Page 70 of Wickedly Ever After
“Are you insinuating that I picked the wrong girl?” Ida tossed her napkin on the table.
So much for not fighting. “I’m not insinuating anything. But Amber does seem a little—unusual—I mean, compared to your previous selections.”
She huffed. “I could just as easily say maybe you picked the wrong dragon! There’s never been any need for the dragon to be a prince.”
“It’s traditional.”
“Well, maybe I picked the Common Princess in the traditional way!”
“Very well then.” He sighed. “Let’s look at the Prince. You said you brew the potion with the petals of the red rose. Did something happen with that?”
“You were there, Hector. Aside from the theatrics of the thing, it went according to plan.” She rolled her eyes.
“I’d hardly call anything about that night according to plan,” he said.
She smiled slightly. “You still owe me a new wand.”
“And you owe me a new jersey. Tinbit couldn’t get the stains out.”
“So what? It will match the rest of your clothes.”
She was smiling now, and curses, the feeling he’d had—that he’d touched on a sensitive spot by attacking her choice in princesses—vanished in a pleasant bubble of wishing she’d smile at him that way all the time. He popped it with a forced frown.
“Walk me through the procedure anyway.”
She brushed an inquisitive leaflet out of her face. “Very well. The spell is steeped in golden wine along with the rose petals for three days. It’s served at the Prince’s Dinner as the traditional toast to the happy marriage. I made it the way I always do, and the captain of the guard—that Caedan fellow—served it to theprince. I gave it to him as soon as I got there.”
Hector stifled an unhappy burp. He regarded his untouched crabapple pie, appetite vanishing in a dreadful sense of foreboding.
The captain of the guard had been with the prince at the game. Then he’d been on the field when Alistair landed, getting in front of the prince to defend him, and then there was Rupert’s cryptic comment about how he’d like the young man to be eaten by a griffin. “Hypothetically, if the prince didn’t drink that potion, what would happen to your love magic?”
“Nothing. With no love interest available, the princess wouldn’t fall in love. The spell would remain incomplete until she found a person with whom she might be naturally compatible. Oh, Gods.” Ida leaned back in her chair, face draining of color. “Do you think that—”
He nodded. The crawling, burning, and freezing sensation of doom had just galvanized into a horrific certainty. “Yes. The prince never took that potion. The captain of the guard made sure he didn’t. Archibald Quentin Rupert II is gay. And he’s already in love.”
32
Ida
One of the things I most admire in gnomes is their deep commitment to each other. They are attentive to the wants and needs of their partners in a way that might make me jealous if it didn’t give me the wonderful opportunity to study natural Happily-Ever-Afters. There are no happier couples than gnomes who may stay together for a century or more.
The only problem I’ve encountered in their community is the ostracization of those gnomes who find it hard to settle, who don’t make the familial bonds expected in their rigid social structure for one reason or another, a failing that sometimes distresses me as it has affected a dear friend of mine.
Magic and Mischief—A Thousand Years of Happily-Ever-After: A Memoir
Ida North
“You can’t be serious. Oh. Oh, Hector!”
She balled her hand and pressed it to her forehead. In all the years of royalty marrying commoners, it hadn’t occurred to a king, queen, or member of the selection committee that aprince might not wish to marry a common girl—he might prefer a common man. But it should’ve occurred to a witch.
Hector rested his elbows on the table, rubbing his forehead like the evening’s wine had given him a tremendous headache. She certainly had one, but it wasn’t the wine.
“What do we do?” She barely trusted her voice. She’d met the man, Caedan, at the Happily-Ever-After, felt that little niggling sense that perhaps he cared more for his prince than the average knight, but she’d been so focused on Amber and the botched selection process, she’d not given much thought to the prince.
“I don’t know,” Hector said, looking up. “I must confess—I might have had some inkling—”
“When? Hector, when did you have an inkling?”
