CHAPTER 21
I can forget about writing a complaint letter to Shrink. I simply don’t have the time. Seriously, compared to what I have to do now, my days at Faraway seem positively enchanted.
In less than twenty-four hours, I’ve learned that being Marcella’s personal assistant means doing all the stuff she doesn’t want to do. Which is everything except sleeping, preening, and reading gossip magazines. I’ve already lost weight from running her errands and picking up after her. Plus, I have calluses the size of toad warts from handwriting so many invitations. And I’m only up to the B’s.
To add insult to injury, on top of all my chores, I’m expected to entertain Calla. Marcella, her soon-to-be new mother, wants little do with the child. Actually, make that absolutely nothing.
At lunchtime, Calla begs to go on a picnic. Marcella backs off. She has a private dance lesson—one thing off my To-Do List. After that, she’s going to spend the afternoon in bed, scanning magazines for ball gown ideas. So, I’m stuck with the picnic thing.
“It’s going to be so much fun,” says Calla as we head out the door.
Believe me, hanging out with an irksome imp is so not my idea of fun.
Calla leads the way. I keep my eyes on her as she skips across the front lawn of the castle toward the gated entrance. Her long golden tresses fly behind her, and her sheer dress bellows in the early autumn breeze. Birds and butterflies follow her as if they’re magically drawn to her.
As I trudge along carrying a blanket and picnic basket, I feel a tinge of envy. Not so much of her youth and beauty, but rather her freedom and joy. I’m also a little jealous that her fair skin is impervious to the sun while I’m probably getting another layer of freckles. Okay. I confess. I’m a lot jealous.
Crossing a field of flowers, we come to a sparkling lake. Lake Sunshine. That figures. Calla finds the perfect spot for our picnic—under a large, leafy tree, not far from the shoreline. She helps me spread out the blanket. Famished, we both dig into the picnic basket she’s filled with fresh fruit and muffins. Suddenly, it just happens…
A fart! The longest, loudest, stinkiest fart I’ve ever heard. Mine!
“You’re the one who dealt it. But I’m the one who smelt it!” Calla bursts into laughter.
Mortified, I’m at a total loss for words. Until Calla farts right back at me. I, too, laugh uncontrollably.
The two of us cannot stop rolling with laughter. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. I laugh so much it hurts.
“Are you okay?” asks Calla, fighting her giggles.
“I’m fine.” I laugh harder.
Finally, after the stench of my faux pas and hers has faded into the fall air, we’re able to calm down.
“What do you think of Marcella?” asks Calla, picking a dandelion.
Skank. Bitch. Wench. Witch.
“She’s okay,” I say instead. “How do you feel about her?”
“That woman’s a FREAK!”
Good one! This kid is growing on me.
“I don’t know why Papa likes her.” She twirls the fuzzy flower. “It’s as if she has some kind of spell on him.”
My curiosity is piqued. “How did your father meet her?”
“Papa hired her to be my governess. She speaks French, at least she thinks she does. Her accent’s so fake! Then I guess he figured I needed a new mother and decided to marry her.”
“How do you feel about that?” I ask, deepening my inquiry and sounding a little Shrink-like.
“C’est tout à fait stupide!” she says with a perfect French accent. Though I don’t speak much French, what she’s said is obvious.
She raises the dandelion to her lips. “Do you know that when you blow on one of these flowers, you make a secret wish?” With a single breath, she scatters the fuzzy petals all over our blanket.
I pick a dandelion of my own and blow on it. Silently, I wish for Marcella to magically disappear. I bet Calla wished for the same.
Eager to get off the subject of Marcella, Calla suggests we play hide-and-go-seek. As she animatedly explains how the game works, I unexpectedly flashback to myself at her age… hiding under my bed or in the closet from the loud, squalid men my mother would bring home. Hoping they would never find me. I tremble for a moment, but Calla doesn’t notice.
The game is simple and actually fun to play. Way more fun than Grimm’s stupid tree-hugging game. We take turns hiding. The best part is finding the other person, which always results in an explosion of laughter.
It’s Calla’s turn to hide again, and my turn to find her. Slowly, I count to ten. “Ready-or-not-here-I-come,” I yell.
Finding Calla hasn’t been that difficult, but this time there’s no trace of her. I call out her name, wanting to know if I’m getting warmer or colder. No response. I’m getting worried. It’s nearing dinnertime. Marcella will go off the deep end if I’m not back in time to supervise the cooks and lay out her evening wear. Where can Calla be?
