How to Summon a Fairy Godmother

Book 1: Fairies and Familiars

by Laura J. Mayo

Genres: Historical Fantasy; Humorous Fantasy; Romantic Fantasy

Synopsis

If a fairy godmother can get one sister into a marriage, getting another out of one should be easy… 

Lady Theodosia Balfour has certainly gotten the short end of the stick—her stepsister, the newly crowned Princess Beatrice, is telling everyone in polite society that Theo, her sister, and their mother are evil, wicked, and horrid people who treated her like a slave. Though Theo knows this isn't exactly true, it seems her life is thoroughly ruined by the rumor. With the Balfour family estate on the verge of bankruptcy, Theo's only path forward is a forced betrothal to the Duke of Snowbell, a foul-tempered geezer who wishes only to use her as a brood mare for spare heirs. 

Desperate for help, Theo clings to the only thing that might save her: the rumor of a fairy godmother, one that supposedly helped her stepsister secure a prince. After discovering a way to summon a fairy in Beatrice's old room, Theo thinks her prayers have been answered. But the fairy she meets isn't at all what she imagined. Drop-dead gorgeous, incredibly cunning, and slightly devious, Cecily of the Ash Fairies is much more interested in gathering powerful favors and smoking her pipe than providing charitable magic for humans in a bind.

Before she receives magical assistance, Cecily sets Theo to three tasks, seemingly to prove that Theo is a selfless and kind person. Helping her along the way are Cecily's familiars, the flirty human-turned-mockingbird Phineas and the aloof Kasra, a fox shapeshifter who should not be as handsome as he is for someone with such cutting remarks. As Theo works on her tasks, she shockingly finds kinship with the magical creatures she's helping, and starts to wonder if a continued life among her human peers is what she really wants after all.

From debut author Laura J. Mayo comes a hilarious new spin on the Cinderella tale!

Release date: October 8, 2024

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 352

Sample

Theodosia Balfour’s ball gown was made of fine white silk, and that’s where the compliments ended. The bodice was fitted, but it reached all the way up to her throat. Her mother always found it necessary to say that a lady needed to leave some things to the imagination when dressing, but Theo had seen nuns with less restrictive necklines. The sleeves found their inspiration from marshmallows, excelling in both fluff and volume. Not to be outdone, the skirt took up the poofiness challenge and asserted dominance. In the unlikely event of anyone at the ball wanting to dance with her, they’d have to do it from the next room, just to make space for its circumference. And yet, none of those horrifying qualities could compare to the fabric pattern. Twisting down and around the entire ensemble were stripes of green and red, making Theo look like a giant walking peppermint candy. If she was to get noticed, it would only be for looking like she had lost a fight to a confectioner with a vendetta.

“Theodosia, if you’re waiting for me to tell you that you look beautiful, you’ll be here awhile,” her mother, Lady Balfour, said when Theo expressed her apparently outlandish desire to not want to feel hideous. “I did not select that gown because I thought it would help you be attractive. I selected it because you will need to stand out if you want the prince to pay any attention to you. Which, I’m sure I do not have to remind you, is not a talent you possess on your own.”

Theo’s sister, Florentia, wore a mint-green dress with a tight fit of boning in the waist, the skirt flaring out around her in an explosion of matching bows and ribbons. When Flo came downstairs after putting it on, she twirled around the drawing room, caressing the fabric as she envisioned herself dancing with the prince. All Theo saw was a spinning green cake topper.

However, Theo knew it didn’t matter what they wore. The odds of Prince Duncan noticing the Balfour sisters were slimmer than their mother’s own corseted waistline. If he were forced at gunpoint to pick Flo or Theo from a line of three women, the kingdom would need a new prince. He’d met them before at various royal functions over the years, but if he’d bothered to spare more than a brief nod at their curtsies, Theo couldn’t remember it.

