Page 231 of Naughty Nelle

“Yes, I’m Jane,” I say, gazing into his eyes as he strides toward me. They’re the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. The color of aquamarines.

“Pleased to meet you.” He bows. “I am Prince Gallant.”

Gallant?I swear that’s the prince Lady Germaine mentioned before her untimely passing. How weird!

“Nice to meet you, too, My Lord,” I force myself to say. Even after Faraway, humbleness doesn’t come easily to me. I half-heartedly tack on a quick curtsey.

“The formalities are not necessary. And I prefer to be called by my first name.”

Gallant. That’s a pretentious name. It must go with his personality.

“Is there anything I can get you?” he asks.

Funny you should ask. How about some basics for making evil potions and a magic mirror? I’m regressing so quickly. Get a grip, Jane.

“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.”

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