The drive to The Trove, whatever the hell that is, is awful. The road is full of bumps, and I have to put up with Marcella’s non-stop babble about her ball gown. Her Royal Skankiness is so wrapped up with herself she doesn’t notice me gazing out the coach window.
Lalaland seems different from how I remember it. Then again, I didn’t get out much so maybe I missed a few things. Everything seems cleaner, newer, and bigger. More than once, I notice the name MIDAS blazing across monumental buildings in big gold letters. MIDAS Memorial Hospital…MIDAS Publishing…MIDAS Realty…MIDAS Free Clinic…MIDAS Orphanage for Lost Boys. Whoever this Midas guy is, he must be mega-rich.
And then, about a half-hour into the ride, I leap out of my seat. To the right, perched high on a cliff, the silhouette of a massive castle with towering turrets and shooting spires comes into view. I recognize it immediately. It’s mine!
“Stop the coach!” I scream out.
Marcella shoots me a dirty look. “Jane, I’m the one who gives orders. Driver, step on it!”
The coach speeds up. While Marcella buries her head in a Fairytale Tattler, I gloomily watch my castle fade into the distance. Soon, I’ll be back there. Just not soon enough.
The coach turns down a wide cobblestone street. Midas Drive. A giant fortress with multi-color turrets, towers, and spires is straight ahead of us. Coaches are lined up to get inside the gilded gates.
Marcella looks up from her tabloid. “We’re here. Finally.”
We join the long, slow-moving line. “Can’t we cut ahead?” growls the PIW, her arms folded tightly under her cannonballs.
“Remind me, Jane, to fire this driver!” she says as we finally pull up to the valet. Yet another thing to add to my To-Do List.
“And one more thing. While we’re here, buy a toy for Calla and tell her it’s from me.”
A large banner with blazing gold letters greets us as we enter the complex.
WELCOME TO THE TROVE
ANOTHER MIDAS MALL
Midas again! Before long, I bet Lalaland will be called Midasland.
“Move it,” shouts Marcella, giving me a shove.
She takes off as if launched by slingshot. I follow her, dragging my feet. Why do I have to put up with her before I can return to my castle? It’s just not fair.
Losing sight of Her Royal Skankiness, I mope through the mall, taking in my surroundings. The Trove is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s a retail fantasyland catering to the whims of royals and wannabes alike. There’s a store for everything, from crowns to corsets. The shops, one after another, line a pristine walkway that’s packed with princesses, princes, and other assorted nobles, all chicly dressed and carrying eye-catching shopping bags. They all seem so happy. Of course. No one’s banned them from their homes.
The PIW is literally prancing when I catch up to her. “I love shopping!” she croons. Finally, another activity she loves besides torturing me.
In fact, as I quickly discover, if there’s such a thing as an addiction to shopping, she’s got one.
For openers, she drags me into a bookstore. Barons and Noble. Wasting no time, she immerses herself in the latest tabloids. “I don’t understand why I’m not front page news!” she grumbles. “Jane, get on it!”
While she tears through the tabloids, I browse through the store. There are so many books. Near the entrance, a crowd is clambering for copies of a thick hardcover book that are piled up high on a table. Grimm’s Fairy Tales: Based on True Stories. What! That glum-ugly head doctor wrote a book about us!? Sasperilla was right. He was spying on us the whole time! Using us for his own publish or perish ends! I’d better not be in there or I’m going to sue! Elbowing my way through the mob, I grab a copy.
“Put that rubbish down!” barks Marcella as I flip through the pages. She thrusts a heavy bagful of magazines at me and yanks me out the door. “We’ve got major shopping to do.”
Can this day get any worse?
A few doors down, she shoves me into another store. Forever Princess. We’re the only shoppers over twenty; everyone else is no more than sixteen. The youthful fashions and gorgeous, young royals make me feel old. And jealous. I avoid looking at myself in a mirror.
Marcella, unfazed, holds one frock after another up to her curvaceous body. “Jane, how do I look in these?”
What I want to tell her is they don’t make her look a day over forty. What I end up saying is they make her look like she’s twenty-one.
“Perfection! I’ll take them!” She jerks me out of the store, loading me down with six more overstuffed shopping bags.