But that pesky detail was not going to spoil Flo’s excitement. Ever since their stepsister, Beatrice, stopped attending events and stealing the spotlight, Flo could finally shine, and she was determined to capture Prince Duncan’s attention this time. Even though it had been years since Flo and her stepsister were at an event together, competing with Beatrice had left its mark, carving a brutal gouge of jealousy through her already thorny nature. She would have young men admiring her, asking her to dance, bringing her drinks, only to be dropped like a corn husk doll the instant that porcelain beauty, Beatrice, showed up.

If Flo and Beatrice were dolls, Theo was a rock some child had drawn a face on, such was the romantic interest she inspired in potential suitors. But while she didn’t have the same level of enthusiasm for the ball as her sister, it was hard not to get sucked up into Flo’s excitement. Theo, even in her silly dress, was hoping that maybe this ball would be the one to buck tradition. She was a titled lady just like her sister. Why couldn’t she also fantasize? Maybe not about becoming a princess, but there were going to be plenty of other available men there. With any luck, one of them might be interested in her.

With those fantasies dancing handsomely around their heads, they went to the ball.

It was going just as well as every other ball before. The kingdom’s royalty had turned out in full, each level of nobility presenting their eligible daughters to a very unimpressed Prince Duncan. With every passing minute, he was becoming dangerously close to slumping right off his chair and onto the floor.

The invite-only ball’s sole purpose was an attempt by the king to find his son a bride. The previous few galas had not resulted in any love matches at all, though that did not deter His Highness, who kept throwing more and more lavish parties in the hopes that maybe his son just needed to see the same eligible ladies more than once to decide that one of them might be good enough. But this ball was set to be the last one. The prince had had enough. The king had finally had enough. If Duncan didn’t find his bride this time, then they would have to take the search elsewhere.

On the guest list was, of course, the royal house of the Earldom of Merrifall, headed by the twice-widowed countess, Lady Martha Balfour.

Her first marriage had been to a wealthy merchant, with whom she had two daughters. It lasted for just a short while until his untimely death, a sickness of his lungs coming to claim him.

Because of her first husband’s affluence, she had been a part of a number of high-society circles, which is where she met the widowed Earl of Merrifall. It was another sign of good fortune that their daughters were so close in age, Florentia being ten when they were married, Beatrice, nine, and Theodosia, eight. But only five years later, Lady Balfour was left with two husbands pushing daisies and three daughters to look after.

And while technically all three girls were of society age, only two were ever allowed to attend any royal function: Florentia and Theodosia. The reasoning was simple: Lady Balfour didn’t want Beatrice stealing the eye of Prince Duncan away from her own children. And since this was the last chance for Florentia and Theodosia to make a good impression, she would ensure her little blond stepbrat stayed far away from the palace.

Unfortunately for the Balfours, the order of presentation was not alphabetical, so before either of the sisters had the opportunity to curtsy to the prince, she arrived.

When the herald standing at the door asked for her name so she could be announced, she didn’t give one, choosing instead to make an understated entrance. But in no way was she able to fade into the background. She glowed with light, like a star that had fallen to earth. From her sunshine blond hair, to her resplendent dress, to her magnificent if not impractical glass shoes that tinkled like icicles when she walked, there would be no blending in for Lady Beatrice Balfour, daughter of the late Earl of Merrifall.

It was as if Prince Duncan’s heart stopped the moment he saw her. The party, the people, and the palace all melted away as he walked toward the shimmering newcomer. And when he finally reached her, the entire ball came to a standstill. Even the music stopped, the string ensemble too mesmerized to remember that they were supposed to play their instruments. So every person in the grand ballroom saw him take her hand and heard him ask if this was a dream, such was her ethereal beauty.

Whispers of “Who is she?” whipped through the grand hall, everyone speculating as to the identity of this woman. Some were even saying she was a visiting foreign princess. How humble she must have been to not want to be heralded into the ball.

Of course they had all forgotten her true identity. Due to the fickleness of noble attention spans, she had completely fallen out of their collective memory the second she stopped showing up to events. Beatrice had not been seen in public since her father died four years prior.

