Charming

Book : Charming

by Jade Linwood

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Humorous Fantasy; Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology

Synopsis

John Tucker Must Die meets Shrek in a revenge tale where princesses save themselves.
Brave, Resourceful, Deceitful, Double-Crossing … Charming.
Prince Jean-Marc Charming Arundel, known to friends and enemies alike as "Prince Charming," is handsome, well-mannered, brave, a peerless swordsman, a cunning tactician—and a liar, a con man and a fraud. For years he has been travelling from one kingdom to the
next, rescuing endangered princesses and maidens, securing their troths and his place in their fathers' palaces, then looting their treasuries and having it away before dawn.
Until a chance meeting of three of his victims—raven-haired Marie Blanche de Neige, the sorceress Doctor Emilia Rapunzel and the long-slumbering Bella Lucia dei’ Sogni—suggests a course of revenge …

Release date: July 18, 2023

Publisher: Solaris

Print pages: 416

Sample

THE PALACE OF SLEEP

Once upon a time, in a land far away…

There is a palace. It is as much fort as palace, though splendid, in a square, frowning sort of way, its towers muscular and business-like. The formal grounds are perfectly groomed, although, strangely, not one gardener can be seen.

The lake, in its marble bed, lies utterly still, a perfect mirror of a clear blue sky dotted with white clouds. The actual sky is dove grey, raining in a soft and constant drizzle, of which no single drop mars the lake’s surface, nor bends a blade of the perfectly scythed grass.

Not one bird sings, not one bee buzzes, not one insect darts through the unmoving air. And even in the open, the scents of leaf and grass and water are strangely muted, like things smelled in a dream.

All around the edges of the grounds is a huge hedge of briars, as tall as a clocktower, set thick and close and twisted. Its trunks are gnarled and furrowed and as wide as a man’s thigh, its stems gleaming red and writhing like the veins of a giant. Its thorns are mahogany daggers, and its leaves bristle with grey, jabbing spines. This hedge of briars never flowers, nor fruits; and that is just as well, for its berries, however large and juicy and gleaming, would surely be poisonous.

A little way outside the briar hedge, near a clearing, two fellows crouch in some bushes. One of them does not need to put much effort into it: being short and oddly shaped, he is what you might call ‘pre-crouched.’ This is Roland, something between a valet and an accomplice.

The other is so tall that, despite his best efforts, his slightly damp golden locks are visible above the top of the foliage, like the nest of a particularly fussy and well-groomed bird.

This is Jean-Marc Charming Arundel, more generally known as Prince Charming.

He has all the expected attributes. Well, many of them, at any rate.

He is certainly very handsome.

“Why the ever-loving Goose are there ogres?” the Prince muttered, glowering through the bushes. He did a good glower. Like most expressions, it only made him more handsome. If the man ever caught a cold, he would blow his nose appealingly.

Roland blowing his nose, on the other hand, was something to inspire nausea in people fifty feet away. He snorted (imagine, if you will, the sound of a frog drowning in yoghurt).

“They probably thought the palace was empty,” Roland said. “That’s their thing. They’re like them little crabs, whatsit, hermit jobbies. Ogres can’t build, they don’t have the brains or the patience, but they find an abandoned palace, fort—even a mill, in a pinch—and they’re in like rats down a sewer. Big, hairy, tusky, stinky rats. Saw the palace, but couldn’t get past the briars.”

“Stinky is right.” Charming wrinkled his nose.

“I know. Nothing else

’round here smells hardly at all, ’snot natural. But them? They pong, all right.”

“Look who’s talking.” Charming sighed, then turned back to his study. “I can see two adults and two youngsters, sitting around what I sincerely hope is the corpse of a pig, and not some local tragedy.”

Roland sniffed. “Yep. Pig. This time.”

“I’m amazed even you can smell anything other than ogre.”

“The important thing is they don’t smell us.”

The ogres, were, indeed, pungent; a bloody, dank, cheesy reek. They had long tusks, and long, sharp, extremely dirty nails on both hands and feet. They also looked as though their skin was somewhat too big for them, sagging around their middles and joints. Even the young ones were twice Charming’s height—the adults were as tall as oak trees. Each had by their side a crude club, little more than a tree branch with most of the bark knocked off by use, stained here and there with old blood. They were not above striking each other with them as they fought over the meal.

Charming stared up through the drizzle at the towers of the ducal palace, just visible over the briar hedge. “I hope it’s worth it.”

“So do I,” Roland said. “It’s a bit risky, this. I mean, apart from ogres, which we didn’t know about, there’s the what you might call ‘interested bystanders.’ Which, I might remind you, we did. Know about. ’Cause I told you. And you listened about as much as you normally do.”

“Judging by the state of the place, the interested bystanders have lost interest,” Charming said.

“It’s possible,” Roland admitted. “They do that. And then they remember things. And one day they turn up on your doorstep reminding you about some bargain great-grandpa made of a summer evening, which you’re now responsible for, ta very much.”

“I’ll cross that particular troll-guarded bridge should it appear in front of me. Hold on, they’re getting up, they must have finished. Shall we get on?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Roland muttered.

“You didn’t warn me about the ogres,” the Prince said with a grin, and slipped from the bushes with his usual lithe grace to sneak up on the big male. Grumbling, Roland followed.

