Cloaked (18 page)

Chapter 41

The swan skins flew off, and her siblings stood before her, alive and well.

—“The Six Swans”

Two hours later, we’re in the car. The prince has, with great protest, been talked into a pair of old jeans, a T-shirt that says “I’m a drinker, not a fighter,” and some flip-flops. He’s very confused by the flip-flops. He and Meg are crammed into the backseat of Caroline’s ancient Toyota Tercel, kissing. I sit in front with Caroline, holding some of the flower shirts that wouldn’t fit in the trunk.

“Don’t move around too much,” Caroline says. “Those are delicate.”

At least, if I don’t move, I can’t turn and see Meg and Philippe. She actually
likes
this guy? Between kisses, he calls her “my dear leetle turtle,” “my tiny newt,” and “my dainty komodo dragon.” I notice he doesn’t choose any cute animals, but maybe he’s developed a thing for reptiles and amphibians during his stint as a frog. Meg giggles every few minutes in very un-Meg-like fashion. I ask Caroline if I can turn on the radio, to drown it out, but every time a romantic song comes on, Meg pronounces it “our song” until I switch to rap. It’s like she’s doing it on purpose to torture me. Except she doesn’t know she’s torturing me because she doesn’t know I love her.

And it’s a four-hour drive to South Beach!

We approach the Seven Mile Bridge, which is, as its name suggests, a seven-mile-long bridge that connects the lower Keys to the upper. It’s only two lanes wide, which makes it scary. By day, it’s a beautiful view, suspended between sky and water. Now, it’s a black hole, an abyss, like going through Space Mountain at Disney World without a lap bar.

“We will move to my castle in Aloria, of course,” Philippe says to Meg over the rap, “and be married right away.”

Four! Hours!

“You mean, after I finish college, right?” Meg says.

“College?” Philippe says the word like he’s never heard it before, even though the rest of his English is good. “But why, my leetle lizard? No wife of mine will have need of college. You will not have to work, after all.”

Hoo-boy. Meg’s not going to like that one. But she says nothing, probably giving Philippe more rope so he can hang himself.

And he does. “Education in a young woman is unnecessary. It only encourages zem to ask . . . unattractive questions and form negative opinions. A princess must be charming.”

Here’s a quote—Steve Martin in the movie
Roxanne
: “As much as I really admire your shoes . . . I really wouldn’t want to be
in
your shoes at this particular time and place.”

I wouldn’t want to be in the prince’s flip-flops at this moment, when he’s telling Meg not to act too smart.

I wait for Meg to rip him a new one, but she says, “So, what would I be doing every day if I’m not working or going to college. Your laundry?”

“Laundry?” The prince laughs. “You make me laugh, my leetle hyena. We will have servants to do zat.”

“And me?” Meg’s voice is still calm. “What will I do?”

Philippe pauses, like he’s thinking, which is obviously a difficult process for him. I watch the black, churning water hundreds of feet below us. Finally, he says, “You will do what my muzzer does, and my grandmuzzer before her. You will shop, socialize, have babies, work on your appearance . . .”

“My . . . appearance?”

Danger! Danger! I chuckle to myself, which makes the flower shirts rustle so Caroline glares at me. “Sorry.”

“
Oui
,” Philippe says. “A princess must always look her best, and it is a full-time job too—nails, hair, makeup, ze workout. Of course,
ma mère
and sister, zey are natural beauties, but zere are also excellent surgeons in Europe.”

“Oh!” Meg’s shriek is so loud it startles Caroline, and the car jerks to the left, almost into the path of an oncoming car. She overcorrects, and I see my life flash before my eyes.

“Are you mad, woman?” Philippe yells.

“Excuse me?” Caroline turns to glare at him, which causes the car to lurch again.

“He’s sorry,” Meg says, “but can you please look at the road?”

“I am not sorry,” Philippe says. “Zis is why women should not drive.”

“Of course,” Meg says. “That’s really very sensible.” In the rearview, I see her edge closer to Philippe. “So do you want to tell me more about the plastic surgeons? I always wanted a smaller nose.”

“Ze nose is not a problem. You have a lovely nose.”

“Well, thank you.”

“It is your chin which is too small.”

“You know,” Meg says, “you are really hot. Maybe we should just make out instead of talk.”

They kiss, and I wonder what it would be like if we fell off the bridge.

I try to sleep, though it’s difficult because Caroline scolds me every time I move. I wake long enough to give Caroline directions when we reach the mainland. Then I sleep some more.