But that didn’t matter to anyone at the moment. Not when this gorgeous enigma and the prince danced the night away, falling more in love with every step.

The three other Balfours did not recognize her at first. After all, it couldn’t possibly be Beatrice—she was locked in her room, still in her dirty clothes, ashes under her fingernails, with no way to even get to the ball.

But somehow, it was Beatrice.

And when that realization danced past them on glass slippers, their hatred for their already detested stepsister and stepdaughter swelled like a river in a storm.

Taking his cues in manners from Beatrice, Prince Duncan waltzed her right out of his own party, leaving everyone else behind with the now-slimy cheese platter and room temperature punch.

Flo, jealousy eating her alive, was close to losing any semblance of ladylike behavior. She was only just able to stop herself from shrieking, and instead was emitting a high-pitched squeal like a possessed teakettle.

If the king could weaponize the look of pure malice on Lady Balfour’s face, he would no longer need a standing army. Theo could almost feel the heat pouring off her as she twitched in anger. If Theo hadn’t been so shocked at the situation, she might have grabbed an extra glass of water, just in case she needed to splash it on her mother before her head popped off and lava spewed out.

But before Lady Balfour had a chance to fully ignite, a guard approached.

“Excuse me, Lady Balfour?”

Her mother took a deep breath, nostrils flaring, straining to regain composure. “Yes?”

“Follow me.” He walked off without waiting to see if she was behind him.

The three Balfours were led to a small courtyard. Little seating areas dotted the walking paths that wove like a maze between flower bushes. It was a perfect, private garden for a romantic walk. Which was probably why Beatrice was there. However, instead of being on an intimate interlude with Prince Duncan, she was standing between two guards.

Beatrice’s eyes widened when she saw who was approaching, but Theo could not read her expression. For a moment, she almost looked relieved.

The guard who had escorted them to the garden cleared his throat and once again asked, “You are Lady Balfour, Countess of Merrifall, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“This young woman claims to be Lady Beatrice Balfour, daughter of the Earl of Merrifall.” He gestured to Beatrice, whose hands were clutched to her chest, her head moving in an almost imperceptible nod.

Lady Balfour’s confusion warped into a cruel smile. “Lady Beatrice Balfour? Why, that would be impossible. Lady Beatrice is at the manor in her room, right where I left her.”

Beatrice was vibrating with shock and anguish. “No. No! Tell them the truth! Tell them who I am! Theo, Flo, tell them!”

Lady Balfour glared at her daughters, that earlier madness shimmering in her eyes, silencing them without a word.

“Well, that settles that. Let’s go.” One of the guards took Beatrice’s arm.

She shrugged out of his grasp. “Wait. Just wait. Duncan will be back any moment. He will tell you who I am. Please, just wait for him.”

Lady Balfour gasped dramatically, her hand on her chest. “How dare you! First you impersonate a member of an esteemed royal household and then show such disrespect! That is His Highness, Prince Duncan, to you! Guards, take this impostor away at once!”

Theo watched as Beatrice took a small step backward. She looked like a trapped rabbit as her eyes, wide and frantic, darted between the guards as they closed in. And curiously, she halted, shrinking by a few inches as she did so. Suddenly, Beatrice dropped to the ground. At first, Theo thought she had fallen, but as quick as she had gone down, she popped up. And in each hand was a glass slipper.

She did not have size on her side, but what she did have was the element of surprise and the guards’ underestimation of just how desperate she had become. Because, like a cornered prey animal when fleeing was no longer an option, Beatrice chose to fight. Faster than blinking, she threw a shoe at the guard in front of her. Her aim was perfect, the glass resounding with a ping! as it bounced off the guard’s head. He fell to the ground, clutching his face and repeatedly shouting, “My eye!”