Charming hacked through the big male’s hamstrings and, as the roaring ogre toppled forward, leapt up his back like a startled deer and sprang over his head, taking out the big female on his way past with a well-timed stroke to the throat. The ogres’ two offspring stood side by side, gaping, as they struggled to catch up with events.

Roland, who was finishing off the big male with an efficient dagger into his ear, was promptly drenched with the female’s blood—which, like everything else about them, stank. It was the aroma of a butcher’s stall which had crashed into a cheesemonger, then been abandoned in the hot sun for at least a week.

“Oh, very nice,” Roland shouted. “Thank you so much.”

“Oh, stop complaining,” the Prince replied, as he jauntily dodged the descending club of one of the younger ogres. “I’m doing all the hard work.” He nipped around and poked the ogre in the bum, causing him to turn clumsily but at high speed and whack his nearby brother across the head with his club, felling him like a tree. “Timbeeerrrr!”

Roland dodged the falling ogre, just. “Showy,” he said. “Always so bloody showy.”

It takes more than a single blow from a club to knock out an ogre, but once he was on all fours, blearily shaking his head, it was easy enough for Roland to put his dagger through his eye, nipping out of the way as the giant collapsed. “See,” he said to the corpse. “No need for all that palaver, is there?”

The corpse, unsurprisingly, failed to respond. Charming was dodging about in front of the remaining ogre, which kept whacking his club at where the Prince had just been.

“Finish the blasted thing

off, will you?” Roland snarled. “I want to get this stink off me.”

“Do you really... oops! ...think... oho, will you, eh? ...anyone will notice? I mean, you’re not the... wahey! ...most fragrant of creatures, Roland.”

“That’s my stink,” Roland said. “I worked on that. It’s my whatsit, signature perfume. Some people find it very appealing.”

“How extremely odd of them. Oh, all right, I suppose we should get on.” Charming looked around, leapt up a nearby tree like a leopard, and holding on with his left hand stabbed the ogre through the flabby chest.

It took a moment for the beast to realise he was dead, looking down at the sword, frowning. Then he pitched backwards, taking Charming’s sword with him.

“Bother. Stuck on a rib.” Charming dropped out of the tree—right onto the last ogre, which neither of them had noticed, fast asleep in the bushes below.

His entire family being slaughtered had not wakened him from his stuffed slumber, but a pair of scratched and battered leather boots and six feet of muscular Prince landing on his privates did the job.

He bolted upright, roaring, projecting the Prince through the air, to land on his back, inches from the briar hedge. And a long way from Roland, or his sword.

Charming had had the breath knocked right out of him, and for a moment could only stare at the approaching ogre. Roland was scurrying towards him, but the beast was closer, and there was nowhere to go. The briars were an impenetrable wall. The ogre raised his club.

Charming managed to turn himself over and scoot out of the way with inches to spare. Slam! Down came the club, where his legs had been seconds before, as Charming’s feet shot up in the air and slapped down into the mud, hauling him upright. Slam! The club shattered a rock, sending fragments whistling around Charming, one of them ripping through his sleeve. Charming leapt over the club as it came down again and

grabbed the ogre’s forearm, digging his fingers into the wiry hair, and clinging on as the club swept back into the air.

The ogre held his club aloft, scowling, looking for the annoying creature that had been just there a moment ago.

Charming held on with all his might, trying not to breathe in, his boots dangling just above the ogre’s shoulder. His foot brushed the ogre’s ear, and the creature shook his head.

Charming closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and let go, springing off the ogre’s shoulder and landing in a nearby tree.

The ogre worked out where he was just as Roland sliced through his ankle tendon. He flailed towards the Prince, hampered by his newly-crippled leg. Roland threw the Prince his sword, and he caught it, and, dispensing with the flourish, got the ogre through the throat.

This time Charming was the one who got drenched.

He sat back in the crook of the tree, and looked down at himself, trying not to gag. “That’s never going to come out, is it?” he said. “Now, normally I might say, showing up bearing the evidence of a hard-won fight always goes down well. But I think the stench is likely to make things come up, not go down. I suppose there’s the river?”

“If I might point out to Your Highness,” Roland said, “that river comes out of the city. You en’t going to get any cleaner bathing in that. There’s a spring, just the other side of the briars.”

“Oh, for a proper hot bath, and lithe and willing maidens with warm towels,” the Prince said, descending from the tree.

Roland collected his pack beast. It was a bony, ugly creature with capacious saddlebags and a permanently disgruntled expression, and was generally referred to, should anyone ask, as ‘mostly donkey.’

“No lithe maidens for you in there,” Roland said. “Or just the one.” 

“True,” said Charming. “But I’m sure I’ll cope.”

Our heroes, or our hero-and-a-bit, started towards the hedge of briars.

Roland pulled a small double-headed axe from his pack. Charming eyed it suspiciously, and looked at the massive, tangled wall of spines and trunks. “Are you sure that’s going to get through?”

Roland shrugged. “That wizard’s usually reliable. For a wizard. I mean, you could try with that pretty sword of yours, but I don’t fancy your chances.”

“It just looks so small.”

“Size isn’t everything,” Roland smirked, and swung. The blade gleamed flatly as a snake’s eye. When the edge hit them, the briar stems parted with somehow unsettling ease, as though they were hardly there at all, though they gave off a thick, bitter smell, like the taste of woodsmoke. There was a low rushing sound, though there was no wind. Green dust sprayed from the cut.

