Glass Slipper Scandal

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “It’s so tacky,” Kai said, turning it over in hishead.

  “Fuckoff.”

  “No — not the Midnight Princess, that’s a genius name, obviously.”

  “That’s better,” she said, blowing him a kiss. “Drink up, pet, we have to get into the office. Time to run through mugshots of the candidates.”

  “Do you think it’s some kind of protest?” Kai considered, following her dutifully, though it pained him to leave the last few inches of coffee in his glass. He swallowed it down hard, scalding his throat. “Or satire?”

  “Live action theatre, you mean? Graffiti of the ballroom variety. A one person flashmob.”

  “She can’t be seriously intending to marry a prince with this technique. Not in this kingdom. What was the King’s reaction?”

  “He wasn’t there. Had already retired due to boredom, or ennui, or whatever it is that makes him ghost through the castle, ignoring his sons,” said Amira. “Sorry, did I say that out loud? Sometimes I have to get these things out before I step into the office.”

  “I heard nothing,” said Kai, grinning at her. “So. Midnight Princess.”

  “If we can find her,” said Amira. “Then we can ask all these questions and more. Story of the century. Want to teamup?”

  “Why would you pick me?” Kai asked, and then thought about it for two seconds. “Oh. I’m new and no real threat toyou.”

  “Good boy. Also, your arms are longer than mine and believe me, we’ll be logging a few hours hauling boxes in the archives. We need to know everything about the girls of the season if we’re going to blow this story wideopen.”

  Ten

  THE FIRST RULE OF GLASS SLIPPERS IS YOU DON’T TALK ABOUT GLASS SLIPPERS

  Dennis had worked at the Palace for a year before he was tapped to join the Hounds, and he had never seen the King so angry.

  To be honest, he had never seen the King express any feelings at all. The man had a fog about him — he was broken-hearted due to grief, so everyone said, but he seemed to function well enough when there were practical decisions to be made, or conversation to be had about the weather.

  He was present in most conversations, but never seemed to care about anything.

  Today, the King cared. He had been shut up in the Doghouse with Sarge for more than twenty minutes, shouting and blustering, while the Hounds gathered outside the stable, finding minor tasks to busy their hands with, so as to pretend they were not eavesdropping.

  Finally, the door opened, and the King stormed out, his seneschals clinging to the hem of his fur-trimmed velvet coat. “You will find and arrest this disrespectful wench before the next ball, or I will send everyone of those grasping, diamond-studded hussies back to their kingdoms and cancel the Season!”

  “Your Majesty,” said Sarge with a calculated, neutral sort of deference.

  “Do your fucking job, or I’ll find someone else to do it foryou!”

  “Glad you’re not overreacting at all, Papa,” broke in a drawling voice. The Hounds parted to let through a blond, gorgeously jacketed prince — not Chase, Dennis realised. The other one. They were technically identical, but the elder prince, Cyrus, was a dedicated athlete as well as a party boy, and he had more muscle about his shoulders and legs, which he showed off with sharply cut clothing.

  They looked nothing like their father -- his hair was dark and neat, his eyes a sharp blaze of sapphire blue instead of their otherworldly silver. They must take after their cursed mother, the one that no one ever talked about.

  “Don’t start on me, boy,” growled the King. “This is all your fault, as usual.”

  “Don’t let me interrupt your ranting,” said Cyrus, his eyes glittering. “It’s so fascinating to see you up and about, expressing opinions to the staff. The same staff who will have to clean up the mess when your egocentric bullshit pushes us to the brink ofwar.”

  The King lurched angrily towards his son — they were the same height, and Dennis spotted the exact moment that this fact came as a surprise to His Majesty. “Don’t lecture me on what you don’t understand, you little degenerate.”

  “I know that arresting a princess for dancing without tact is not the best move for a kingdom as small as ours,” said Cyrus, smiling with all his teeth.

  “Don’t think I haven’t considered the possibility that this is one of your childish, attention-grabbing pranks,” the King snarled, close enough now to embrace his son, though it was clear that wouldn’t be happening.

