moved the attentions of his mouth to her left breast, and she moaned aloud, her hands in his hair, wanting to keep him there forever, but also wanting more. He chuckled; his free hand went to work on her right breast, and she felt her back arching without her even thinking about moving, and then his hand began to move lower—lower—her legs parted involuntarily as his fingers just stirred the first soft hairs of her sex and—
A rooster crowed. Right in her ear.
Swearing, she woke up.
The wretched bird crowed again. It wasn’t right in her ear, but it was certainly just under her window.
She was breathing as hard as if she had been running; her secret parts were still tight and hot with need, and if at that moment she could have gotten her hands on an axe, there would have been poultry for dinner.
Instead she closed her eyes and forced herself to think ra
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tionally, difficult though that was under the circumstances.
It wasn’t the damned bird’s fault. It must not have gotten into the coop with the rest before Lily closed them all in for the night. It was lucky it had escaped the ferrets, foxes, and owls. It was dawn. It was only behaving like a rooster.
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