Roland swung again.

“Can you make it any higher?” Charming complained, scrambling along in a back-wrenching stoop and trying not to impale himself on thorns.

“My arms are only so long. You want to try? This isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“The axe won’t work for me, will it? That’s what the wizard said. Needs your ‘special qualities,’ Roland.”

Roland muttered something obscene, but kept swinging. A single rowan tree, slender and flower-crowned, appeared as the briars thinned; Roland glared at it and gave it a wide berth. “What is it with you and rowans?” Charming said. Roland did not answer.

By the time they emerged by the spring-fed pool in the palace grounds, there was little left

of Charming’s shirt. He whisked off the remnants along with the rest of his clothes, placed the scuffed boots carefully close to hand on the bank, and plunged into the cold water with a gasp. “Soap?” he prompted.

Roland threw him a bar of soap and clambered in more slowly, retaining his under-things, which consisted of baggy drawers and a pair of extremely thick socks whose original colour could only be guessed at, and only by the brave.

Charming scrubbed soap through his blood-drenched hair. “Oh, this is going to ruin the condition. I wonder if there’s any almond oil in that palace. I suppose an avocado might be too much to ask for.”

“Given the palace’s been bespelled since before they started importing them, probably, yes.”

“I shall just have to make do.” Charming emerged from the pool, looking rather too much like a piece of classical statuary for anybody’s good. His hair, despite the soap, was quickly drying to a leonine mane, if a little fluffier than usual. Roland produced clean clothes from his saddlebags, and they made their way towards the palace.

Now its entire frontage was visible, it was obvious that, despite its manicured grounds, the palace had been built for withstanding armies. It stood on a hill commanding a sweeping view down into the valley. The city of Caraggia, some way upriver, was a picturesque tumble of warm red domes, austerely imposing civic architecture and crowded streets, through which the river curved, gleaming in the sun. A wide carriageway swept down from the gates of the palace towards the city, until the briars blocked it. The air at least did not smell of ogre, though it did lack the scents that a damp summer day should have. Instead of the sweet green of wet growing things, it smelled like an old, empty barn, where hay had been stored long ago; it smelled of dust and the long-gone ghosts of a thousand tiny meadow flowers.

“Well, will you look at that,” Charming said. “The grass looks as though it was just scythed

yesterday.”

“Stasis,” Roland said.

“Whosis?”

“Stasis. Everything within the bounds of the briars has been in stasis—as in, not growing, or dying, or changing. Interesting spell. Nasty in the wrong hands. Or just the stupid hands. It’s all in the wording. I knew a wizard, once, tried to use it to make himself immortal.”

“Didn’t it work?”

“Oh, it worked, all right,” Roland said, with a deeply unpleasant grin. “He’s probably still there, in that box.”

Charming gave him a sideways look.

“You remember what I told you?” Roland said, as they neared the great iron gates. Two guards stood grasping their spears.

“Of course I remember. You are sure? It’s a long way to the next one.”

“Told you. It’s all in the wording.”

The guards remained staring straight ahead.

Roland put his hand to the gates, which swung aside with a deep groan.

They walked through the inner courtyard, observed only by statues, most of them high-nosed men in heavy robes; one, presumably the Duke, depicted in armour, on a rearing horse, his sword aloft. Roland tied up the beast, and they approached the inner doors. “Ready?” Roland asked.

The inner doors opened with a groan so dramatic it could have been scored for a dozen shrieking violins.

Picture the scene. The main reception hall of the ducal palace. Without, a fortress. Within, a floor of red and white tiles laid in intricate geometric patterns, high windows spilling a tranquil silver light across the room. It smells of the memories of perfume: musk, amber, civet.

Every wall is rich with frescoes, depicting military triumphs and various interactions (only

the friendly ones, of course) with the Good Folk, in the stiff but colourful style of a bygone age.

And these unmoving crowds, frozen in time, are reflected in the room itself. A young man bows over a lady’s hand, one toe pointed before him; he wears a long, full robe in deep blue embroidered with gold, its sleeves brushing the floor. The lady wears a voluminous green gown, the wide sleeves trimmed with dark fur. She looks down on the man’s bent head with an expression of faint distaste, from beneath an elaborately plaited hairstyle topped with a jewelled net. A young dog is caught in mid-pounce at a cat, which, judging by its puffed fur and snarl, had no desire to make friends, and has not mellowed over the years. A servant bears a jug of wine, and is in the act of surreptitiously wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The whole room is like some giant, complex game of chess. Even Charming, known for his poise, stands for a moment, dumbstruck.

As for those frozen in the hall—did they once have lives, hopes, loved ones? Homes of their own now rotted to dust, gardens all overgrown, families left waiting beyond the Palace walls, for whom great-great-grandma is little more than a rumour?

But they are almost all, even the best-dressed of them, servants. Most of the rest left before the fateful birthday, knowing what was about to befall those who stayed. And who cares about servants’ stories? Apart from the Good Folk. They sometimes show an interest in servants; and if you’re very clever and extremely lucky, you might even survive it.

And there is the Lady Bella. Born to wealth and power and loving parents, gifted with wit, beauty, grace, poise, and song. Lucky, lucky Lady Bella—if you forget the curse and the hundred years of sleep, you might believe nothing bad could ever happen to her.

