Poof!
Heathcliff is gone, and I’m alone in a long hallway where flickering torches cast an eerie glow. Curved stone arches and gargoyle statues tell me I haven’t been sent home (drat) and am still somewhere inside the castle. My eyes are drawn toward several glowing signs on the walls. I step closer to read one and… Zip! A butterfly shoots past me. How did it get inside? I blink again and realize I’m not looking at a bug. It’s actually a tiny human with wings, but it’s not a fairy. Is that…a pixie? A flock of them suddenly flutter through the hallway, throwing confetti and singing.
Jumping giants, this is cool. I have to talk to one. “Hello!” I say to one flying past me.
Zip! It tosses confetti in my face and keeps going, its silver wings grazing my left shoulder. I can hear it laughing as it flies away. How hospitable.
“Excuse me, I don’t know where I’m supposed to go, and I was wondering if you could help me.”
Two pixies stop in front of my nose, look at each other, and giggle. One points to the darkened hall behind me. “Definitely that way,” the boy one says in a high-pitched voice.
Skeptically, I peer into the darkness and see pixies zooming in the opposite direction. Wait a second. Pixies, pixies, pixies…what have I read about them before? Think, Devin. Don’t they love to cause mischief? Yes! That’s right. I can’t take their advice. Maybe one of these signs on the wall has some better answers.
The Royal Way: There Is No Try, Only Triumph! —Olivina
Not helpful, but maybe the next sign has something better.
When Life Gives You Poison Apples, Make Applesauce to Give to a Villain! —Olivina
I’m not even sure what that means. I keep walking in hope of finding a clue to where I should be going, and a pixie flies into my forehead. We both scream.
“You could have killed me,” the pixie shouts, her voice no more than a whisper.
“Sorry!” I rub my smarting forehead. “But I wouldn’t have bumped into you if I knew where I was going.” The pixie opens her mouth, but I cut her off. “Please don’t say ‘down the dark hall.’ I know that’s not true. Can you save us both the trouble and tell me where I’m supposed to be? I was poofed here.”
She crosses her arms and looks at me. “I don’t have the time to show you,” she snaps. “I’m very busy, and all princesses should already be in line.”
“In line?” I ask hopefully. “What line?”
She slaps her hand across her mouth. “Wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” she mumbles. “It’s down the lit hall. The one lined with other girls. Didn’t you read Olivina’s manual?”
“No,” I admit sheepishly.
“You didn’t read Royal Academy Rules? Just come this way. Not reading the manual, I swear,” she says under her breath. But thanks to my super-keen sense of hearing, I hear her.
“I appreciate your help, Miss…?”
“Ava,” she says and does a double take. “No one has ever asked my name.”
“Really?” I say in surprise. “Well, how do people address you, then?”
Now she looks intrigued. “They usually don’t. Let’s go so I can get back to work. With the ball tomorrow tonight, there is much to do if I want to enjoy it myself.”
“I forgot all about the ball.” Ava almost flies into the wall in horror. As I turn the corner to follow her, I see a long line of girls in rainbow-colored gowns. There is a lot of squealing and chatter. “Thanks for your help!” I say. “One last thing: What is this line for?”
She flies backward and looks at me sharply. “To get your lady-in-waiting, of course. She’ll take you to your room and coordinate all your appointments. You already have your tailoring sessions set up with Marta, right?”
“Marta?” That name does sound familiar.
Ava rolls her eyes. “Princesses these days. Marta! The royal tailor?” I try to look like I know what she’s talking about, but she flutters to my nose and lands on it. “Did you take pixie dust to the eye or something? You should know all this. Day one at RA is the biggest day of your life.”
I sigh. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”
She flies to my shoulder. “Look, don’t beat yourself up, okay? Just get in line and your lady-in-waiting will explain the rest.”
“Thanks, Ava.”
Ava smiles ever so slightly. “You’re welcome. Good luck!” She flutters away.
I join the line and stand quietly, listening in to snippets of conversations. (“Mother limited me to only six pairs of shoes in my trunk. Can you imagine?”) I’m still half a dozen girls from the front when I hear something strange.
“Psst.”
I look around. None of these girls are trying to get my attention. They all seem to know one another, and a few are even giving me dirty looks. I suspect they’re friends with Clarissa.