But Beatrice hadn’t watched the trajectory of that shoe. She was too busy using the other one to club the second guard next to her. With a little yelp of a battle cry, the tiny warrior swung, striking him in the throat. It was a sloppy attack, Beatrice not known for her fighting skills, but it was effective. He coughed and sputtered, backing up until his legs hit a bench and he toppled headfirst into a rosebush. Still gripping one shoe but leaving the other where it landed in the garden path, Beatrice ran straight for Lady Balfour.

Stunned into inaction by the crazed and flailing Beatrice, she was completely unprepared when Beatrice rammed in between her and Flo. Lady Balfour crashed into the remaining guard with such force it was all he could do to remain standing. Flo was thrown into Theo and they both went tumbling down onto the pebbled path. It was the first and only time Theo was thankful for her ridiculous dress, the sleeves preventing her head from directly hitting the hard ground. However, it made her hate Flo’s dress even more, as she was now buried in mint fabric and getting elbowed in the gut repeatedly by her sister, who was trying to stand.

By the time Flo had found her way out of her own skirts and Theo was saved from a tragic death by fabric asphyxiation, Beatrice had sprinted out of the garden.

The guard who hadn’t been accosted by ladies’ footwear sprinted after her.

“She’s getting away!” Lady Balfour was screaming and gesturing at the two injured guards.

The first guard tried to give chase, but his progress was severely hindered by his new lack of depth perception, a chair proving to be a formidable obstacle as he ran full speed into it. In a dazzling display of acrobatics, the chair and the guard both somersaulted into the hedge. The other had managed to extract himself from the guard-eating shrubbery, but that could only be considered a small victory. Still wheezing and coughing, he was now covered in dozens of bloody, thorny scratches. He, too, tried to run after Beatrice, but breathing being essential to running, his progress was slower than it might have otherwise been had he not been sucker punched with a glass shoe.

Lady Balfour picked up her skirts and joined the chase, her daughters finally upright and hot on her heels. When they reached the front courtyard, some guards were already on horseback racing down the drive, presumably chasing after a pumpkin-shaped carriage.

After waking their old driver by smacking him with his whip, Lady Balfour shoved her daughters into their carriage. “Home! Now!”

Theo and Flo sat quietly in their seats, hands in their laps with the hope that if they stayed still enough, their mother might forget they were there. Because with every mile, Lady Balfour seemed to be coming more and more unglued from her normally well-regulated, near-emotionless composure. Every few minutes, her eyes would widen and a vein on her forehead would twitch as a fresh wave of anger rolled over her. Then she would huff and sputter, talking to herself in a muddled mess of language usually reserved for sailors.

When they reached Merrifall hours later, Theo suspected Beatrice might not have returned at all. They had been only a few minutes behind her, and there was only one driveway leading to the manor, but there was no trace of Beatrice’s carriage turned getaway vehicle.

However, when Theo looked up at the otherwise-dark manor, there in the west wing was a faint, flickering glow coming from Beatrice’s window.

Lady Balfour must have spotted it, too, given the fervor at which she vaulted from their carriage and sprinted inside. By the time Theo and Flo had made it through the door, their mother was already at the top of the staircase. But instead of heading straight for Beatrice’s room, Lady Balfour went the opposite way toward her own suite.

Theo thought she and Flo were also moving at quite a clip, but their mother was putting both them and prize-winning racehorses to shame. Before they had even made it halfway up the stairs, Lady Balfour bolted past the landing and to the west wing. Not knowing what else to do, the sisters scurried after her.

They halted at Beatrice’s room. Beatrice, no longer in her fancy dress, was backing into the hallway with her hands in the air, tears streaming down her face. Lady Balfour stepped out after, arm outstretched, pointing a flintlock pistol at Beatrice.

Flo grabbed on to Theo’s arm with a vice grip.

Theo slammed her hand over her mouth to stifle the shriek that was threatening to burst out, the terror of seeing the earl’s gun pointed at anyone again almost more than she could bear.

“Mother?” Flo dared to ask, her voice no louder than a scampering mouse.

“Quiet,” Lady Balfour whispered. With her eyes nearly bulging out of her head and her lips pursed so tight they had lost all color, she motioned for Beatrice to keep walking. “I am fixing this. She will not ruin us.”