In her long sleep, she has sometimes dreamed. Most of her dreams are gentle, and full of laughter and music and sunlight. But now and then, she dreams of her christening. A warm, bright place. Happy gabble, friendly

faces bending above her, smiling.

A sudden change in temperature. A chilly gloom, a spreading quiet. A single face, not friendly at all, with flat, unblinking eyes.

As a baby, she used to scream, which is the only power babies have. In her dream, she is robbed even of that, clutched in unbreakable silence.

The face draws closer, the eyes penetrating and cold, and then it smiles.

And there the dream ends, with a smile, and silence.

“I don’t know whether I’m more disconcerted by the people or the clothes,” Charming whispered. “Look at those robes! How did anyone move in them?”

“They’re aristocracy, like you. They have other people to move for them,” Roland said. He did not whisper, and his voice grated on the silence.

“But why are they here?” Charming peered at the necklace around the lady’s neck.

“Got to make sure their Dukeships had a proper functioning palace to wake up to. I told you all this, but you were too busy making sheep’s eyes at that tumbler.”

“Oh, yes, the tumbler.” Charming gave a reminiscent sigh. “Astonishingly flexible.”

“You keep going on like that, and even a lass who’s been literally locked up asleep for a hundred years isn’t going to fall for your charms. And that necklace is paste.”

“Really?”

“Really. Come on, or the hundred years’ll be up before we get there.”

Research is a valuable thing. If you’re looking to wake someone who’s under a spell, it’s worth doing some digging into the conditions of the spell she’s under.

The basics had remained reasonably accurate: A daughter is finally born to a long-childless

couple. One of the Good Folk doesn’t get invited to the christening, takes offence, turns up anyway and curses the child to die on her twentieth birthday. One of her sisters turns the curse aside so she only goes to sleep. Briars grow up all around the castle, etc. etc.

This, however, is where the shift happens. “She’ll wake up in precisely one hundred years, and by the way, there’ll be a prince there, who is the very picture of love,” gets turned, over the years, into: “She’ll wake up at true love’s kiss, which will be provided by the brave and noble prince who risked his life to find her.”

It’s a fine example of romanticisation. It makes a better story, especially if you’re trying to persuade teenage girls that having no life at all until a man comes along is a perfectly acceptable fate.

Not to mention that the Good Folk are extremely precise with language and can use it to tie you into knots that would make a sailor cry. Also, staying out of their interpersonal quarrels is really a very good idea. (Seriously, why else would someone not invite a Very Powerful Fay to the Christening, when this is obviously an all-round Bad Idea? Because another Very Powerful Fay persuaded them not to, that’s why. As to the reasons they might have done such a thing...

Well, that’s another story.)

Charming and Roland passed down winding corridors, where here and there servants had been caught mid-bustle. Portraits adorned the walls, many of them showing the same young woman, from a round-faced, wide-eyed baby in her mother’s arms, to a young girl perched on a plump and glossy pony to a young woman playing the lute. In every picture she smiled and grew more beautiful, and in every one she was surrounded by adoring faces.

Eventually our heroes arrived at the bedchamber of the Lady Bella Lucia dei’ Sogni. Where the rest of the palace smelled ancient and unused, this room had a little freshness, a hint of spring flowers. It was draped in dark blue silk, embroidered with maroon fleurs-de-lis. A 

 A maid slept in the chair by the bed, her hands folded in her lap.

The lady herself lay under a silk coverlet, the reverse of the draperies: blue fleurs-de-lis on a maroon background. The colours might have been specifically chosen to flatter her rich olive skin, but in truth she would be beautiful in a hessian sack. Masses of dark curls cascaded over the pillows, softer and glossier than the silk.

Charming gave a soft whistle. “She’s actually as pretty as her portraits. Prettier. How often does that happen?”

“Hmph,” said Roland. “You watch yourself. It’s not just the Good Folk, you’re looking at some seriously powerful would-be in-laws, here.”

“It’ll be fine,” Charming said. “Trust me.”

A subtle shiver went through the room. The draperies stirred. Roland sniffed the air. “Right, it’s time.”

Charming got down on one knee, next to the bed. It might have been sheer luck that a shaft of sunlight fell through a gap in the curtains just then, transforming his hair into a corona of gold and making the blue of his eyes glimmer like sapphires.

The air rippled. The hair on Charming’s neck stood on end as magic rushed over his skin.

 

THE WOKEN PRINCESS

The Lady Bella yawned as prettily as a kitten, stretched, and opened her wide, dark eyes. “Oh!” she said. “Good morrow. Thou must be the Prince.”

For a moment, Charming only smiled. Then he coughed, and shook his head. “And you must be the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen,” he stumbled. “I’m sorry, I’m a little overwhelmed. I had a whole speech and everything.”

She laughed, and turned her gaze to Roland. “Hail. Thou wert not in the spell.”

Roland rubbed his nose. “No, well,” he said. His usual truculence seemed to have retreated, to be replaced with something that looked almost like shyness. “I’m his... valet.”

“I trow you look after him very well,” she said, looking over at the Prince. “He appears as though you do, certain.”

To the astonishment of the Prince, something that might almost have been a blush appeared beneath the layer of grime that Roland had managed to reacquire between the pond and the palace.

The maid coughed. “Excuse me,” she said. She moved between Charming and the bed, folding her arms and radiating protectiveness from every inch of her tiny frame. “Sirrahs, th’art in Milady’s bedchamber, I know ’twas in the spell but ’tis still improper.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Charming said. “My apologies.” He rose to his feet, put his hand on his heart, and bowed. “Milady.”

