The next morning, as Isabelle made her way out the door to the Official Fairy Godmother Training Center, her stomach still felt like it was twisting in knots. Or maybe knots wasn’t the right word. Really, her whole body felt more like it was full of pointy magic wands—and not in a good way at all.

When she reached the entrance of the training center, Isabelle almost turned around. To enter the room, she had to choose between two doors. This was so discouraging. She couldn’t believe she had to take a test before she’d ever set foot in a classroom!

The door on the right was covered in glitter and bright colors. The words WALK THROUGH THIS DOOR IF YOU ARE READY TO BECOME A GREAT FAIRY GODMOTHER flashed brightly across it. The door on the left was not fancy at all. It was brown and smooth, and it felt a lot like leather. The words on this door were small and looked a little bit blurry, so she stepped right up to them. WALK THROUGH THIS DOOR IF YOU ARE NOT.

Why did there always have to be multiple choices?

Why did she always feel like she was about to be tricked?

Claiming to be ready seemed like the smart thing to say, but it was also less humble. Humility, according to Clotilda, was the fifth most important thing a fairy godmother had to be.

When a really old godmother showed up, Isabelle did not waste a second. “Which door is the right one?” she asked.

The old godmother looked her up and down. “They’re both the same,” she said, limping past her toward the brown door. “Everyone is ready. And everyone is not.”

That sounded suspiciously like something Clotilda would make up. But since Isabelle wanted to get a look around the classroom before Grandmomma arrived, she didn’t question the old godmother. Instead, she squared her shoulders and confidently walked through the fancy door. She decided to look ready, even though she wasn’t.

The truth was nobody inside even looked up to see which door she had picked. They were too busy talking and looking around the room. Photographs of the greatest fairy godmothers of all time—including a nice picture of Grandmomma as a young godmother—covered the back wall. Above the photos flashed everyone’s favorite slogan: HAPPILY EVER AFTER. THE LAST LINE OF EVERY GREAT STORY.

The front of the room was interesting, too. There was a big red desk and an even bigger red chair. On the desk sat a jar full of pencils and a bigger jar full of candy. It was stocked with all of Grandmomma’s favorites, and some of Isabelle’s, too. She recognized the wrappers from her secret trip to Grandmomma’s office.

Next, Isabelle looked for an empty seat.

Normally when there was listening to do, she preferred to sit in the back row. But three older godmothers, including the really old one she had met outside, had already taken those spots. Isabelle figured they were probably teachers, since they looked just like Grandmomma on a bad day: crabby, tired, and annoyed.

The only two other people in the room were young like her. But they had taken seats in the one place she did not want to sit—the front row, right in front of Grandmomma’s desk.

The first girl reminded her of an intricate flower. Her black hair was piled into fancy braids with red and pink ribbons and scarves that made her dark skin glow. Her arms looked strong and lean, like the roots and stems of the flowers that grew all over the eastern half of the fairy godmother world.

The second one looked like she had drifted down from the clouds in the sky. Like a lot of fairy godmothers of the past, she was more bubble than brawn, all pinks and whites and pale yellows and fluff. She had very round eyes and very round cheeks and a very round body.

Isabelle thought about sitting down next to them, but they looked so cool and confident that she couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated.

Clotilda had told Isabelle (about a million times) that, just like princesses, fairy godmothers came in all shapes, sizes, and shades. She’d also told her that as she progressed in the training, she would learn about all the different customs of princesses as well as the godmothers. And that she was going to make great lifelong friends.

But these girls—she didn’t know what to say. They looked polished and smart and so much more … well, everything. Plus, they were reading The Official Rule Book for Fairy Godmothers like it was the most interesting book they’d ever seen. No matter how many times Isabelle coughed or cleared her throat or yawned really loudly, they didn’t look up. Hopefully that meant they weren’t prepared, either.

She was still standing when the really old fairy godmother from earlier waved her over.

“What are you waiting for—an invitation?” the old godmother whispered. “Go on, introduce yourself. They won’t bite!”

Isabelle knew better than to disappoint a teacher! As fast as she could, she walked back up the aisle and stood in front of the two girls. “Hello there. My name is Isabelle. I am very much pleased to meet you.” Her voice came out sounding more like a frog croak than real words. Neither girl looked up.

Isabelle tried again, this time speaking louder and slower. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Isabelle.”

This time, they perked up. “As in, sister of the Clotilda?”

Isabelle nodded and both girls squealed. “The fourth best fairy godmother in the land,” the girl with the braids said. “You must be so proud.”

Isabelle didn’t know about fourth best, but there was no point in arguing. “Yes. We’re all really proud.”

They asked her tons of questions, from Clotilda’s favorite color (yellow) to what Clotilda liked to eat (peaches) and what she thought about Clotilda’s princess, Melody (perfection, obviously). Neither one of them invited Isabelle to pull up a chair. But maybe they were nervous, too. Isabelle was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. She sat down in the row behind them and waited for the Clotilda excitement to die down.

It took a while, but eventually the girl with the braids offered her name. “My name is Angelica. And this is Fawn.”

When Fawn held out her hand, she looked like she might be in danger of floating away. “I’m so excited to get started. Aren’t you?” She opened up her Wish List, the master portfolio of all the princesses past, present, and future, then looked at Isabelle’s empty lap. “Where are your books? Don’t tell me you’re such a genius like your sister that you don’t need them?”

Isabelle hadn’t even thought about bringing her books. She’d never bothered to open the big, fat Wish List that came with the rule book. It was still in its wrapping, stacked in the corner of her room, collecting dust.

But Isabelle knew better than to admit all that. Instead she winked—the way you do when you have a secret—with her mouth wide open (and perhaps a stray sparkle near her eye). She said, “I’d rather not talk about princesses, if you know what I mean.”

To her surprise, Angelica seemed to know exactly what she meant. She pointed to the old godmothers in the back of the room. “We don’t want to say anything in front of the Worsts, either.” She rolled her eyes and whispered, “I couldn’t believe it when I saw them!”

“They’re the Worsts? Really?” Isabelle said, too surprised to whisper. She had heard that Grandmomma liked to readmit the most unsuccessful fairy godmothers for retraining—to give them a fresh start—but she hadn’t expected them to look so normal. “I thought they were our teachers.”

The really old godmother hit Isabelle in the head with a crumpled-up piece of paper. “You know, we can hear you.” On the paper was a drawing of Grandmomma. It was not complimentary.

The Worsts all began complaining at once:

“The system is rigged.”

“She acts like she’s doing us a favor.”

“Some princesses like being miserable. Don’t say we didn’t warn you. It was a lot better. Before.”

Isabelle knew what she meant by “before.” She meant before Mom and her really unhappy princess, before all the new rules, when fairy godmothers didn’t have to go to training—or in their case, retraining. “What do you mean, ‘rigged’?”

The really old one had tons of wrinkles. “You’ll see soon enough.”

One of her friends had bright purple hair and a very long nose. “How do you think your sister got to be fourth best? In the old days, you had to pay your dues!”

Isabelle still didn’t know about fourth best, but she didn’t want to argue. “Clearly, you haven’t met Clotilda.” Her sister had always been perfect and talented and got everything she wanted way before anyone else. “Besides, Grandmomma would never rig the system. She’s not that nice.” She smiled. “The truth is, most of the time she’s crabby. And stuffy. And …”

“Isabelle.”

Angelica and Fawn went back to reading. The Worsts looked away.

A shadow crept across the room.

Isabelle felt a cold, bony hand on her shoulder. She did not have to turn around to see whom it belonged to.