Beatrice continued walking backward, her hands still raised, leading the strange procession to the tower. From the bottom of the tower stairs, Theo and Flo watched as Beatrice climbed the wrought iron steps and went into the room. Lady Balfour slammed the door shut after her, fished a key out of her pocket, and locked the door.

With the key in one hand and the pistol in the other, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed to the ceiling in relief, as though a great weight had been lifted. Then, without even a glance at her daughters, she went to her rooms.

Without knowing what else to do, Theo and Flo went to their rooms as well.

Unfortunately, their lady’s maid had gone home for the night. Having no other way to get herself out of the silk monstrosity, Theo grabbed the fabric at her shoulders and pulled forward with all her strength until the buttons on the back popped free and she could shimmy out of it. She looked at it sitting on the floor like a plop of cake frosting and thought about destroying it further, but that would take energy she just did not have. She left it in a pile instead, making it the maid’s problem.

Theo crawled into her bed, wishing the whole evening had not happened.

When Prince Duncan showed up the next day to whisk Beatrice away, turning her into a princess, Theo really wished the whole evening had not happened.

Almost as soon as the royal carriage left the estate, Beatrice’s fantastical story exploded throughout the kingdom: Wanting to go to the ball but having no means to do so, poor, angelic Beatrice sat alone covered in soot next to the fireplace she was forced to clean and cried. To her surprise, poof, out of nowhere her fairy godmother appeared, asking if she would like to attend the ball. Of course Beatrice said yes. But, alas, she had no dress, and no way to get there. Not a problem for her benevolent patroness—the fairy said she would gladly help Beatrice, because Beatrice was pure of heart and deserved to go.

First, the fairy godmother solved the problem of transportation by finding a pumpkin and converting it into a carriage. Then, spying two mice running through the grass, she turned them into horses. A dog was transformed into a liveried footman. Last but not least, the fairy godmother turned her attention to Beatrice, dressing her in a gown so splendid it was said to have been made of spun silver.

However, Beatrice was not given free rein to party the night away. Most certainly not. Like many proper ladies before her, she was given a curfew, and it came with consequences for not adhering to it. Unlike everyone else, though, her repercussions for a lapse in responsibility and time management were magical. She only had until midnight to have a grand time at the ball. For once the clock struck twelve, her dress would vanish, and every other part of her enchanted facade would revert back to what it had been (except the shoes, naturally). But since she was the pinnacle of trustworthiness, she made it home just in time. It would have wrecked the whole evening if the grand finale was Beatrice sitting on a pumpkin in nothing but her underwear and fancy glass slippers surrounded by rodents and a stray farm dog in the royal courtyard.

Prince Duncan, dismayed that his mysterious true love had fled the palace, immediately set out to find her. He’d been dancing with her for hours, so of course there had been no time to ask even the most basic of conversation starters such as What is your name? or Where are you from? And certainly no time for more in-depth questions like Is that your natural hair color—so if I’m asked to describe you later I can say “blond” with confidence?

His only clue as to her identity was one glass shoe left behind in her haste. But, women’s shoe sizes being as individual as fingerprints, he had all he needed to positively identify her. So he scoured the countryside searching for his bride, shoe in hand, hoping to find the foot to whom it belonged, and thus, the perfect woman attached to that foot. When he found her, locked in a high tower by her horrible, awful, evil, despicable, poorly dressed, and mirror-shatteringly ugly stepmother and stepsisters, he whisked her off to his palace, where they instantly became engaged to be married, to the delight of the kingdom.

A magical fairy tale for the ages.

A cartload of horseshit was what it was.

Eighteen Months Later

“Where is Evans?” came a familiar shriek from the next suite.

Quick padding of feet on the hall carpet followed closely after, heading straight to Theo’s room. Flo threw open the door and stood like a ghoul in the doorframe, her hair unbound and in tangles from her ears to her waist, her white nightgown still swaying at her knees from her angry march.

