Frowning, she waved her wand again, and a battered, dog-eared book appeared on the table. She took the pair of spectacles that hung on a cord around her neck and brought them up to rest on her nose. One of the earpieces was missing, so they hung lopsided on her face. “Hmmm,” she murmured as she flipped through the book. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. I haven’t seen such a sad case in a very long time. You really could have used a helping hand or two, couldn’t you?”

I cringed at her description of what I assumed was my dating history. A lot of other people’s dating histories would also have had to be in that book, though, for it to be that fat. My relationship history wouldn’t have required much more than an index card. “That’s putting it mildly. So you can see why I’m confused. If you weren’t around all those years when almost every man I met acted like I was his little sister or thought I was too boring and nice, then I don’t see why you’re here now.”

“We don’t waste time with the little things. We only step in when destiny is at stake, when it matters in the grand scheme of the universe whether or not you find your fated true love.”

“Fated true love” sounded like something out of the worst kind of romance novels. It also sounded like something out of my wildest fantasies. Fate sure would make finding Mr. Right and knowing he was Mr. Right a lot easier. If Owen and I really were meant to be together, then I could relax about whether or not a super-powerful wizard could stay interested in someone like me. Then a doubt struck me. “Um, we are talking about Owen Palmer here, aren’t we?” It would have been just my luck if she’d shown up at this particular time to hook me up with someone entirely different.

She consulted her book again, flipping through pages and making little humming noises to herself as she did so. At last she said, “Most definitely. And, my, he seems to have needed even more help than you did with his past romances. He’s awfully shy, isn’t he? But then, we only work for women. The men are on their own.” She gave a tittering laugh. “After all, you don’t hear much about Prince Charming getting any help from a fairy godmother, only Cinderella.”

“Yeah, but isn’t Cinderella a—” I almost said “a fairy tale,” but then wondered if that might be considered offensive. “—fiction?”

She raised one eyebrow above the frame of her glasses, giving her face an even more lopsided appearance as the glasses dangled precariously off one side of her nose. “Then how would you explain the fact that almost every human culture has some variation of the classic Cinderella story?” She sniffed disdainfully. “That was one of my biggest triumphs. I even won an award.” She fished around her neckline until she hooked a finger on a golden chain, then pulled on the chain to raise a star-shaped medal from somewhere deep within the layers of clothes. “See? My claim to fame.”

“Very nice,” I said, even though the medal was so tarnished it may have been an award for best apple pie at the county fair, for all I could tell. I tried to remember all the fairy tales I’d read and heard—beyond the Disney versions. “But aren’t there also a lot of stories about fairies helping out good-hearted younger sons on quests?”

“Those are fairies, not fairy godmothers,” she said with an exasperated sigh, like she got that question a lot. “There is a significant difference, you know. We have our own kind of magic, very specific powers and all that. Now, about your case.”

I heard the door open and turned to look, hoping it wouldn’t be Owen, not yet. Fortunately, it wasn’t. He’d picked a very good time to break his punctuality habit. The last thing I wanted was for him to catch me consulting a fairy godmother. It would give him the totally wrong impression. I turned back to Ethelinda. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but I really don’t think I need help right now. I’d like to try to work things out on my own.”

Her glasses fell off her face, bouncing once on their cord against her ample chest. She looked positively heartbroken. “Whatever you think is best,” she said, her tone chilly, but with enough breaks in her voice to make it clear that she’d put on the ice as a way of covering her hurt.

I couldn’t stand to make an old woman—fairy godmother or otherwise—cry. “I suppose if it starts to be a total disaster, then maybe I could give you a call.”

She brightened immediately. Her book disappeared, and a golden heart-shaped locket appeared in her left hand. “You can contact me through this,” she said, handing it to me across the table. “Open it when you need me. You’ll know what to do from there.” And then before I could ask any questions, she was gone, vanished into thin air, along with her tea set.