1 Dewitched

by E. L. Sarnoff

  “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?” she 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.

  “It had better be ready for the ball.” She eyes me with the contempt that’s reserved only for a servant. “I’ll send my new assistant to pick it up.”

  “How will you be paying for it?” asks The Emperor, clearly relieved.

  God knows how much this custom creation will cost.

  “Send the bill to The Prince.” She smiles smugly and dashes off.

  “Chop! Chop!” she shouts out to me. “We need to get new shoes.”

  You mean you need to get new shoes. I need to get a new job.

  Emperor Armando, back to being his effervescent self, hugs me good-bye. “Jane, dahling, I’ll see you soon.”

  How does he know my name? I don’t recall telling him.

  ***

  The shoe store, a few doors down, is called The Glass Slipper. Its motto: “For the Perfect Fit Shoe.”

  Whereas The Ballgown Emporium was large and grand, this store is small and intimate. A boutique. Dainty, candle-lit chandeliers bathe the upholstered pale blue walls in a warm glow and make the shoe samples scattered on glass shelves sparkle like jewels. The boutique’s namesake centerpiece--a giant glass slipper sculpture--sits smack in the middle of a large, circular silk couch.

  The couch is lined with dozens of royal women, trying on stacks of shoes. An army of elves runs helter skelter, assisting the demanding customers. I bet every princess in Lalaland must come here. My heart skips a beat. What if I run into Snow White?

  Marcella strolls around the store in a trance, salivating over every pair of shoes. I should have brought a bucket.

  “Hello, can I help you?” comes a voice from afar.

  That voice! I know it! Again, it can’t possibly be…

  From a back room, in lopes a tower of a woman wearing white, jeweled cat-eye glasses. She looks at me. I look at her. We scream simultaneously, then run to hug each other. I can’t believe it! Elzmerelda!! This is too much. First, Winnie. And now Elz!

  “I love your spectacles!” I tell her. She’s one of those people who actually look better in glasses than without them. They make her nose seem smaller and draw attention away from her other homely features.

  “Thanks!” says Elz in her singsong voice. “I designed them myself.”

  Marcella shimmies up to us. “Do you two like know each other?”

  “We’re old friends,” I reply.

  “Good! You can get me a discount.”

  You don’t pay me enough, skank.

  Elz asks Marcella her shoe size.

  “Can’t you tell? I’m a sample Size 6!”

  A six, my foot! Her feet are the size of overgrown bananas.

  Marcella demands to try on every shoe. Without flinching, Elz retreats to the stock room. She returns with two towers of glass boxes, all marked Size 6. Marcella goes at them like a vulture. With grunts and groans, she tries to squeeze her long, veiny feet into one pair after another. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t; they’re simply all too small.

  “These shoe boxes are either mismarked, or you’ve carelessly placed the wrong size shoes in them,” Her Royal Skankiness grumbles. She orders Elz to bring her another pair of Size 6 shoes in every style.

  On the floor is a mountain of discarded shoes. Pig! I help Elz match up the shoes and return them to their proper box. Carrying the twin towers of perfectly stacked glass boxes, she heads back to the stock room.

  “What’s taking so long?” asks Marcella. Steam is shooting out of her nostrils. She’s going to blow. Hurry, Elz! Hurry!

  Just in time, Elz reappears with two new stacks of shoes. Something’s weird about the boxes. It takes me a minute to figure it out. I know. They’re upside down. The top lids where Size 6 is marked are now on the bottom. Ha! The shoes are actually Size 9 (6 upside down!). Marcella doesn’t notice; she tries them all on, in rapid-speed succession. They fit her perfectly.

  “Told you I was a perfect sample Size 6!” she gloats. “I’ll take them all.”

  I can’t believe it. She still hasn’t figured out the shoes are really Size 9. As she waltzes around the boutique in a pair of her new shoes, Elz and I shake our heads in astonishment.

  Suddenly, Marcella screams out, “I’ve got to have them!” She’s discovered yet another pair of shoes she can’t live without. A pair of sparkly ruby slippers. The perfect shoes to wear with her new red ball gown.

  “They’re Size 6!” she squeals. “And they’re ON SALE!”

  “They’re the last pair,” says Elz.

  Just as Marcella’s about to swoop them up, the portly, white-haired woman I saw earlier at The Ballgown Emporium snatches them. “Ring them up,” she commands Elz in her familiar booming voice.

  “Those are MINE!” shrieks Marcella. “I saw them first.” Do something!” she yells at me.

  I’m clueless. What exactly does she want me to do? Tackle the woman? And then I gasp.

