“We should postpone the wedding,” Drucilla says, watching me from the corner of her eye.
“Alistair will not wait.” He would, if I demanded it, but if he has truly worked miracles to make this wedding happen, then I am as eager to seal our bargain as anyone. Alistair, an arrogant, ruthless prince, fought forme. A nobody. A servant who scrubbed chamber pots. The forgotten daughter of an extinct earldom.
The idea that my sons and daughters will sit on the throne of Belterre, marry into the highest-ranking families, and wield power in the realm, gratifies me immensely. Through me, the Scinder family will not only continue, but thrive.
“This isn’t fair.” Stacia stamps her foot. “None of these will fit me. I need a glamour.”
“Shh!” hisses Cilla.
“I want to feel pretty for my wedding day. For Othmar.” High color stains her cheeks.
She’s gone and fallen in love with him. That didn’t take long. I suppose it didn’t take Alistair and me very long to fall in love, either. I shouldn’t judge.
“Princess, there is an old lady asking for a word with you,” says one of the maids.
I step into the foyer of the atelier and find Maxine, her scraggly gray hair braided away from her face, her shabby nondescript dress clean, and her eyes alight with mischief. Maybe I’m simply unaccustomed to seeing her outside of her cottage in the forest, but she looks younger somehow, abuzz with energy.
“Max. What are you doing here?”
“I wouldn’t miss your big day.” She chuckles and peers past me. “Besides, I thought your sisters might want a little assistance?” Dipping her hand into the pocket of her patched apron, she produces two fizzing bottles. Glamours.
“Put those away,” I command. “They’re illegal.”
Maxine winks. The glamours disappear into her pocket again. Every woman in the workshop stops dead to stare at the witch who bustles through the door.
“Perhaps I can I be of assistance?” she says. Cilla’s nose wrinkles. Stacia’s jaw drops as she gapes openly at the intruder.
“Get out.” Cilla points at the door. “We don’t want anything to do with a filthy witch.” She spits the last word.
Unbothered, Maxine snaps her fingers. The modiste and her seamstresses freeze in place. “Now that we can speak privately, I will have you know that I am the filthy witch who’s been supplying you with glamours for the past several years, Miss Tremaine.”
“LadyTremaine,” Cilla corrects, seething.
“I see only one lady here,” Maxine says, turning to me. She smooshes my cheeks between her palms. “I wasn’t going to let these colorblind twits ruin your wedding. What kind of fairy godmother would I be if I didn’t intervene?”
Abruptly, she releases me.
“I don’t need your glamours anymore, Maxine. I have a supply straight from Prince Alistair himself.” She sweeps aside her skirt to demonstrate her mangled leg. It shimmers slightly, looking better than ever. “A bribe for marrying Lord Layton, and it’s better magic than anything you’re capable of producing.”
Maxine blinks. She wiggles her nose, and Cilla shrinks into a frog. I gasp, leaping back.
“What have you done to my sister?” Stacia shrieks. “Turn her back!”
Instead, Maxine blithely turns Stacia into a small goat. It lowers its head and tries to ram Maxine, but she twirls aside at the last second and Stacia butts the wall instead. She falls onto her rump. If goats could shed tears, she’d be sobbing.
“Maxine,” I say warningly.
“Elinor. I have wanted to teach these two idiots a lesson for years. Indulge me a bit of fun while I’m helping you.”
“As long as you promise to turn them back.”
Cilla croaks. I scoop her up and deposit her on a table. She hops awkwardly in a semicircle. One leg sticks out at an angle.
“I will. I’m just having a bit of fun at their expense.” She trails her fingertips along the unfinished gowns and pulls one out, holding it up for Cilla to inspect. The frog stares blankly. “I take it that’s a no, then.”
She puts it back. Stacia the goat ambles over to the gowns and begins nibbling on a hem.
“Oh, no you don’t.” I scoop her up, bracing the wiggling animal against my hip. She bleats irritably.