I make my way closer to the lake, looking behind every mossy tree trunk and up at every leafy limb. Calla, where are you? This game is so not fun anymore. As my worry turns to anger, a cry makes my heart jump—Calla!
“Help! Help!” she keeps shouting. Where on earth is she? I frantically turn my head in every direction. Finally, I find her. Oh my God! She’s in the middle of the lake, flailing her arms. She’s drowning! I sprint to the water, dive in, and swim at breakneck speed.
She sees me and desperately calls out my name.
“Hang on, Calla!” I shout out to her. An image of my floating puppy flashes into my head. I swim faster, my arms and legs pumping as hard as my heart.
She is finally within arm’s length. Blue in the face, she’s gasping for breath.
“Hold on to me!” I tell her, reaching out my hand. Her icy, little fingers grasp mine, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief.
Towing her back to shore is much more difficult than I anticipated. Her added weight (though she’s a mere waif) slows me down, and the current is strong and moving against me. My lungs are burning and so are my limbs. Each stroke I fear will be my last.
The current grows so strong we start drifting backward. Calla clings to me as I battle to stay afloat. Suddenly, something beneath the water tugs at my body. I kick my legs furiously but can’t break free. Panic grips me. It must be a water serpent!
My life is passing before me. I can already see the Fairytale Tattler headline: “Evil Sea Monster Devours Rehab Queen and Princess Fartsalot!” Wait! What am I thinking? I’m not going to see this headline; I’m going to be dead!
With a forceful splash, the serpent’s head bolts from the water. Its eyes meet mine. I gasp. It’s not a monster. It’s The Prince!
“Papa!” exclaims Calla.
Shit! I’m in such deep water—and I don’t mean the lake. The Prince will have my head! A sea monster might as well have eaten me alive. My life is over any way you look at it.
Wrapping a strapping arm around the two of us, The Prince combats the fierce current and pulls us back to shore.
“Papa, that was such a fun ride!” beams Calla as if nearly drowning was a carnival attraction.
The Prince hugs her. “My Little Princess, thank goodness you are alright.”
The look in his eyes is intense, loving, and all-encompassing. I look on with envy and sadness, never having known that gaze myself. From a mother or a father.
His turns toward me, his expression drastically changed. His chiseled jaw is tight, and his piercing blue eyes are shooting daggers my way.
He is beyond furious. How could I have let Calla go into the lake? Didn’t I know the child couldn’t swim? How could I be so irresponsible? So stupid? Every word is a stab wound.
Calla cuts him short. She recounts her adventure. Vividly with no detail spared. In full drama queen mode.
“…And so, Papa, I tripped on a rock and fell into the water, and if Jane hadn’t found me and jumped in—with her clothes on and everything!—I would have been a drowned rat. Well, not really a rat. But you know what I mean.”
The Prince’s face softens until any trace of anger is gone. “Jane, I am beholden to you for saving my daughter’s life,” he says with sincerity. “I lost her mother; I cannot lose her.”
“Forget it,” I say, unable to meet his gaze.
My eyes shift to Calla, who is back to being her free-spirited, inquisitive self, searching for bugs amongst the rocks that dot the shoreline. The sun plays its own game of hide-and-seek, disappearing behind a cloud. Cold and soaked, I hug myself to keep warm. Oh no! I’m missing Shrink’s mirrored locket. It must have fallen off in the lake!
A wave of despair washes over me, and then Calla runs up to me. “Look what I found!” She unfolds her small hand.
My locket! A smile of relief spreads across my face.
“Thanks,” I say, resisting the urge to hug her. I slip the necklace over my head.
“Jane, you are shivering,” observes The Prince. He gently drapes the jacket he left on shore over my shoulders. The soft, rich royal blue velvet warms me.
My eyes survey his bare, toned, golden-haired chest and matching arms and make their way to his regal face. His nose is straight, his jaw strong and angular, and his lips, lush and full. And then…those eyes. Those gemstone eyes. He catches me staring at him and meets my gaze.
“Thank you, My Lord,” I stammer, taken aback by his unexpected kindness. And manliness.
“Jane, please call me Gallant; I insist.”
Fine. I’ve got to get used to saying his pompous name.
As the sun emerges from its hiding place, we head back to the castle on Gallant’s white stallion. Calla is tucked snugly into her father, loving every minute of the ride; I’m behind him, my arms locked around his strong, rippled body. His damp hair, loose and wild, glistens in my face. A sudden gust of wind reminds me that I’m heading into a storm. The Wrath of Marcella.