Next door is a lingerie and sleepwear store. Aurora’s Secret. Marcella snaps her fingers, signaling me to follow her inside. Aisles of the skimpiest undergarments I’ve ever seen line the store. Royals, regardless of shape or size, can’t seem to get enough of them. While I stand frozen in shock, Her Royal Skankiness snatches up a dozen frilly briefs with matching corsets in assorted colors. I have no idea how they’ll hold up her cannonballs. She also can’t resist a leopard-print negligee that’s trimmed with feathers “The Prince will love it!” she coos. It’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever seen.
A pretty, young maiden bags her purchases. Marcella pouts. “I need coffee! All this shopping is wearing me out.”
That makes two of us. And actually, I haven’t had a cup of coffee since I’ve been back here. Marcella briskly leads the way to a nearby café, The Coffee Queen, and orders two black coffees. The cheap bitch makes me pay for mine. To add insult to injury, when I put the hot beverage to my lips, I don’t want to drink it. Everything—the smell, the taste, the color—repulses me. I’m outraged. Thanks to Faraway, I’ve completely lost my taste for coffee.
Marcella finishes her coffee and mine. I struggle to follow her as she charges out the door and races through the mall. She’s obviously gotten a coffee buzz. A major one. Bogged down with her purchases and exhausted, I can’t keep up with her. In no time, I lose her.
Mmm. Something smells delicious. Unbelievably delicious! Following my nose, I’m lured inside a charming bakery. Sparkles. Behind the counter are dozens of the most amazing cupcakes I’ve ever seen. Each one, a little work of art—piled high with frosting and topped off with sparkly sprinkles. I can’t resist, and fortunately, I have just enough money to buy one.
When I lick the rich chocolate frosting, I practically melt. It arouses memories of my chocolate-fest with Elz and Winnie. I’m instantly in a much better mood. Recharged to resume my shopping expedition with Marcella, who’s nowhere in sight.
I’m quickly detoured again. Still on my chocolate high, I stumble upon The Enchanted Spa.
“Spaaaaah!” Just saying the word makes me relaxed. I’ve got to check it out. Maybe this will be the real thing. A spa experience is exactly what I need after my depressing castle encounter. I deserve it! I’ll squeeze in a facial. A quickie. Before the shopaholic discovers I’m missing.
Inside, The Enchanted Spa is everything I wanted Faraway to be and more. Luxurious! Pampering! And magical! “Can I have a facial?” I ask the dewy-skinned nymph at the reception desk.
“Jane, what are you doing here?” The voice is familiar.
I whirl around. Marcella!
“I’m setting up your spa appointment—#6 on your To Do List,” I stammer. It’s a lucky thing I remembered.
“Good. When you’re done, meet me at The Ballgown Emporium.” She tears out the door.
I set up her spa day, then arrange for my facial. When I find out how much it costs, I slink away.
Right next door is a toy store. Mother Goose. I’m reminded that Marcella wants me to buy a toy that she can give to Calla. I eye a beautiful porcelain doll in the window. Calla will adore it. And Marcella will score points with The Prince. There’s nothing like buying love. I think about my mother and how she used to buy all kinds of presents for Snow White—whom she secretly despised—to impress The King. Using the money I earned. And, of course, she never got a thing for me. Not even a tiny to
y.
Inside, the store is a child’s dream-come-true playroom. Amazing toys, games, and crafts are everywhere. Wow! There’s even a princess dress-up kit. I would have loved that as a child.
I gasp. Smack in the middle of the store, a menacing life-size green dragon soars to the ceiling. It’s just a toy, of course, but still, it reminds me of my life-and-death encounter with the real thing at Faraway. A little boy in velvet knickers (obviously some young prince) is trying to slay the beast with his pretend sword, much to the dismay of his worn out nanny.
A trim woman, holding a large staff and wearing an enormous bonnet that hides her face, marches up to the little boy. She slams down the staff.
“Excuse me, young man. You’re going to hurt the dragon. Mother Goose says to put down your sword,” she says in a threatening, put-on voice.