  Her Royal Skankiness charges at the buxom woman and slams her to the ground. She grabs for the shoes, but her opponent refuses to let them go and kicks Marcella smack in the groin. Marcella kicks her right back, catching her heel in the folds of the woman’s jutting stomach.

  Holy crap! I don’t believe this--a shoe fight! Marcella and the olde
r woman are at each other like two fire-farting dragons. Clawing! Biting! Hissing! Kicking! The ruby slippers go back and forth between them, like a pair of hot potatoes. Elz bravely tries to break the twosome up, but Marcella won’t stand for it. Dodging a punch in the gut, Elz finally gives up.

  The other royal customers crowd around the dueling divas and cheer them on. This is insane! The battle rages on in the buxom woman’s favor. But right when she thinks she’s got the shoes tucked safely in the thick fold of her cleavage, Marcella lunges at her and tears her gown down the middle. The spectators let out a loud “ooh.” I’m not sure if they’re appalled or amused. Pouring out of her corset, Marcella’s opponent is one overstuffed pastry puff. As she fumbles to cover herself up, Marcella snatches the shoes.

  “Bitch!” roars the woman. “You can have them!” The crowd gasps.

  “Bigger bitch!” retorts Marcella, clutching the ruby shoes.

  Her opponent turns crimson. The crowd gasps louder.

  “Awf…awf…awf.” The woman blows out short puffs of air, as though she’s trying to calm herself down.

  Not bothering to try on the shoes, Marcella triumphantly tells Elz she’ll take them. “You know what they say. If the shoe fits, buy it.”

  Holding the edges of her torn gown together, Marcella’s defeated opponent marches out the door. Her body jiggles with rage.

  I think Elz just lost a customer. Her hands shake as she rings up Marcella’s trophy shoes.

  “Wrap them up with the others and send the bill to The Prince,” orders Marcella. “And don’t forget the discount you promised.”

  That’s my discount, skankface! Don’t I get a thank you?

  Elz shoots me a look that wavers between deep compassion and utter disgust. “I’ll have them delivered to your coach,” she says, sparing me the job of having to lug them myself.

  It takes an army of elves to carry the glass-encased shoes out the door. Marcella fluffs her brassy hair and refreshes her makeup.

  “Let’s go!” She snaps her fingers at me.

  Finally! We’re done with shoe shopping.

  The PIW yanks me out the door, leaving me no time to say good-bye to Elz. Schlepping her boatload of bags, I follow Her Royal Skankiness back to the valet. Our coach pulls up, and I let our poor soon-to-be fired driver help me load the bags into the shoe-filled carriage. Wait! One’s missing. The bag with the golden goose. Calla’s doll! I must have left it at The Glass Slipper. Panic grips me.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Marcella, without any explanation.

  “Make it fast!” Thankfully, she’s still in a pretty good mood from shopping.

  I tear through the mall. My heart races. I hope no one’s taken the doll.

  I fly into The Glass Slipper. Oh no! The bag with the doll is gone! My heart sinks.

  “Looking for this?” Out comes Elz from the stock room, with the bag in her hand.

  “You’re a lifesaver!” I give her a huge hug.

  As I turn to leave, my eyes are drawn to a pair of shoes. They’re black and shiny with six-inch high spiky heels. I cradle them in my hand. They’re wickedly beautiful. I even love the little bow near the pointy toe.

  “They’re part of my new Fall Stiletto Collection,” beams Elz.

  I continue to admire the shoes, imagining what they’d look like on my feet.

  “Try them on, Jane,” insists Elz. “They’re calling your name.”

  Talking mirrors. And now talking shoes. I’ve spent way too much time at the mall. Besides, though I happen to be a sample Size 6, I don’t think any pair of shoes would fit my tired, swollen feet.

  “Next time,” I say.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch glimpse of a dark-haired woman wearing a big red bow. My heart skips a beat. Snow White?

  “Elz, I’ve got to go.” I say nervously.

  She frowns, but then her face brightens.

  “Winnie and I are having a Girls’ Night Out tomorrow. Come with us!”

  Obviously, she and Winnie have connected since leaving Faraway.

  “Count me in!”

  “Great! My coach will pick you up at nine o’clock.”

  A reunion! I can’t wait! The only question is how will I escape Marcella.

  CHAPTER 23

  Calla’s bedroom is nothing like the rat-infested closet where I slept as a child or the servants’ quarters where I kept Snow White. It’s fit for a princess with a whimsical hand-painted mural filled with fairies and flowers, a velvety pink rug, and a shelf full of children’s books and stuffed animals. Curled up on her lacy canopy bed, she cuddles her new doll.

  “It’s a gift from Marcella,” I say.

  Calla gazes at me sheepishly.

  “What are you going to name her?”

  “She’s so pretty and nice.” She pauses to hug the doll. “Lady Jane!”

