1 Dewitched

by E. L. Sarnoff

  “I’m fine,” I say instead.

  “Good morning, my love,” I hear a shrill voice call out.

  Good morning? Judging by the light, it must be close to noon.

  A curvy woman in a body-hugging purple gown slinks over to The Prince and flings her arms around him. If I had to guess her age, I’d say she was trying hard for thirty. She’s very made-up, very blond, and very busty. In fact, I’ve never seen such big boobs. They’re cannonballs.

  Gallant introduces me. “Marcella, this is Jane, your new personal assistant.”

  The PIW bats her charcoal eyes several times as if she’s shocked to me.

  Silence. Her eyes clash with mine. Her gaze grows so scathing I don’t dare move.

  Finally, with a snap of her perfectly manicured red-lacquered fingers, she says, “Get to work.”

  ***

  The PIW wasn’t kidding when she said get to work. She hasn’t given me a moment’s rest since my arrival. And I haven’t even started on her To Do List.

  “Step on it,” she hisses.

  I’m standing in her huge, ostentatious chamber, knee-deep in beauty magazines and Fairytale Tattlers. Now that I’ve made her gold-leafed four-poster bed a dozen times, picked up her crusty underwear, and thrown out a week’s worth of vermin-infested leftovers, she wants me to arrange her reading material alphabetically and in chronological order.

  Fuming inside, I begin to organize the magazines. They must go back ten years. I recognize some of the beauty magazines from my dungeon days.

  Marcella, meanwhile, sits in front of her vanity, fluffing her perfectly coiffed shoulder-length hair.

  I have to admit she’s extremely attractive in a brazen way. I, on the other hand, must look like a rag doll. I don’t need a mirror to tell me. Even if I were brave enough to take a peek.

  Marcella is so consumed with her own reflection, she doesn’t notice me. Fine by me. I hastily stack the magazines in two random but neatly arranged stacks. Chances are she’ll never know the difference.

  Done. I’m out of here. As I skulk away, I hear something behind me crash. Then, OW! Something hits me hard in the head. I wheel around. Marcella has snagged a magazine from the middle of one of the piles, causing it to collapse like a brick tower, and thrown it at me. The nerve of her!

  “Where do you think you’re going?” She folds her arms under her cannonballs. “My closet needs a makeover.”

  With a snap of her fingers, she points to the closet. I drag myself over to it. She swings the door open and shoves me inside.

  My eyes pop. Her closet is the size of a store. Gowns and shoes are everywhere, except on hangers and shelves.

  “I want you to clean up the mess left by my last total-waste-of-time assistant.” The PIW kicks a pair of shoes out of her way. “And I want everything color coded.”

  Is she kidding? This will take hours. The PIW stomps out, slamming the closet door in my face. A shoe topples onto my head. Click. Double click. I twist the doorknob. She’s locked me inside.

  “And don’t forget to pick out something fabulous for me to wear tonight,” she calls out. “The Prince and I have been invited to Cinderella’s palace for dinner.”

  This is the best news I’ve heard since I’ve been here. I’ll be free of her tonight! Hastily, I arrange her gowns and shoes. Every gown is a version of the one she’s wearing--shiny, slinky, low-cut. And there’s a pair of shoes to match each one. I want to burn them all.

  Twenty minutes or so later, I hear the door unlock. Marcella struts in and scrutinizes the closet. Silence. “What did you pick out for me to wear tonight?” she says at last.

  Rage is bubbling inside me. Randomly, I grab a purple gown that resembles the one she’s wearing, except for the feather detail on the bottom.

  She rips it off the hanger and tosses it in the direction of her bed. She misses. One more thing for me to pick up.

  I’m beyond exhausted, but there’s no rest for the weary. Marcella orders me to clean her powder room.

  Another major disaster area. Scattered all over the pink marble counters are open tubes of lipsticks, powders, and other beauty essentials. Dirty towels are crumpled on the tiled floor, and both the massive tub and sink are lined with green rings. It’s in a word: revolting.

  “When did your last assistant quit?” I venture.

  Marcella fires a scathing look at me. “Your orders are to speak only when spoken to.” She huffs. “Well, if you really must know, yesterday.”

