Spelled by Betsy Schow
For Melody and Stacy, ladies who are wildly creative, amazing writers, and even better friends.
“Rule #17: To rescue a princess from magical imprisonment, a handsome prince must first slay the dragon. If one is not available, a large iguana will do in a pinch.”
—Definitive Fairy-Tale Survival Guide, Volume 1
1
Dragon Slaying for Dummies
“Stupid princes,” I muttered as I stalked down the green-flecked quartz-and-marble hallway. “Why is it that when I don’t want them, they’re practically popping out of the closets? But the one time, the one time, I actually need a knight in overpriced armor, they’re nowhere to be found?”
I checked the guidebook in my hand one last time, to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. My plan was perfect—so brilliant, in fact, that I was amazed none of my other ancestors had thought of it. The fact that it took me seventeen years to come up with it was moot. For once, I was grateful that the world of fairy tales and magic adhered to such strict rules. Still, the entire thing hinged on finding a single prince willing to help me end my lifetime of house arrest in the Emerald Palace.
So far, I’d searched through the north and west towers, the potions pantry, the arcane arcade, and the armory. Next, I’d try the main floor. On my way down the curved staircase, I had a perfect view of the one and only entrance to the palace. The double doors were made of ironwood cut from Sherwood Forest and large enough to accommodate visiting giants. Sunlight filtered through the ornate and impenetrable stained-glass side panels, casting a shimmery green-and-gold hue on my skin.
Before I reached the bottom step, the doors slid open with a whoosh. For a minute I hoped the new arrival was one of the palace’s visiting princes. Unfortunately, it was just UPS (United Pegasus Service). Even worse, since I hadn’t ordered anything for a few days, the delivery wasn’t for me.
I waved one of the postal brownies over. “What’s in the crate?”
He gave a sharp whistle, and the workers set down the box—with the arrow saying “this side up” pointing to the ground. To tell the truth, I didn’t care about the contents. But it kept them busy while the double doors remained wide open. Maybe I wouldn’t need a prince after all.
While the brownies unpacked, I slipped past them and headed to the one and only palace exit. As soon as I was within five feet of it, the doors slid closed with a clap.
That’s the problem with automagic doors: they knew who to let in and who not to let out.
“Sign here please.” The boss brownie either didn’t notice or care about my experiment with the door. Without looking at me, he held out a quill and a parchment saying I’d received the goods undamaged, though I had no clue what it was to start with—some sort of ornate gold stand with filigree chains coming out of the center. About a dozen little glass balls hung at the end of the chains. Those seemed to be intact, so I signed and shooed the brownies to the ballroom.
Even from a room away, I could hear Queen Em—my mother—directing the servants in their preparations for tonight’s holiday festivities. She commanded her battalion of party planners like a general on the battlefield, even setting up a triage corner to treat the wounded. Imagine the number of paper cuts from folding thousands of star ornaments to hang on the Story Spruce.
Year after year, I took part in the Muse Day tradition just like everybody else; I wrote my wishes on the foil stars, hoping the Storymakers above would hear my prayers and make them come true. It hadn’t happened yet. Obviously as a princess, I would get my happy ending, but the Makers were taking their sweet time getting around to it, and I was tired of waiting.
Movement in the courtyard caught my eye. Still on the prince hunt, I went over to investigate, taking great pains to stay out of view of my mother. A man stood on a ladder, waving a net frantically back and forth. Though he had a bit of a tummy that hung over his belt, he used to be a handsome prince. Now he was just my father, King Henry.
“What in Grimm’s name are you doing, Dad?” I hurried over to stabilize the ladder as it started tipping over.
“Language, pum’kin,” he chided and wobbled down the ladder. “And a Merry Muse Day to you too. Your mother sent me to gather will-o’-the-wisps for the new chandelier. I’d forgotten how tricky they were to hunt. I believe I prefer trolls.”
So that’s what that package was; the globes were to contain the will-o’-the-wisps’ light while the chains were to keep them from getting loose. It was a smart idea after last year’s glowworm fiasco. Some of my heels still had glow-gook on the bottoms.