  I’m touched. She knows the truth. This little girl’s even smarter than I thought.

  “Let’s get you ready for dinner,” I say. Grabbing a silver comb from her night table, I sit down next to her and run it through her long golden locks. As I admire her beauty, the memory of that other beautiful little girl unexpectedly flashes through my mind. Snow White. And then I flash forward to the poisoned comb I sold her. The image of Snow White collapsing makes me shudder. Calla’s comb slips out of my trembling hand and onto the bed.

  “Can Lady Jane come to dinner? Please, pretty please with a cherry on top?” begs Calla, unaware of my inner state.

  Marcella bursts into the room and snaps me back to reality.

  “Jane,” she says in a panicked voice, “the cook and his staff have just quit so I need you to get downstairs and prepare dinner. Now!”

  Okay, so now in addition to being Marcella’s personal slave, I’m also the family cook.

  “And FYI, I’m on a major diet. I want to look fabulous in my new ball gown!”

  “What’s a diet?” asks Calla, innocently as she retrieves the comb.

  “Something you’ll never have to worry about.” I quickly finish combing her hair.

  ***

  The castle kitchen is enormous. Way more elaborate than the one at Faraway. There’s a giant built-in hearth, a huge iron cauldron, hundreds of meticulously arranged pots hanging from the ceiling, and a gazillion utensils lining shelves--most of which I’ve never seen before. Large wooden tubs, clustered on the paved stone floor, overflow with flour, grains, assorted fruits and vegetables, and fresh eggs. Chopping blocks, workstations, and storage closets are scattered everywhere.

  Meals at Faraway, along with Fanta’s cooking class, were based on the principles of rustic cooking. Simple, good, old-fashioned home cooking. While I mastered basic culinary skills there, I’m not prepared to cook a meal fit for royalty. I have no clue where to begin.

  Okay, think. Think! I know. I need a cookbook. I’ll find an easy recipe, the kind that you can whip up in no time. You don’t have to be a culinary genius to follow directions.

  I search the shelves for a cookbook. Nothing. There’s got to be one somewhere. I open a storage closet. Aagh! Two large gutted animals dangle before me. Maybe, they were going to be tonight’s main dinner attraction. Not anymore! I slam the door shut.

  After several more dead ends, I finally find a cookbook in a workstation drawer: The Joy of Royal Cooking. I open to the first page and begin to read.

  INTRODUCTION

  Blood, choler, phlegm, and melancholy, the elements found in all living things, and their corresponding natures--hot, dry, wet, cold--must be considered by the cook whenever making any royal recipe. BEWARE! Food not prepared with its humors in mind is unhealthy and can cause death to the person who consumes it.

  Blood! Choler! Phlegm! Who wrote this cookbook? They sound like ingredients for an evil potion. I randomly flip to one of the recipes--Page 172, Roasted Tail of Boar with Jellied Eels. Eww! That’s it. I’ve read enough of this royal crap and toss the book in the garbage. Where it belongs.

  Outside the large
kitchen window, the sun is setting. I feel the onset of panic. Help! What am I going to do?

  Think, Jane, think! Suddenly, I know. I’ll do what I know how to do. I’ll make The Prince and his family (hmm…I’m not sure if Marcella counts) some “rustic” dishes I learned how to prepare at Faraway. A hearty soup, a fresh salad, and a crusty loaf of bread. And maybe a simple dessert.

  My spirits perk up. Singing “lalalala,” I prance around the kitchen in search of anything I can throw into the giant bubbling cauldron. And what riches I find! Tons of fresh vegetables, grains, and herbs. With a long wooden spoon, I stir the ingredients. In no time, the broth starts to smell delicious. You simply can’t go wrong with soup.

  While the soup simmers, I start on the bread. A quick rising one. I find all the ingredients I need and mix them together. The dough is perfect--soft but not too sticky. Now, on to my favorite part--kneading. For three delicious, stress-releasing minutes, I massage the dough, pressing and pulling it in different directions. How good it feels to plunge my fingers into the warm, stretchy mixture. I flashback to the first time I made bread with Winnie and remember I should be thinking about someone I hate. Marcella! Dough, it’s time for you to feel some pain. I tug wickedly at the dough, enjoying every minute.

  After letting it rest for a few minutes, I shape the dough into a round loaf, slash the top with a sharp knife--did you feel that, Marcella?--and place it into the hearth.

  While the bread bakes, I quickly pull together a salad in a large ceramic bowl. I throw in a bunch of assorted fresh greens and then top them off with a dash of oil and vinegar. I take a taste…not bad! Marcella will appreciate it. Salad, the sustenance of Sasperilla. The perfect diet food.