  Only yesterday? I don’t visibly react, but inside I’m registering shock. She’s capable of this much damage in only twenty-four hours?

  “Make it snappy.” She grabs a red lipstick and storms out.

  Battling fatigue, I file all her makeup in a cabinet above the sink. There’s another, floor-to-ceiling cabinet against the wall behind me, but it’s sealed with a padlock. I wonder what she keeps inside it. I’m probably better off not knowing. Just more work.

  Getting down on my knees, I scrub the grungy tub with a filthy, smelly sponge that’s lying inside it--a welcoming present from Marcella’s previous assistant. Memories of my mother-the-slave-driver flood my head. I got down on my hands and knees so many times they were permanently bruised. Trying to wash away the memories, I scrub harder until my knuckles are red and raw. Finally, I conquer the green grime--and just in time. Marcella reappears and inspects the bathroom. I hold my breath. To my relief, she nods approvingly.

  I’ll live without a thank you. I’m done for the day. I dismiss myself, telling her that I want to get to work on her To-Do List. Honest truth, I want to find a place to collapse. Somewhere. Anywhere. Far away from her.

  The PIW beats me to the doorway and blocks it with outstretched arms. A patronizing smirk crosses her lips. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

  What could I have possibly forgotten? I’ve done everything asked of me. Okay. So, I cheated on the magazines, but I’ve got to restack them anyway.

  She sneers. “I expect a curtsey every time you see or leave me.”

  What! She’s not even a princess yet. She should be curtseying to me! I am still, after all, a queen!

  Gritting my teeth, I force myself to curtsey. Marcella moves to the side and shoes me away with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  I’ve had it. I hate this job. And I hate Marcella. I want to poison her. So much for fairy-tale rehab.

  ***

  Thank goodness, I managed to get Marcella dressed for her soirée and out the door with The Prince. I’m able, at last, to retreat to my chamber. It’s small but cheerful. There’s a single bed with plump pillows and a thick flowery duvet, a nightstand, and a dresser. But no mirror. I’m sure Shrink’s doing.

  I set Elz’s “Best Friends Forever” card on the nightstand, sink into the bed, then blow out the candles. After all of Marcella’s abuse, I’m craving a good night’s sleep. The comforter envelops me, soothing my tired, aching body. I haven’t slept in such a comfy bed in years.

  I close my eyes, but can’t fall asleep. Indignation is raging inside me. After all I went through, the nerve of Faraway to place me with an idle, stiff-lipped prince, a pesky, know-it-all child, and that lazy, self-centered PIW. I have no idea what any of this has to do with finding the true meaning of beauty. Or what “interpersonal skills” this so-called apprenticeship is testing except my willpower not to kill someone. It’s just another one of their tricks. To make me suffer. Poor Elz and Winnie. I bet they’re miserable wherever they are too.

  This time, I’m not going to let that waste-of-time rehab center get away with it. First thing in the morning, I’m going write Shrink a letter demanding to stay in my castle until she finds a new position worthy of me. Like being an assistant life coach. I would be good at that! Even enjoy it!

  That’s fair. And truthfully, it’ll do me good to be home. I’m sure my magic mirror’s still there. Pining for me. We’ll rebuild our relationship after I lay down the rules. Keep it short; keep it simple; and just tell me what I w
ant to hear. But wait! What if my smart-ass looking glass talks back and tells me Snow White’s still Fairest of All?

  A loud knock-knock-knock at the door stops me in my thoughts. Dragonballs! It must be Marcella. Now, what does she want me to do?

  Lighting a candle, I stumble out of bed and unbolt the door. A petite, golden-capped figure gazes up at me. It’s Calla.

  “I’m scared of the dark.” Her big brown eyes are begging me to let her in. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

  I’m taken aback. “Why don’t you bother Marcella?”

  “Because Marcella wears earplugs and never hears me knocking.” She pauses. “And besides, I don’t want to sleep with her.”

  “Fine.” I’m too tired to argue.

  The little girl follows me back to my bed and crawls under the covers with me. She clasps her hands together and mutters something quietly to herself.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m praying Marcella doesn’t fire you.”

  Please pray she does.

  “Jane, would you give me a goodnight kiss?”