“Sir.” She held out her hand. “Your name, if you will.”

“Prince Charming.” He smiled reassuringly at the maid. “I do have documentation.”

Bella laughed again, delightfully. “’Twas in the spell,” she said. “Thou couldst not be other than a true Prince.” A small, perfect frown formed between her sculpted brows. “Your speech... This is how they speak in your home? I must learn.”

“In my home we speak another tongue,” Charming said. “Here, I believe you will find the change is merely the passage of time. No doubt you will learn the new ways easily, but I find your speech enchanting; do not change it entirely, I beg you!”

The maid coughed again, a little more firmly.

The Prince smiled, and bowed over the small, lovely hand held out to him; then he and Roland left the room.

They were greeted by a slightly dazed-looking crowd of courtiers, led by a tall, beak-nosed man in a long red robe. Sharp eyes took them both in, and a somewhat frigid smile was accompanied by a flourishing bow. “My Lord Prince? I am His Excellency’s steward. You are come most timely, and of course I doubt not thou art indeed the promised Prince, but, a thousand apologies, I must ask... you have proof?” He held out his hand.

Charming gestured to Roland, who whipped a roll of papers bound with scarlet ribbon out of his backpack. “I also have my seal,” he said, drawing the heavy ring from his finger. “I hope that will prove sufficient.” 

The steward bowed. “You understand, we must protect the interests of both Her Grace and of the city. Meanwhile you and your... man... will wish to refresh yourselves after your ordeal. A room awaits you.”

They were led to a richly tapestried chamber with a fire crackling in the hearth and a bottle of wine on the table. Roland sniffed the wine and took a slug.

“You might use a glass,” Charming protested. “I don’t want any now.”

“Fussy,” Roland said. “Anyway, it might have been poisoned.”

“Why would they poison me?”

“Point,” Roland said. “They only just met you. Give them time.”

“You’re very mean,” Charming said.

“Well, yes,” Roland said, his voice dripping with so much sarcasm it almost burned a hole in the marble flooring. “Sure you don’t want some? Excellent vintage, been cellared properly, too.”

“No, thank you.”

Around them the palace creaked awake, with the sounds of hurrying footsteps and doors opening and closing, and exclamations of surprise and wonder and annoyance. A yowl and a pained yelp suggested the cat and dog had not resolved their differences. The windlass in the courtyard groaned with strain, as gallon after gallon of water was drawn from the well and hauled to stables and bedrooms and the vast and echoing kitchens.

“Why’re they washing everything?” Roland mused. “’Sall been in stasis, there isn’t even any dust.”

“Because people like a wash when they wake up,” Charming said. He considered Roland a moment. “Most people, anyway.” He stared out of the window, drumming his fingers on the sill.

“Nerves?” Roland said.

“Certainly not." 

At length, a servant appeared to usher them into the ducal presence.

They entered a room only slightly less vast than the entrance hall, with tall, mullioned windows giving a view over the grounds. The brief flicker of sun had withdrawn, and a soft rain was now drifting down. Groundspeople with axes were already hard at work clearing the dying briars from the carriageway that led down to the city.

At the far end of the room, on tall chairs of glossy dark wood upholstered in burgundy velvet, on a high oak dais richly carved with fleurs-de-lis and snarling lions, sat the Duke and Duchess dei’ Sogni. Behind them hung a tapestry depicting a hunt, riders and hounds gaining on a tiring stag that stumbled among exquisitely depicted wildflowers. They were a handsome couple, if not to the preternatural degree that their daughter enjoyed; both beginning to grey at the temples, both with the aura of people whose orders were obeyed, by most, without question.

Charming went down on one knee. Roland, with a grunt, did likewise.

“You are most welcome,” the Duke said. “Please rise, sirrah.” He glanced towards the door, as did the Duchess.

“Your Excellencies,” Charming said.

“You have already met our daughter,” said the Duke.

“I have, Your Excellency—I hope you will forgive my intrusion, but it seemed wise to follow instructions to the letter. To risk such a jewel for some trifling error...” He shuddered.

There might have been a glimmer of tears in the Duke’s eyes, though no one would dare remark on it. “A jewel indeed she is,” he said. “The most precious of all.”

“It took me but a moment’s speech with her to learn as much,” Charming said. “And I hardly

 dare hope I may be worthy.”

“You appear so much what one would wish,” the Duchess said, “that I wonder if mayhap the Good Folk visited thee likewise.”

“You flatter me, Your Excellency,” Charming said. “I owe my looks, such as they are, to nothing but a fortunate family line. And it is obvious to me”—he bowed—“that the Good Folk alone were not responsible for the Lady Bella’s beauty.”

The Duchess acknowledged the compliment with a modest tilt of the head, but was immediately distracted when Lady Bella appeared, dressed now in green and gold, smiling and running towards her parents with her arms outstretched. The Duchess’s expression melted into a genuine smile. “Bella! My lambkin! Art well? Art famished?”

“Bella! My dove!”

The two stern rulers were gone, replaced by a mere mother and father, as the Duke and Duchess all but scrambled from the dais in their haste to embrace their daughter.