  “Ah,” said Cyrus, mocking. “Because I live to hurt you, apparently. Funny. I thought it was the other way around.”

  The King stood frozen for a moment, hand raised at waist-height, as if to cuff a child. Without saying anything more, he thunderedaway.

  Cyrus squared his shoulders, disregarding that the Hounds around him had witnessed such an intensely personal exchange between he and his father. He nodded to Sarge. “Permission to attend your briefing, Sergeant Clay? I feel that it’s pertinent to my interests.”

  Sarge surveyed him critically. “Can you sit still in the corner and keep your yapshut?”

  “Stranger things have happened,” the Prince declared.

  “Go on, then. Let’s give it ago.”

  The Hounds filed into the Doghouse, more subdued than usual. Dennis stood close to Corporal Jack, who was visibly seething. Did she resent the Prince’s presence thatmuch?

  “Right,” said Sarge, stepping up on his crate. “I’ll keep this brief. There will be no arrests. If any of you come across evidence of the identity of the — person that the Herald has dubbed the Midnight Princess, you will bring that evidence directly to me.” He gave Prince Cyrus a hard look. “That includes you, Your Highness.”

  Cyrus reached into his jacket, and pulled out a glass slipper. An actual — it gleamed like a diamond. Dennis couldn’t stop staring at it. “It stinks of magic,” Prince Cyrus said, holding it by the heel. “Do you mean to say we won’t be going door to door, trying it on the feet of ladies? I was so looking forward to thatpart.”

  “We’ll hold off on that for now,” said Sarge, holding out a small burlap evidence sack for the Prince to drop the shoe into. “No arrests. No confrontations. His Majesty might not be concerned with the diplomatic fallout from treating visiting princesses like criminals, but our primary job is security of the royal family, and that goes further than dragging them out of gazebos in the middle of the night.” His eye fell briefly on Dennis, and gave him a smirk.

  One of the new recruits — Dante — raised a hand. “Sarge, do you think the Midnight Princess poses a significant threat to the royal family?”

  Sarge huffed at that. “Depends on what you mean by threat. She was close enough to assassinate Prince Cyrus last night, and she didn’t tryit.”

  “My heart is also thoroughly protected, if that’s what you mean, kid,” put in the Prince. “I know better than to pledge marriage and eternal love to a girl just because she’s excellent at waltzing and has decided to enact the courtship of my parents.”

  “Whatever this girl’s game is,” Sarge went on. “I don’t think she represents a physical threat.”

  “But how can you be sure?” Corporal Jack demanded.

  Sarge gave her a weary look. “Because I’m an old, old man, and I’ve seen everything,” he told her. “Glass slippers mean that this Midnight Princess has got herself tangled up with fairies, and that means she’s got bigger problems than you or I can handle with a crossbow and a short sword.”

  “What should I do?” spoke up Prince Cyrus. “If I should happen to see her again.”

  There was something haunted in Sarge’s face. “Try not to kiss her,” he said finally. “In fact, try not to kiss anyone for the next 48 hours. If you think you can managethat.”

  Eleven

  PROWLING WITH HOUNDS

  “It’s my second night,” Dennis said aloud because really, it had to be said. “My second night as a Hound, Jack. I haven’t even drawn my first payyet.”


  “Well aware,” she said evenly.

  “We’re stalking our boss through the seediest bars of the city. On my second night.”

  “Shhhnow.”

  They were not stalking so much as waiting. Both of them had signed off from their day’s shift and were supposed to be resting up before the next Grand Event of the Season, tomorrow night.

  “You’re going to get me fired,” Dennis complained.

  “Sarge respects initiative,” saidJack.

  “More than he respects his own privacy?”

  Corporal Jack blew out a breath of annoyance. She had terrified the rest of the Hounds into constant compliance, but Dennis was not yet trained into blindly following her orders, especially orders that were not entirely work-related.