Startled, the youngster drops his sword and flies into the arms of his nanny. He sticks his tongue out at the big-bonnet woman. What a brat! Mother Goose doesn’t flinch; she simply steps down hard on the dragon’s foot. The dragon roars and, out from its fanged mouth, shoots a breath of fire. I jump away. It’s way too real! Yelping, the little brat and his nanny bolt out of the store.
Pleased with herself, Mother Goose walks away from the dragon. Her face is finally visible. It’s freckled, and she has long red pigtails. Oh my God. Can it be?
“Winnie!” I scream.
“Jane!” she screams right back at me.
I drop all of Marcella’s purchases and run over to hug her. Our arms tangled, we jump up and down like two little kids in a toy store.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I’m on a late lunch break. I’m actually doing my post-rehab apprenticeship next door at Sparkles.”
A bakery? And no ordinary bakery. Why would Shrink and Grimm put a woman with an overeating problem to work at a place filled with zillions of tempting sweets? There must be a reason to their madness because Winnie looks fabulous. She’s half the size of when I saw her last.
“I come over here during lunch because I enjoy helping out with the children. Plus, I get a big discount whenever I buy something for Hansel or Gretel. What are you up to?”
Quickly, I tell her about my PIW position. How awful it is.
“Marcella makes Sasperilla look like a sugarplum fairy. At least, the skinny bitch didn’t boss people around like she owned the world.” I tell her the only good thing about my job is Calla. “I want to buy her a doll. That one in the window.”
“A great choice!” Smiling, Winnie heads over to the window and scoops out the doll. When she returns, she gently places it in my arms.
I examine the beautiful doll, noticing that it bears an uncanny resemblance to me, once you get past her long, silky hair and richly detailed royal attire. Sewn into the backside is a label that puts a big smile on my face. “Hand Made by Pinocchio” Pinocchio! He must be out of Faraway, doing his post-rehab apprenticeship nearby. With luck, I’ll run into him.
Winnie carefully wraps up the doll, then hands it to me in a shopping bag bearing the store’s insignia, a golden goose. She glances down at her watch. “My lunch break’s almost over. I’d better get out of this costume and back to Sparkles.”
And I’d better catch up with Marcella before she sends a pack of big bad wolves after me. After hugging Winnie, I hastily gather up Marcella’s purchases and dash out of Mother Goose. I can hardly wait to give the doll to Calla; she’ll love it. Shopping’s put me in a much better mood. And, at least, I know where to find Winnie. I can’t wait to see her again.
Wandering through the mall, I bump into Her Royal Skankiness as she breezes out of a palatial store called Lordstrom. Yet another shopping bag.
“Where on earth have you been?” she snaps. “And what do you have in that silly goose bag?” She cranes her neck to peer at Calla’s present.
“It’s a d—”
“Whatever! I’ve wasted valuable shopping time looking for you. Let’s go!”
She points a finger at The Ballgown Emporium and shoves me along. “Move it before some princess wannabe gets the dress I want!”
The Ballgown Emporium is dazzling. As big and grand as a palace ballroom, it’s built on three levels, with a sweeping spiral staircase connecting each one. An enormous crystal chandelier hangs in the center.
All around it, spectacular gem-colored ball gowns dangle from the soaring ceiling, ready for their first dance. Weird! The gowns are multiplying. My eyes dart around the store from corner to corner. I see myself everywhere. What’s going on? Then it hits me. The walls of The Ballgown Emporium are mirrored from floor to ceiling. Wall-to-wall mirrors! Everywhere! My heart quakes; my body shakes. All the bags I’m carrying fall to the floor.
Get a grip, Jane! I inhale deeply and attempt to meditate. But it’s too late.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who’s the fairest one of all?”
The mirrors respond:
“You, My Queen, are the fairest at the mall,
But a golden-haired child is fairer than us all.”
“Who are you talking about?” I cry out.
Silence.
“Tell me!” I yell louder. “TELL ME!”
“Dahling, are you okay?”
I snap my eyes open and find myself sprawled on a purple velvet fainting couch. A burly man, in a sequined chinoiserie robe, looms above me, fanning me with a peacock feather. I must have passed out. Collecting myself, I sit up. I tell him I’m fine. That the mirrors made me feel a little dizzy. No big deal. No big deal? They’ve turned me into a delusional basket case. Wait! Can these mirrors be magic too?