“Psst!”
There it is again. I look around and spot a hand waving wildly at me from underneath a table with a velvet tablecloth.
“Could you hold my place in line?” I ask a girl discussing glitter hair-care products with a friend. Both of them have their hair done up with glitter already—one in pink and one in purple—to match their gowns.
“Hold your place?” Pink Glitter repeats. “What could be more important than the line?”
The hand under the table is frantic now. “I…uh…need to use the little princesses’ room.”
“Can’t it wait?” Purple Glitter narrows her eyes. “This line is no joking matter.”
“I once held it twelve hours waiting for Prince Heath’s carriage to come by in a royal procession,” says Pink Glitter with a breathy sigh. “I didn’t want to miss him.”
“I can’t hold your spot,” Purple Glitter tells me. “Your placement is what determines your choice of lady-in-waiting. If you leave, I get a higher pick. Your loss.” They both nod.
Pick? I’m sure I’ll still get someone good. “Fine. I’ll get back in at the end of the line.” I step off and realize too late the line is now fifty girls deep behind us. Oh well. I make sure no one is looking at me, then crawl under the table to rescue the frantic hand waver.
When I do, I come face-to-face with a boy. He has brown skin and brown eyes, is wearing a gold vest with a ridiculously ruffled collar, and is shaking as if he’s freezing.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say back. “Um, I think you’re in the wrong place. This is the girls’ line.”
“I don’t want to get in the boys’ line.” His voice is panicked. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
“I know what you mean,” I say. “All the pomp and circumstance and formalities. It’s just the first day of school.”
“I don’t mind any of that.” He eyes me suspiciously. “Who doesn’t like fanfare? Or a ball where they’re supposed to be serving coq au vin? It’s my favorite dish to cook when I sneak into our kitchen. It’s the dragons I’m worried about.”
“Dragons?” I repeat excitedly.
“Yes, dragons!” His voice cracks. “A prince in line behind me said we have to fight one at the end of the first marking period.” He runs a hand through his cropped hair. “Not a pretend dragon for class. A real one! I heard that and ran. I can’t do it. I’m allergic.”
He starts to hyperventilate, and I know what to do. I spot a crumpled bag that someone must have tossed, smooth it out, and hand it to him. “Breathe into this.” This worked once with a squirrel who was having a panic attack over losing his lucky nut. I watch the boy breathe in and out slowly.
“Better?” I ask, and he nods. “So you’re allergic to dragons?” I’m skeptical. I’ve never heard of this condition before. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” he says defensively. “I’ve never actually seen a dragon, but I always sneeze when I’m near dragon’s-tooth products.”
I’m not sure that qualifies as a diagnosable dragon allergy, but I don’t argue. “Just tell your professors about your allergies and I’m sure you’ll be excused,” I say. “But I wouldn’t worry about meeting a dragon in general. They’re actually quite friendly…if you lay off their nests.”
“How do you know that?” he asks, sounding unsure.
“I haven’t met a dragon yet, but I intend to. I’ve read a lot about them, and I know the fire breathing is just a scare tactic. They also hate eating charred dinner.” He looks like he might pass out. “In other words, you’ll be fine! You’re not dinner or looking for an egg. If you run into one, try talking about the smell of pine. They love it.”
“I’m not talking to a dragon!” He skirts away from me in horror. I think he might regret waving me over now. “I’m not climbing a tower either, or learning how to fence! I once got a splinter when I fell into our sword case at home.”
“And you’re sure you’re a prince?” I ask skeptically.
He purses his lips. “Says the princess dirtying the hem of her dress by climbing under a table in front of all her classmates.”
“Point taken.” I sit down next to him and offer my hand. “Devin Nile.”
He shakes it. “Prince Logan Nederlander of the Wetherby section of Enchantasia. It’s rural. All we have are cows and sheep. You really want to meet a dragon?”
“Sure. My dream is to meet one with a toothache who lets me examine her,” I say breathlessly. “I’m going to be a professional creature caretaker someday.”
“But you’re a princess,” he points out.
“So? Why can’t I be both?”
