Page 12 of Wickedly Ever After
She pulled out the soft gray linen stationery and read.
Ida,
What you did was completely reprehensible. You put me in serious danger. I might have been killed. I only escaped incineration by using a sculpture as a shield when a dragon took exception to being laughed at. I’m tired of your little jokes.
Consider this my final letter.
Hector
She crumpled the letter in both hands. In all the years they’d corresponded, he’d never sounded so…angry. From the straightforward address to the furious tenor of the last line, this was a Hector she didn’t recognize.
Hari held out the teacup. “Are you all right?”
“Hector’s hurt. A dragon attacked him.”
Hari’s eyes widened. “But he’s okay? I mean, he’s a witch. He could protect himself, right?”
“Oh, he’s fine,” she said, throwing the letter on the tray. “Well enough to write. Well enough to tell me he won’t write again. Well enough to tell me he doesn’t like my ‘little jokes’!”
“Ida?”
She waved her hand distractedly. “I don’t care. I don’t care if he’s alive or dead, hurt or well. Send the next princess in. I’m tired. I want to finish my work and go out to my garden and forget this. Forget everything.”
She blinked fiercely. They’d been writing each other almost as long as they’d been practicing, as long as they’d been in charge of tending the delicate balance of good and evil in the kingdom. And they respected each other—a grudging respect but respect all the same. At times, she’d even detected a teasing, needling amusement in his letters when he spoke of how he’d thwartedher latest spell, and it had made her happy to think he probably struggled to contain her magic as much as she fought to deal with his.
She took her seat and tossed the rose angrily on the armrest. Two girls entered the room together, one of them a wreck of rags and pitiable countenance with a balding head, the other dressed in her finest work dress, clean and starched for the occasion.
Gods.All she wanted to do was get this over with and go upstairs to cry or break something, possibly both. What was it about that man? A thousand years of rivalry, of working against each other, and here she was crying because she wanted him to respect her?
She stared them both down fiercely. “Which one of you is Mildred the Match Girl?”
The ragbag started sobbing. “I’m Mildred, your ladyship. This thug attacked me in the hallway!”
“I did no such thing. I’d only attack a person if they could defend themselves. You couldn’t even flatten a gnat.” The girl in the new dress gazed up at Ida with the kind of steady confidence that she’d expect from a witch, not a princess. She had a striking face, pretty, even with the clear light of anger in her soft brown eyes. Her reddish-brown hair was pulled into a thick braid that fell halfway down her back, and her lips were so tight they looked pale against her tan. A farmer or a blacksmith, perhaps. Her arms were muscular, and she looked strong. “Your Goodness, my name is Amber. I know you’ve been told Mildred is a match girl, and that she tore all her hair out to make dolls out of matches, but that’s a lie, and a wig. I’ve known her for years. Her family owns the biggest tavern conglomerate in the capital. My father works for them—he’s makes the iron rings for the barrels. She’snot an orphan. She’s not poor. She’s not been through any real hardship. It’s not fair they didn’t tell you, and it’s not fair to the other girls either.”
“She’s lying, Your Goodness!” Mildred wept. “Iama match girl. Amber is just jealous of me. She always has been. She knew she could never be a princess because she’s from a good family! She wants to smear me soshecan be the princess!”
Amber’s face twisted into a disdainful sneer. “I don’t want any part of that nonsense. I’m a smith and a damn good one. I’m not giving that up.”
Mildred’s tears turned to angry sobs. “This is your way of getting even because Timothy Greene liked me instead of you in the eighth grade!”
“Oh, for Gods’ sake. You can choose who you want to marry or if you want to marry at all! Those other girls don’t have half our privilege—”
Mildred slapped Amber. “You think any one of those other girls has any idea how to be consort to a prince? They wouldn’t know how to embroider a pillow! Some of them probably don’t know how to read, let alone compile a guest list for a party!”
Amber’s bright eyes sparkled, but she didn’t retaliate. “If they get a chance, they’ll learn all they need and more, and you’re denying them—”
Suddenly, it all seemed so revolting, so worthless, so inane. One thousand years, and this was the best magic could come up with? Of course, it wasn’t magic that had come up with this travesty; she hadn’t even been consulted in centuries for the choosing. She was supposed to be. She’d have never gotten the committee’s proposal past Hector if that wasn’t in there, but the reality was somewhat different. They’d turned the whole thinginto a massive politically motivated beauty pageant. The nerve of Hector, calling her irresponsible but…maybe he had a point. Here she was, about to rubber stamp another princess, one that even other commoners knew wasn’t deserving. This wasn’t like Queen Annabeth—at least the committee had been duped on that one as much as she had.
Her temper, already at the breaking point, snapped.
“Stop.” Ida cut both girls off with a swipe of her hand. Mildred went on shouting in complete silence. Amber whirled around to face Ida, face red, eyes glittering with fury, but she stopped talking. Smart girl.
Ida rubbed her temples. “A thousand years ago, my mentor, the Good Witch of the North, placed a single red rose in the hand of a struggling servant girl and changed the fate of the world. This is supposed to be a solemn, reverent moment, not some tit-for-tat on a daytime crystal ball talk show. You should both be ashamed of yourselves. But so should I.” She picked up the red rose and held it carefully while the water dripped from the stem onto the folds of her robes. “Once upon a time, magic chose the girl who would become the Common Princess. Maybe it’s time to return to tradition.”
She descended the stairs, holding the rose. “My duty for the last thousand years has been to place this rose in the hand of the worthy princess, who will be taken captive by the evil dragon and rescued by the good prince, to ensure that this magic—the magic that saved us from ourselves—will continue to protect us and preserve us. Hold out your hands.”
Mildred stuck her hand out at once. But Amber folded her arms over her chest.