There followed a great deal of hugging, and exclamation, and conviction that Bella had grown (not possible, in stasis, but parents will be parents), and more tears. Charming and Roland stood back while all this went on, and the Duchess stroked her daughter’s hair and the Duke called for feasting, and the ringing of bells, and the drawing up of marriage papers, and Bella laughed, and blushed like the most perfect and rare of roses, and Charming just kept smiling.

The blare of a herald’s trumpet cut through the general bustle. “Oh, hello,” muttered Roland, looking out of the window.

“Ah, surely the good townspeople have come to rejoice with us!” the Duke said. He, too, glanced out of the window—and frowned.

Three large, stately coaches trundled up the carriageway. Before them rode heralds dressed in scarlet and white, flying banners bearing a gold lion on a white field.

 “Your Excellency?” said the Captain of the Guard, a man who still had the look of someone who was not sure if he was awake, but was doing his best.

“Open the gates,” the Duke said, “but be vigilant.” The sentimental father was gone. Here, again, was the man who had successfully wrested control

of a city from his rivals, defended its borders at the head of his troops, and had lent so much money to so many rulers that he could, should the occasion arise, have taken entire provinces as interest payments.

“If I may, Your Excellency?” Charming said. “I believe I know who these people are.”

“Careful,” Roland muttered.

“Thou dost?” the Duke said.

“While you were... indisposed,” Charming said, “without the care of your guiding hand, the city found itself in some little confusion and trouble. The good people decided to form a council... what are they called, Roland?”

“The Serenissima.”

“Ah, yes. The Serenissima. To handle the daily running of the city’s affairs.”

“Did they so,” the Duke said thoughtfully. “I trow I left most clear instructions.”

“Ah, but even Your Excellency could not foresee every eventuality,” said Charming. “The times have been tumultuous. I believe they have been most careful in defending the city’s interests.”

“Have they,” the Duke said.

“And they have a great deal of support,” Charming said, “both within and without the city. Of course, it is Your Excellency’s choice, but allowing them to retain some of their power may help avoid”—he glanced significantly at Bella—“problems for anyone in the future.”

Their Excellencies exchanged a look. “It is a consideration,” the Duchess said.

“Come, Papa,” said Bella. “Let us have no frowns, on such a happy day! Why, ’tis my birthday, is it not?”

“Indeed,” said the Duke, helpless not to smile at his daughter. “Tell me, child, art thou

twenty, or one hundred and twenty? If ’tis the latter, why, I fear the Prince will find thee a little too old for him!”

“Oh, Papa.” Bella kissed him on the cheek and took his arm, and beamed a smile of surpassing joy and loveliness.

The representatives of the Serenissima entered together, and were dressed alike, in a style similar to the Prince’s: the men in fitted doublets and narrow breeches tucked into high boots, the women in equally close-fitted jackets, with long skirts in place of breeches. The colours were sombre, the doublets adorned only with a few lines of bronze braid.

Though slightly damp from the rain, they looked, among the antique splendour of the ducal court, like people on serious business.

They bowed.

“Your Excellencies,” said a smooth, plump fellow. “We heard the bells, and made haste to come and give our congratulations on this most happy occasion.” His gaze kept slipping away from the Duke and Duchess towards Bella, as though he could not be quite sure she was real, and had to keep checking.

“If ’tis indeed congratulations you bring,” the Duke said, “truly the occasion is happy.”

“Why, Your Excellency, what else could it be? Forgive me, I am Agnolo Baldovinetti, guildmaster of the Bankers’ Guild and elected spokesman for the Serenissima, these good people you see here with me.”

“And thou hast come to return to me the rightful rule of my city?” the Duke said.

The words, pointed as a spear, met the gazes of the Serenissima with an almost audible clang.

“Now, Papa,” Bella said. “These good people have come hither, in all this rain, and have been offered no morsel of meat nor cup of wine, what will they make of our hospitality?” She smiled brilliantly, causing answering smiles to break over the faces of the Serenissima, and anyone

else in range, like the crashing surf. “A feast is e’en now being prepared, and there will be plenty for all. Will you not dine with us?”

“Bella,” the Duke said, with an attempt at fatherly authority, “’tis not yet your place to take part in these discussions.”

“But Papa, you yourself said that I must learn the arts of diplomacy, and how to host great occasions. Besides,” she said, “I could not bear for anyone to feel slighted, or unheard, on such a day.”

Charming bowed. “As the man fortunate enough to be named your future king, I could not agree more. I would also wish to learn more of how your city has become so astonishingly wealthy...”

There was a guttural cough, from somewhere behind him, but no one was looking at Roland. With few exceptions, anyone who wasn’t gazing adoringly at Bella was gazing adoringly at Charming.

“...and influential,” Charming went on. “Indeed, your Excellency, your own coinage, the carre, is not only still in circulation—it is now the only coin accepted without question in every single place that I have travelled! Isn’t that astonishing?”

“Is’t so indeed?” said the Duke. He had not, precisely, defrosted; but the ice had thinned a fraction.

The Duchess clapped her hands. “Set places for our guests,” she called.

Bella laughed with pleasure. “Now,” she said, taking Senor Baldovinetti’s arm. “Good sir, will you explain to me what the Serenissima does? I am, as you know, a little behind the times!”

The most powerful man in the country, with the (possible) exception of the Duke, beamed down at her. He patted her hand in a fatherly way, and began to explain, in elaborate—indeed, tedious—detail, how splendidly he managed the current running of a great city. Bella hung fascinated on every word.