“Because that’s not how it works,” Logan says. “Look, I like the prince title myself. Carriage processions? Love them. Perfecting the royal wave?” His right hand moves slowly through the air. His technique is mesmerizing. “I excel. But I’d much rather be seated at a table with the royal court discussing how to make a cranberry apple soufflé than be out there slaying an actual dragon. I’m good with planning and measurements, but I’m not a fighter.” He holds up his hands. “See how clammy my hands are? I’d slide right down a tower wall on a rescue mission.”
“So what are you going to do?” I ask. “Do you think they’ll let you leave and go learn how to be a professional chef?” I’m not sure how classes here work. And I’m starting to regret not reading that manual.
His face drops. “Never.” We’re both quiet. “For now, I guess I have to get back in line, mention my allergies, and meet my steward. You’re right—maybe they will understand.” He starts to smile again. “There’s so much to do…between tailoring sessions, knighting ceremonies, and checking out the chef’s kitchen. Maybe I can suggest some new recipes. Plus, if I’m lucky, I’ll make it into the Royal Academy Roster.”
“See?” I say. “You’ve found the upside already. Stop worrying about fire-breathers! Get out there and get some coke-ah-whatever you said before!”
Logan begins to crawl out from under the table, then stops. “Wait. How am I going to go back out there? It doesn’t look good for a prince to be seen hiding under a table.”
I nod. “Good point. I’ve already made a bad first impression on those girls, so why don’t I take the fall for you? Maybe someday you can return the favor.”
Logan grins. “Deal. You’re not very princessy, but you’re okay in my book, Devin Nile.”
I wink and crawl out from under the table. The chattering stops, and girls look at me. “I dropped my pearl necklace. Has anyone seen it?” I shout, crawling around on the floor while Logan slides out from under the other side of the table and makes his getaway down the hall. “Oh look! An emerald. It must have fallen out of someone’s crown.”
“Mine! It’s mine! No, it’s mine!”
Princess after princess leaves the line and rushes to search the floor. It only takes a few minutes before the girls give up on finding the missing jewel and start arguing over who was standing where and whether a lost gem is a valid excuse for leaving their spot. By the time I make it to the front, there are only a few ladies-in-waiting left.
“Name?” asks a bored-looking elf sitting at a long white desk three times her size. A large stack of scrolls is piled on the table, while quills magically mark several other scrolls.
“Devin Nile,” I tell the elf, and a quill magically writes it down. “Of Cobblestone Creek.”
The elf points lazily to two nervous-looking girls my own age behind her. “You can pick one of them to be your lady-in-waiting. The princess from Raroway, whose carriage broke down west of the Hollow Woods and hasn’t arrived yet, will get whomever you don’t want.”
“Oh!” I feel funny picking one while they’re both standing in front of me. They’re dressed in identical green gowns, white aprons, and small caps that cover their hair. But the girl on the right has modified her cap by adding a small brown ribbon wrapped like a rose that brings out her brown eyes. They look kind. She catches me staring and smiles sweetly. I smile back. “I’m not sure how to choose…” I hesitate.
The elf yawns. “Ask some questions from the manual.”
That darn manual again. I’ll just have to wing it.
“Hello. I’m Devin Nile.” They both wave. “I was wondering if…if…” What do I need my lady-in-waiting to do anyway? The same things Anastasia does for me at home? Does that mean cover for me with Mother and help out with creature care? I can’t really ask that with the no-nonsense elf listening. I rack my brain for a question, then think again of Logan. “Do either of you like…dragons?” Lily pokes her head out of my dress pocket to hear the answer.
The girl on the left shudders. “I hate animals. Such dirty creatures.”
The girl with the ribbon lights up like a firefly. “I’ve always wanted to meet a dragon!”
Bingo!
“I’ll take her, please.” I point to Ribbon Girl, who squeals. (The other girl huffs and takes a seat on the ground to wait for the princess from Raroway.)
“Brynn Haun,” she says, coming around the table and hugging me fiercely. She smells of oatmeal and coconut, which is a pleasant combination. “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance, miss!” She brushes a stray dirty-blond hair from her face and pushes it under her cap. “I know you only had two choices, but I wanted you. I heard the others talking… You arrived by pumpkin! Very few princesses do, so I knew you’d be special.”
Brynn grabs my hand before I can even say “It’s nice to meet you too.”
“Let’s move!” she says, yanking me down the hall. “Your roommates are probably already taking all the closet space!”