  Which begged the question: why had she chosen him for this particular expedition?

  “I’m worried,” Jack admitted.

  “About Sarge?”

  “It’s fairies. He has a thing about fairies. Last time we had a case that maybe — only maybe — involved a fairy godmother, he went on a bender for two days. So yeah. I want to keep an eye on him.” She gave Dennis a sly look over her shoulder. “Also I have a pathological need to know what the hell is going on at all times, especially where it relates to the smooth running of Castle Charming and its security. Are we on the samepage?”

  “Fine, yes. I’m curioustoo.”

  “Goodlad.”

  They leaned against a wall outside a bar charmingly titled The Lunatic Arms until Sarge rolled out, several sheets to the wind. He did not see either of them, but headed off down the street at an unsteady angle.

  “He never drinks on duty,” Jack said in a low voice, and Dennis realised to his surprise that she was embarrassed on behalf of theirboss.

  “I’m not judging,” he said softly.

  She punched his arm, which he guessed was a sign that he’d said the right thing?

  They didn’t talk as they trailed Sarge back to the castle. He didn’t look terribly drunk, though he listed to one side and walked with a slower rolling of the hips than usual. He did not head for the Doghouse or the guard quarters, but made directly for the ornamental gardens.

  “We can make fun of him if he ends up in the gazebo, right?” Dennis whispered.

  Jack choked on something that might have been a laugh. “Only behind his back and forever.”

  Ahead of them, Sarge broke into a run. “I knew you were around here!” he hollered through a flowering archway. “I could smell your bluebell bullshit a mile off. Come out here and face me, you bastards!”

  Twelve

  SPITTING WITH PRINCESSES

  Ziyi was so angry she could spit — if a princess was allowed to spit — if there was anywhere in any royal castle that allowed for the possibility of discreet princess spittage.

  Ziyi was so angry, she wanted to set the world onfire.

  She sat through a day of gossip and finger sandwiches, and tamped down the fury inside her with many tiny cups of tea. She allowed Abigale to lever her into a fluffy nightgown that belonged in a dusty attic (or possibly a museum of antiquities) and even stayed docile while her long black hair was twisted into hundreds of tiny ‘pin curls’ that she would surely regret in the morning.

  As soon as Abigale moved on to the next foreign princess on her schedule, Ziyi hauled the midnight gown out from under her bed and stuffed it — trailing lace fronds, sequined buttons and all — into a large handkerchiefbag.

  Oh, and the glass slipper. Mustn’t forget the fucking glass slipper.

  She slithered out of the window and down the ivy trellis until her feet hit grass, and then she was off and running, past the fancy hedge maze and the brick wall of alcoves containing statues of every King and Queen of Charming, rendered perfectly in white marble andsmug.

  Finally, she found a secluded grotto beyond a series of flowered archways, a cozy nook of a meditation pool decorated with crystal flowers, far from the lanterns and public paths. Here, she could light the blue candle without fearing that she might be seen from the many, many windows of Castle Charming. It smelled of bluebells and sugar and broken promises.

  “Godmother, godmother, I have a bone to pick with you,” she said aloud.

  “And here I am, reporting for duty.” The voice was warm and sensual and unquestionably male. It was not the voice of her fairy godmother.

  Ziyi leaped back, staring at the shelf of stone that ran around the top of the grotto, and the man who was suddenly draped across the stone shelf like a cat. “Who are you? You’re not Miss Clover.”

  “Why, thank you for noticing. My name is Master Foxglove.” His eyes gleamed purple in the darkness. “She’s otherwise engaged tonight. You don’t think you’re the only princess who has demands on hertime?”

  “I might have known,” Ziyi retorted. “First I have to share a maid, and now a godmother. Welcome to the end of the century.”

  “Never mind, sweetling, I may not be your godmother, but I am a godmother, and I am well acquainted with Miss Clover’s open cases.” Master Foxglove leaped suddenly, landing on his feet with a terrifying grace. “You’re the midnight princess, aren’t you? Frock and glass slippers and magical perfect timing — I can’t believe you have any grounds to complain.”