  Now, she’s really pushing it and getting on my nerves.

  “Go to sleep,” I tell her impatiently as I lean over to blow out the candle.

  “Okay,” she says. “Sweet dreams.” Just like Elz.

  “Sweet dreams to you.” I’m surprised how the words flow out so effortlessly.

  In no time, she’s sound asleep. I close my eyes and am finally lulled to sleep by the little girl’s soft breathing.

  Deep into my sleep, I have a dream. A tall chiseled man with a full-face black mask tiptoes into my chamber, startling me. He puts a finger where his lips should be, signaling me not to scream. I say nothing. He takes my hands in his, his grip warm and firm. I should be afraid of him, but strangely I’m not and give myself to him. In a heartbeat, we’re soaring into the sky, floating like two bubbles, toward clouds. I ask the masked man, “Who are you and where are you taking me?”

  A shrill voice snaps me out of my dream. “JAAAANE! I need you!”

  Blinking my eyes open, I bolt to a sitting position. Calla is gone from my bed. Did I oversleep?

  “JAAAANE!” the voice screeches again. “Where’s my liquid diet potion?”

  Damn it! It’s Marcella! My second day back in Lalaland is about to go from bad to worse.

  CHAPTER 21

  I can forget about writing a complaint letter to Shrink. I simply don’t have the time. Seriously, compared to what I have to do now, my days at Faraway seem positively enchanted.

  In less than twenty-four hours, I’ve learned that being Marcella’s personal assistant means doing all the stuff she doesn’t want to do. Which is everything except sleeping, preening, and reading gossip magazines. I’ve already lost weight from running her errands and picking up after her. Plus, I have calluses the size of toad warts from handwriting so many invitations. And I’m only up to the B’s.

  To add insult to injury, on top of all my chores, I’m expected to entertain Calla. Marcella, her soon-to-be new mother, wants little do with the child. Actually, make that absolutely nothing.

  At lunchtime, Calla begs to go on a picnic. Marcella backs off. She has a private dance lesson--one thing off my To-Do List. After that, she’s going to spend the afternoon in bed, scanning magazines for ball gown ideas. So, I’m stuck with the picnic thing.

  “It’s going to be so much fun,” says Calla as we head out the door.

  Believe me, hanging out with an irksome imp is so not my idea of fun.

  Calla leads the way. I keep my eyes on her as she skips across the front lawn of the castle toward the gated entrance. Her long golden tresses fly behind her, and her sheer dress bellows in the early autumn breeze. Birds and butterflies follow her as if they’re magically drawn to her.

  As I trudge along carrying a blanket and picnic basket, I feel a tinge of envy. Not so much of her youth and beauty, but rather her freedom and joy. I’m also a little jealous that her fair skin is impervious to the sun while I’m probably getting another layer of freckles. Okay. I confess. I’m a lot jealous.

  Crossing a field of flowers, we come to a sparkling lake. Lake Sunshine. That figures. Calla finds the perfect spot for our picnic--under a large, leafy tree, not far from the shoreline. She helps me spread out the blanket. Famished, we both dig into the picnic basket she’s filled with fresh fruit and muffins. Suddenly, it just happens…

  A fart! The longest, loudest, stinkiest fart I’ve ever heard. Mine!

  “You’re the one who dealt it. But I’m the one who smelt it!” Calla bursts into laughter.

  Mortified, I’m at a total loss for words. Until Calla farts right back at me. I, too, laugh uncontrollably.

  The two of us cannot stop rolling with laughter. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. I laugh so much it hurts.

  “Are you okay?” asks Calla, fighting her giggles.

  “I’m fine.” I laugh harder.

  Finally, after the stench of my faux pas and hers has faded into the fall air, we’re able to calm down.

  “What do you think of Marcella?” asks Calla, picking a dandelion.

  Skank. Bitch. Wench. Witch.

  “She’s okay,” I say instead. “How do you feel about her?”

  “That woman’s a FREAK!”

  Good one! This kid is growing on me.

  “I don’t know why Papa likes her.” She twirls the fuzzy flower. “It’s as if she has some kind of spell on him.”

  My curiosity is piqued. “How did your father meet her?”