The palace had been well stocked when the spell took hold, and the tables were so laden the timber could barely be seen. “Look at that marchpane!” the head

of the Bakers’ and Confectioners’ Guild gasped. The cake in question was a perfect recreation of the palace, so incredibly detailed that there were even tiny flickers of silver in the blue paste waters of the lake, to represent fish. “I must speak to their confectioner,” the guildmistress declared, with a determined glint. “I want to find out where they got that blue.”

Below the salt, the table was extremely crowded, except immediately around Roland—hungry as everyone was, sitting near him tended to dim the appetite. Roland seemed not to notice. He ate hugely, drank vastly, listened to everyone’s conversations, and said little but ‘pass the bread,’ and ‘giz some more of that stuff in the green dish.’

At the meal, Baldovinetti, a man who had been nimbly negotiating the snake-pit of Caraggian politics for thirty years, found himself, by Bella’s design, seated next to the Duke’s steward. The steward was fanatically devoted to the interests of the Family, and as wary and venomous as a mamba.

Bella, in passing, said, “Oh, Senor Baldovinetti, our steward has a most wonderful device, for viewing objects in the night sky!”

Senor Baldovinetti, a passionate amateur astrologer, turned to the steward with astonishment, and the two were soon deep in discussion of the movement of planets.

Bella, after a brief conversation with the head of the Bakers’ and Confectioners’ Guild, rousted out the lanky, grey-haired palace confectioner and introduced them. “Our confectioner has grandchildren, too,” Bella said. “The most adorable twins.”

An immediate sympathy passed between the two grandparents. “Little devils,” the confectioner said, with resounding fondness. “And once they get into the sugar there’s no stopping them. The mess two four-year-olds can make of a kitchen...”

The guildmistress groaned in sympathy. “Flour!” she said. “It wasn’t even very much flour...”

“I wonder if…” The

confectioner glanced out of the window.  “But no. It’s been too long.”

The guildmistress patted his arm.  “I’m sure your family will welcome you,” she said.

Next, Bella introduced the head of the Vintner’s Guild to the Duke’s cellarer. The guildsman was delighted to discover—not to mention sample—some vintages that had been thought lost, and which, unlike everything else, had been allowed to age. (The Good Folk have a lot of respect for the particular magic of wine, and seldom interfere with it.) It was decided between them that a new vintage, from the ducal estate’s own vines, could be produced and marketed to the pleasure and profit of all. It would, of course, be named after the happy couple...

For all her concern with making sure everyone had a pleasant party, Bella frequently found her gaze drawn to Charming. He seemed to know when she looked at him, and would give her a loving smile, and a nod of approval. When she managed to get the head of the Embroiderers talking to Papa about the creation of a slightly more modern and even more splendid set of livery for the palace servants, he gave her a little, private thumbs-up.

Charming himself, meanwhile, drew out the head of the Armourers’ Guild on the subject of the latest fashion in plate mail and the complexities of a good pauldron, and ended up with an offer of a complete suit of armour for himself and any mount he wished. A brief discussion of the difficulties of keeping harness in good condition with the head of the Leatherworkers resulted in a new set for the Mostly Donkey. Chatter with the guildmaster of the Butchers ended with the presentation of a selection of the best preserved meats, which Roland eyed with great approval.

Charming flirted outrageously with the guildmistress of the Bakers and Confectioners, who laughed, fanned herself, and gave him her secret recipe for rum cake.

He even, by some unknown alchemy, managed to win a genuine smile from the steward, to the astonishment of those who witnessed this marvel.

The guildmaster of the Entertainers, a man with a mane of hair almost as impressive as Charming’s own, watched him work the room, and sighed. “Imagine that stuck in the palace, charming the boring nobility,” he confided to his friend. “He’d slaughter ’em on stage. Such a waste.”

When, full of food and wine and good feelings, the representatives of the Serenissima took their leave, Senor Baldovinetti and the Duke shook hands. “I look forward to seeing Your Grace at our next meeting,” Baldovinetti said. “We will benefit greatly from your wisdom and judgement. Your Grace has the weight of history at your back.”

“And I will no doubt benefit from thy introduction to these new times,” the Duke said. “So much hath changed! And, in truth, not all for the worse,” he said, with a glance at the women of the Serenissima.

Bella, blithely unaware that she had achieved the kind of diplomatic outcome that usually takes months of wrangling and bitter compromise, was only pleased that everyone seemed to have enjoyed themselves.

As they readied themselves for sleep, the Duke found his wife seated at her dressing-table, staring not into, but through, her mirror.

“An interesting day,” he said. “And remarkably successful, I trow.”

“Indeed,” said the Duchess. She turned to look at her husband. “I fear for our daughter,” she said.

“Ah, now, what megrim is this, my dove? Think’st thou the Serenissima will rise against her? Why, they were clay in her hands.”

“I know.” The Duchess rubbed her own hands together, as though they were cold. “But she is so young and so untried in the world... and the world, my love, is but seldom a kindly place.”

The Duke put his hands on her shoulders. “And our daughter has such gifts as she needs

to make her way in this harsh world, doth she not?”

“But the Prince...”

“Did you not see how he watched over our little Bella with a most loving attention?” the Duke replied. “Whenever I looked, he was close, though never crowding, seeming ready at any moment to protect her from hurt or insult.”