“Is she in here?” Flo’s eyes were darting around the room, looking for their lady’s maid like a sight dog on the hunt.

“No,” Theo said.

“Do I seriously have to dress myself?” Flo grumbled, huffing back to her rooms.

Flo might have been willing to surrender, but Theo was going to stay put until Evans came to work.

Forty-five minutes later and Theo was still in her undergarments, crankier than ever. Fine. If Evans thought Theo was prickly before, then she’d better hang on to her dull bonnet because Theo was about to go full hedgehog.

She grabbed the first dress she could find and shimmied into it, but found with no small amount of annoyance that she couldn’t do the buttons up the back by herself. Her indignation did not allow for rehanging the garment, and instead she hooked it on her foot and kicked it in the general direction of the closet for Evans to pick up.

After finding a dress that she could get into without assistance, she sat at her vanity to pin her hair away from her face. Her mother called Flo’s hair the color of warm black tea and it shone in graceful, thick curls down her back. She called Theo’s the color of a murky puddle, with sighing non-assurances that they could somehow work with it. It usually involved plenty of hair accessories to distract from the hue, as her mother would say. Instead of luscious curls that cascaded down her back like Flo’s, Theo’s waist-long hair sat on her head as if it heard every insult and acted out of spite, some sections curling, others lying straight, the rest trying to reach a compromise by just being wavy.

She entered the dining room in time to watch Flo hack at her tart and then stab it like she was hoping she could make it cry.

Her mother set down her teacup on its saucer. “Theodosia, you are a lady, not a donkey. I could hear you clomping from all the way upstairs.”

Lady Balfour’s hair was in its usual high, tight bun, the grays glittering like tinsel—the only style her mother’s aging lady’s maid could manage with her arthritic fingers. Unfortunately, it had the effect of elongating her neck, which on someone else might be a boon, but for a woman whose neck was already stretched to its limit, it made her look like a marionette.

“Where is Evans?” Theo demanded.

“She quit,” Flo snapped, not looking up from her plate.

“What?”

Their mother sighed. “Yes, unfortunately—or should I say fortunately since we won’t have to deal with her lack of work ethic and bad attitude any longer—she has left us. No matter. I will post an ad soon for her replacement.”

Well, good riddance to that lazy woman. It wasn’t like she did a good job on the best of days. There were thousands of lady’s maids out there who could style hair and button buttons better than that nitwit. More’s the pity to Evans’s next family.

But Theo knew there would be no replacement. They couldn’t afford one.

The crown had saved Merrifall from complete collapse after Beatrice became princess. But paying outstanding debts did little to help Lady Balfour’s continued mismanagement of the estate—arguably her biggest failure as a countess. Theo knew her mother hadn’t purposefully run the estate into the ground. She just did not possess the knowledge or wherewithal to run a royal household by herself.

Her first husband had handled all their money, giving her an exorbitant allowance each month for her parties, dresses, and other necessary items to keep her in good standing among her friends and enemies. She happily spent her money and let her husband deal with the rest. In the few years after he had passed, Lady Balfour and her daughters lived off the sale of his business, the house servants and lawyers handling the funds.

And it was the same story with her next husband. The earl’s manor and grounds were well-known throughout the kingdom as being one of the finest for his title. She reaped the benefits of her royal station, while he dealt with everything else. But once he died, she was stuck with a royal estate that she had no idea how to manage.

Soon, the renters on the earl’s estate began to dwindle as the bills began to grow. Without tenants to farm the land, a good number of fields on and around the estate became waist-high with weeds, rendering them unusable for crops or livestock. And without agriculture, their estate had no true means of support. Loans given on her title alone were the only source of income, and those had become rare of late, likely due to a certain story making its way to the creditors.

Since there was still no money coming in, she couldn’t afford the staff required to keep a manor of this size operational. Without the proper amount of grounds and house staff, Merrifall had been slowly falling into disrepair.

The current skeleton crew of servants was getting most of the w. . .