  “No grounds?” Ziyi was furious, and if Miss Clover wouldn’t show her face, then she would happily take it out on the nearest godmother available. “I went along with this appalling charade because I needed to secure a fast marriage. Miss Clover convinced me it would be cute, recreating the glass slipper story of Castle Charming.”

  Master Foxglove considered the matter. “Sounds pretty damned cute. Sweeping one of the princes off his heels with the same storyline that worked for his Mum and Dad? Epic.”

  “It wasn’t cute,” Ziyi hissed between her teeth. “His family didn’t think it was adorable and romantic. Turns out the entire kingdom is highly traumatised by how that happy love story ended, and I’m the airhead who mocked their misery for all the world to see. The King has put out an arrest warrant, and is one diplomatic cough away from having the guest rooms searched. Will you stop laughing atme?”

  Master Foxglove was snickering wildly, hanging on to the wall of the grotto to support him. “You don’t think it’s hilarious?”

  “Was this deliberate?” Ziyi snarled, close to belting him with her bag. “Is this one of those ‘careful what you wish for’ stings that the fairy tales warn against? Because I thought Miss Clover was sincere in wanting to help me, and instead I’m screwed six ways to Sunday.”

  The fairy godmother peered at her from between his fingers, like a child playing games. His voice was deadly serious. “How important is it that you marry this prince?”

  “I don’t care about the prince,” Ziyi said impatiently. “It’s really important that I not go home, and I thought marrying a prince was the best way to assurethat.”

  “Interesting.” He tilted his head, his purple eyes glowing even more intensely than before. “I suggest you take that incriminating bag of yours, and make a run forit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m about to get punched in the face by a man with the power to arrest you.” Master Foxglove looked oddly satisfied at the very idea, even as the shouting started, from some distanceaway.

  “I could smell your bluebell bullshit a mile off. Come out here and face me, you bastards!”

  Thirteen

  HUNTING WITH QUILLS

  Kai could not believe the luck of it. The story of the century had fallen into his lap, and this time he wasn’t going to let itgo.

  He had tried pitching several original pieces to the editor, who turned all of them down flat. Amira shook her head at him afterwards. “If you’re not writing about the midnight princess right now, pet, you’re invisible.”

  “But everyone’s writing about the midnight princess,” Kai said in frustration.

  “Sure, but there’s always a new angle.”

  A new angle on the stor
y that had already been done to death in less than 24 hours? Sure.

  So Kai returned to the castle, walking the path that the fleeing princess must have taken after the ball, and trying to get his head around a ‘new angle’. He didn’t question why he needed to be here, why the castle was tugging at him, until he noticed that his ink was itchy.

  Kai had a magical tattoo on the small of his back: his mother had always told him that in the kingdom they came from, it was traditional to have a fortune tattoo bespelled to each child, marking out their destined path inlife.

  His had never made a lot of sense: it was a literal blot of ink, most of the time, shimmering and occasionally splashing, as if a new drop had been added. Sometimes it resolved itself into words, though they were hard for him to read and he had rarely been in a position to ask others to translate forhim.

  On the few occasions he had been drawn to the changing images by the itch of the ink, and held a mirror up in time, he had caught what looked like newspaper headlines: Castle Charming Princes Go Wild and thelike.

  It had been enough to convince his mother that his path lay here, that being a quill was a profession she could be proud of, though she had been hoping for something more highbrow: a writer of ballads, perhaps, or a scholar of journals.

  Kai had never in his life regretted following where the ink urged him, and tonight it clearly wanted him here, in this garden behind the castle, for whatever reason.

  It certainly wasn’t for inspiration, as he had been walking around in circles to no avail for hours.

  Just as he was about to give up, he spied a girl in a nightgown climbing down the trellis and running off into the garden. He wasn’t sure if it was her — the actual midnight princess herself — until he crept closer and heard something of her conversation with the sinister, beautiful fairy gentleman.