“Tea, darling?” Queen Thomasine asked her twin.
Ensconced comfortably in a wingback chair covered in rich red velvet and gold, Faustine, Cinderella’s famed fairy godmother, considered her sister’s features so similar to her own. Thomasine’s elaborately coiffed hair, piled high on her head, showed very few strands of silver one might not discern had they not peered too closely. Her patrician nose and tilted hazel eyes angled with her question. The strained lines about her usually smiling mouth were the only signs that indicated the fear gripping her. Not only was Thomasine’s beloved King and husband in early stages toward senselessness, but the birth of her first grandchild and upcoming heir to the throne of Chalmers was imminent.
Faustine feared Thomasine’s notions toward Prince Charming’s young wife’s weak constitution were sound. The girl was like a beautiful, wispy flower that might wither in a harsh wind. Although Faustine found it adorably charming how Prince treated his lovely wife—like rare, fragile glass.
“Oui, tea sounds perfect.” Faustine smiled, accepting the dainty cup. “Cinderella, she is faring well?”
“Of course,” Thomasine said mildly. But her tone did not match her tightened lips.
“You are worried, non? I can see it in your eyes.”
“Mayhap, just a little,” Thomasine admitted.
“Do not worry, ma chère. She shall come through fine, I vow. ’Twill not be long before Chalmers proudly hails its new heir.” She offered a reassuring smile.
“If only my husband…” Her voice trailed, and she shook her head, “Merci, Dear. I pray you are right. But for such a frail creature—”
“Bah.” Faustine threw out a wave of her hand dismissing the comment. “Mark my words, Thomasine. You shall have the finest grandchild in all the land. ’Tis just a matter of hours, I’m sure.” Faustine sipped her tea with a frown. “Would only that I could cherish such hope for my own son,” she muttered.
“Ah, your conspiracy to maneuver attractive young women into Arnald’s path is for naught? You are a fairy godmother, after all.”
“Young, old, married...it matters not. Alas, he fails to fall for even my most potent spells. Apparently, his powers of resistance outweigh mine to compel by some one-third.”
“Your magic wand? It is still defective from Cinderella’s unfortunate mishap when she stepped on and broke it?”
“Non,” she snapped. “My wand behaves admirably. In this instant the defection is derived entirely by my son.” She wiped the scowl from her face. It did not bode well for aging. “I have formulated something more elaborate to persuade the stubborn fool of his need to marry.”
“And what is that, ma chère?”
“His gift of mesmerism will not work on his true love.” Faustine smiled at such a clever plot she’d devised.
While her own powers were the bequest of the Chevalier Joseph Pinetti, Arnald’s were inherent through his paternal line. In other words, his uncanny ability to compel others to his will was directly inherited from his father. The blackguard. Faustine inhaled deeply, quelling the surge of frustration.
“Well, Dear, consider my services to your avail if need be. I owe you for your own, as you well know,” Thomasine said, absently.
“Oui. I well know.”