  “Papa hired her to be my governess. She speaks French, at least she thinks she does. Her accent’s so fake! Then I guess he figured I needed a new mother and decided to marry her.”

  “How do you feel about that?” I ask, deepening my inquiry and sounding a little Shrink-like.

  “C’est tout à fait stupide!” she says with a perfect French accent. Though I don’t speak much French, what she’s said is obvious.

  She raises the dandelion close to her lips. “Do you know that when you blow on one of these flowers, you make a secret wish?” With a single breath, she scatters the fuzzy petals all over our blanket.

  I pick a dandelion of my own and blow on it. Silently, I wish for Marcella to magically disappear. I bet Calla wished for the same.

  Eager to get off the subject of Marcella, Calla suggests we play hide-and-go-seek. As she animatedly explains how the game works, I unexpectedly flashback to myself at her age… hiding under my bed or in the closet from the loud, squalid men my mother would bring home. Hoping they would never find me. I tremble for a moment, but Calla doesn’t notice.

  The game is simple and actually fun to play. Way more fun than Grimm’s stupid tree-hugging game. We take turns hiding. The best part is finding the other person, which always results in an explosion of laughter.

  It’s Calla’s turn to hide again, and my turn to find her. Slowly, I count to ten. “Ready-or-not-here-I-come,” I yell.

  Finding Calla hasn’t been that difficult, but this time there’s no trace of her. I call out her name, wanting to know if I’m getting warmer or colder. No response. I’m getting worried. It’s nearing dinnertime. Marcella will go off the deep end if I’m not back in time to supervise the cooks and lay out her evening wear. Where can Calla be?

  I make my way closer to the lake, looking behind every mossy tree trunk and up at every leafy limb. Calla, where are you? This game is so not fun anymore. As my worry turns to anger, a cry makes my heart jump--Calla!

  “Help! Help!” she keeps shouting. Where on earth is she? I frantically turn my head in every direction. Finally, I find her. Oh my God! She’s in the middle of the lake, flailing her arms. She’s drowning! I sprint to the water, dive in, and swim at breakneck speed.

  She sees me and desperately calls out my name.

  “Hang on, Calla!” I shout out to her. An image of my floating puppy flashes into my head. I swim faster, my arms and legs pumping as hard as my heart.
<
br />   She is finally within arm’s length. Blue in the face, she’s gasping for breath.

  “Hold on to me!” I tell her, reaching out my hand. Her icy, little fingers grasp mine, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief.

  Towing her back to shore is much more difficult than I anticipated. Her added weight (though she’s a mere waif) slows me down, and the current is strong and moving against me. My lungs are burning and so are my limbs. Each stroke I fear will be my last.

  The current grows so strong we start drifting backward. Calla clings to me as I battle to stay afloat. Suddenly, something beneath the water tugs at my body. I kick my legs furiously but can’t break free. Panic grips me. It must be a water serpent!

  My life is passing before me. I can already see the Fairytale Tattler headline: “Evil Sea Monster Devours Rehab Queen and Princess Fartsalot!” Wait! What am I thinking? I’m not going to see this headline; I’m going to be dead!

  With a forceful splash, the serpent’s head bolts from the water. Its eyes meet mine. I gasp. It’s not a monster. It’s The Prince!

  “Papa!” exclaims Calla.

  Shit! I’m in such deep water--and I don’t mean the lake. The Prince will have my head! A sea monster might as well have eaten me alive. My life is over any way you look at it.

  Wrapping a strapping arm around the two of us, The Prince combats the fierce current and pulls us back to shore.

  “Papa, that was such a fun ride!” beams Calla as if nearly drowning was a carnival attraction.

  The Prince hugs her. “My Little Princess, thank goodness you are alright.”

  The look in his eyes is intense, loving, and all-encompassing. I look on with envy and sadness, never having known that gaze myself. From a mother or a father.

  His turns toward me, his expression drastically changed. His chiseled jaw is tight, and his piercing blue eyes are shooting daggers my way.

  He is beyond furious. How could I have let Calla go into the lake? Didn’t I know the child couldn’t swim? How could I be so irresponsible? So stupid? Every word is a stab wound.

  Calla cuts him short. She recounts her adventure. Vividly with no detail spared. In full drama queen mode.