“I love your style,” the flamboyant man says effusively.
I glance down at my plain black dress. He’s got to be kidding.
“Black is the new pink, but no one believes me. I’m Emperor Armando. Let me know if I can show you something for the ball.”
He thinks I’m going to the ball? He’s the delusional one.
“You’re quite the shopper; I placed your bags over there.” The Emperor gestures to a corner. I’m relieved to see Calla’s gift among them.
“Later, dahling.” He sashays over to hug a buxom, regal woman with short white spiky hair, a small gold crown, and a crimson heart-shaped dress that pushes her barrel-sized chest up to her chin. She looks and sounds strangely familiar to me.
“Armando, dear, how’s my ball gown coming along?” she asks in a deep, booming voice.
“It’s to die for!” gushes The Emperor. He takes her by the arm and whisks her away.
Where’s Marcella? To be dead honest, I don’t really care. The wall-to-wall mirrors are still making me dizzy. Not moving from the couch, I close my eyes and banish them from my sight. Before I know it, I drift off…straight into my dream from the other night.
Wearing an ethereal ivory tulle gown, I’m floating like a feather, high in the sky. Birds flutter around me. Suddenly, the mysterious man with the black mask leaps out from behind a cloud. I float toward him, right into his arms. He swirls me around our heavenly dance floor, our bodies moving in perfect harmony. Like we’ve danced this way forever. “Who are you?” I ask, my heart pounding. Silence. And then an earth-shattering scream hurls me back to reality.
“AAAAARGGGH!” shrieks The Emperor. “What are you doing?”
My eyes flit to Marcella. She’s recklessly yanking down the dangling gowns with both hands.
“You know, mister, I could use some customer service around here,” the PIW grumbles.
Armando frantically gathers up the gowns scattered on the marble floor, crumpled up as if they’ve swooned.
“Do you know who I am?” Marcella huffs. “I am the future wife of Prince Gallant, and my ball’s the only reason you’re still in business.”
The Emperor doesn’t care who she is. Doesn’t she know how much these gowns cost? (Thousands!) How much time it takes him to make them? (Years!) How each one is a work of art? (They should be hanging in museums!)
“Whatever,” replies Marcella. She demands to try them on.
Practically in tears, The Emperor escorts her to the fitting room, located on the third level. Marcella looks down from the spiral staircase and snaps at me. “This is no time to be resting!”
Jumping to her beckon call, I exchange a rescue-me look with the distraught Emperor.
Dressing and undressing Marcella is a nightmare. As if the complexity of the gowns isn’t enough, I’ve got to contend with the cannonballs on her chest. Plus, she’s a total slob. Hasn’t she ever heard of hanging things up neatly after trying them on? I’m on major damage control, terrified that she’ll ruin one of The Emperor’s magnificent creations.
The Marcella fashion show is no less challenging. The PIW parades before the mirrored walls in one gown after another. She hates everything. No matter how stunning the dress, there’s something wrong with it. From being too frou-frou (“Who the hell wants to look like Bo Peep?”) to being too blue (“Ugh! It’s so Cinderella.”). I have to swallow my tongue when she complains that the last one makes her look flat-chested. Trust me, an army of giants could trample over her without flattening out those cannonballs.
The Emperor’s beside himself, and I’m exhausted. After trying on a dozen more unacceptable dresses, Marcella lights up with an idea. She wants Armando to custom design her dress.
Armando rushes off to get his sketchpad, then sketches one incredible gown after another. Not one of them works for Her Royal Skankiness.
Finally, a dozen sketchpads later, Marcella has a vision. She can see it now. A dress, the reddest of reds—the color of blood—body-clinging with a halter neckline and a detachable twenty-foot long train. Size 6. Armando madly sketches away.
When the PIW sees the finished sketch, she bubbles. “Look at what it does to my cleavage! The Prince will love it. And I’ll be the envy of every princess at the ball.”
The Emperor breathes a sigh of relief. And so do I.
She scowls. “One last thing.”
The Emperor pales.
Naughty Nelle Page 66