“As though any would dare, here in our very palace,” Her Grace pointed out. “But he hath indeed the capacity to please. If he can pull a smile from the steward—I swear I had not thought the man’s face could stretch to one.”

“And he is the chosen of the Good Folk,” the Duke said.

“Indeed, he is,” the Duchess said.

The Duke’s grip tightened for a moment.

The Duchess patted his hand. “You are right, it is but a foolish megrim,” she said. “Now, my love, it is time for bed.”

“It seems strange to sleep again so soon,” said the Duke.

“Oh, sleep,” said the Duchess, “sleep I have had enough of for now.”

“Oh?” said the Duke. “Oh.”

Lucky Lady Bella, awaking on her wedding day! What could be more perfect? Early, as was once her habit, to the smell of baking bread, the first clean brilliant sunshine and the birds singing their little hearts out. But then, how could it be otherwise? She blinked, and stretched, and smiled, and shook out that glorious hair with a gesture as unconscious as it was graceful. She was awake! And she would be awake all day! What could be more delightful? Unable to stay one more moment she bounded out of bed, threw a robe on over her nightgown, and splashed her face with water from the ewer.

The sounds of the morning—the creak of the windlass from the well in the courtyard, the chatter of the maids and serving-men, the sound of the soldiers drilling on the parade-ground, all were wonderful to her.

And somewhere in the palace was her betrothed. That was the most wonderful of all.

Sweet, smitten Lady Bella. She thought of his face, and his hair, and his smile, and his broad shoulders, and the way he had watched her as she spoke to the Serenissima. Sometimes people spoke of the Good Folk in such a careful way, as though they were not to be trusted. But—despite the unfortunate misunderstanding about her christening, and she was certain that if people had only explained, and been reasonable, it could all have been sorted out—they had given her such wonderful gifts, and the best of them was surely the Prince! Was he not the most perfect, kind creature? His every action had been courteous, gentle, and—there was no other word for it—charming. His name was so apt it made her laugh.

She rang for the maid, and pored over gowns with her. Splendid enough for one’s betrothed, but not so splendid it would put to shame someone with nothing to wear but what his man carried with him. Such a strange, funny little fellow, that Roland. She must talk to him; he would know things that his master, however wonderful, would not. Servants always did. And his life, accompanying so brave a prince—how strange and adventurous it must have been!

Bella asked the maid to dress her hair simply, in the style she had seen one of the younger ladies of the Serenissima wear.

“Well, ’tis very modern,” the maid said, having done her best. “But still, thou look’st the picture of beauty, Milady. E’en more than always.” The maid beamed. “Love is the best cosmetic, they say.”

“Oh, Lucia. I’m to be married! Is’t not wonderful and strange?” Bella had the new way of speaking almost pat already, such things came easily to her, but Charming had asked her not to lose all of her old speech, and it was easier for those around her, who did not have her facility with language, if she did not change all at once.

Lucia nodded, and sniffed. “Oh, Milady!”

“Don’t cry! Please don’t.”

“No, Milady.” 

“I know ’tis a great change, but is not life change?” Bella bounded to her feet, and spun around. “Let us go, I must greet my Prince!”

But before she could reach the door, it opened. The Duchess stood there.

Bella had never seen her with quite that look on her face. Whatever circumstances the troubled world of courtly politics threw at them, Mama had always breathed in, lifted her chin and prepared to Deal With It. Whatever this was, it had shaken her to her iron core.

“Mama?”

“Oh, my treasure, my little sparrow...”

The Duke appeared at her shoulder, his face rigid, his eyes incandescent.

“Mama, what is it? Papa?”

“He is gone, my sweeting,” the Duchess said.

“Who... what meanest thou?”

“Your Prince. His man. His beast. Gone.”

“Aye,” said the Duke. “And a good portion of my treasury withal!”

“Treasury?” Bella said. She did not understand. What had the treasury to do with anything? The Prince was gone?

The Duke snarled. “He begged for advice on how he might best secure his own treasury, and, being a fool, I showed him all I did, and come the dawn the captain finds the guards drugged, the doors open, and all that might be easily carried and easily sold, gone!”

This made no sense. Bella had woken in a world where everything was as it was meant to be, and now... nothing was as it was meant to be.

There must be some mistake, some misunderstanding. People were so ready to assume

the worst.

“Mayhap ’twas thieves?” Bella said, striving to keep her voice light and steady. “Perhaps... perhaps he tried to stop them, and they forced him to go with them...”

“A pedlar on the road saw him and his man pass by,” the Duke said, “in the small hours, with their beast full laden, laughing as they went. Laughing!”

“L... laughing?” Bella found that she was no longer standing, but seated on her bed, as though some string had been holding her upright, and was suddenly cut. Her insides felt grey and cold and numb, but somewhere there was pain waiting, she could feel it, ready to cut her through the heart.

“Husband,” the Duchess said sharply, “hast not orders to give, and pursuit to arrange?”

“Aye, aye. Fear not, Bella my lamb, we will have him soon, and he will pay for the insult to you and to this house!” The Duke swept away, feet thundering on the tiles as he strode.

“Mama?” Bella said, and even to herself her voice sounded strange, and thin, and very young.

The Duchess opened her arms, and Bella dived into them, as though she could hide there. There her confusion and shock broke into horrible, painful, gut-wrenching tears; the first she had wept since her christening.