It’s almost five in the morning when we pull into the valet at the Coral Reef. Home. I think about all the things that have happened in the past few days, and I wish I could go back in time to when I knew about bills, knew about hard work, but didn’t know about talking animals or witches or giants, a time when Meg was my best friend and wasn’t going to be queen of Aloria.

I wonder how many people think their lives are difficult, when really, they could be a lot worse. I wonder how many people don’t know how good they have it.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Caroline says beside me.

“Yeah, me neither.”

But then, I realize, she’s talking about the swans, being reunited with her brothers and sisters. I guess some good did come from this. It just didn’t come to me.

“Yeah, it’s great,” I say. “Let’s go.”

The lobby is silent, empty. The night guy is staring at his computer screen. Caroline looks around, dazzled, as we enter, carrying the shirts. “Wow. They live here?”

“It is rather substandard, it not?” the prince says, and before I can stop myself, I tell him to shut up.

“What? What did zis peasant say to me?”

“Hey, loser, I spent a lot of time looking for you. I did it for your sister ’cause she’s worried sick and, unlike you, she’s nice. The least you can do is shut your cakehole for two minutes.”

“You cannot speak to me like zis! I am a prince!”

“Without me, you’d still be a frog. A dead one.”

Meg presses her finger to Philippe’s lips. “Don’t let him bother you, darling. He’s just jealous of our love.”

I swear, she smiles when she says it.

Philippe says, “Ah, you are so right, my leetle sea urchin.”

Meanwhile, Caroline has spotted the fountain, the swan house. “Oh my God! Are these them?” She runs toward them, flower shirts flapping.

Her shrieks are loud enough to pull the night guy from his monitor. “May I help you?”

Ignore us. Ignore us, as usual.
“Oh, it’s okay. She’s with me.”

“Tell her she’s not allowed to pet the swans.”

I look at Caroline, and that’s exactly what she’s doing. Touching them, talking to them, even though she’s not wearing the magic earpiece. They surround her, craning their necks in every direction and making happy swan sounds.

“Tell her,” the night guy says. He’s gathering his stuff, keys, magazines. I glance at my watch and realize why he looked up. It’s because he’s leaving. Which can only mean . . .

Farnesworth!

I start toward Caroline, just as she brings out the first flower shirt. “Wait!” I say. “You may need to wait until . . .”

The swans are flying around Caroline, their long necks surrounding her like snakes. The door revolves, and Farnesworth steps in.

“What are you doing to my—?”

But it’s too late. The flower shirt is over the first swan’s head. His wings sink down under its weight. His neck folds in two, and for an instant, it’s like he’s disappeared.

Then, he rises, one foot. Two, until he’s a man, a grown man with longish hair, wearing worn jeans, a Hawaiian print shirt, and sandals.

“Hey, sis,” the swan-turned-man says. “I’m Jimmy.” He takes a shirt from Caroline and lifts it over one of his siblings’ heads. I can tell this one is Harry because he has a small healing wound under his wing. This swan, too, folds under, then rises as a small man with gray hair and glasses. Caroline lifts another shirt onto the third swan, and an identical man appears.

“Of course!” I laugh. “Harry and Truman! Twins!”

“No! What are you people doing? Where are my swans?” Farnesworth runs toward Caroline and tries to pull the shirts away from her, but the remaining three swans chase him away, pecking at him with their black beaks until he retreats. The lobby is swimming with feathers and flowers. Then, the three swan-turned-men each seize another shirt and drape them over the remaining swans’ heads. Soon, a man with a thick beard appears, then a girl with flaming red hair, as red as the sunset at Mallory Square, and another girl with black hair with a flower in it. Ernest! Mallory! Margarita!

Margarita walks over to Farnesworth. Her stride is graceful, like a dancer in one of those old black-and-white movies. She says, “I’m sorry, Farnie, but do you know what it’s like, eating nothing but birdseed for thirty years?”

“But where are they? What have you done to them?”

He buries his face in his hands, and I can see real tears dripping down his cheeks.

I try to explain. “They’re human now. They were always human. They were under a curse. Maybe you could get some real swans and—”

“Out!” he screams at me. “Out of my lobby! Out of my hotel!”

Is he serious? This is so not my fault. Well, I guess, technically, it is because I brought Caroline in. But it’s not my fault the swans were really people.

Farnesworth advances toward me, his face the color of a lobster in the tank at the hotel restaurant. One of the swans, the bearded one, Ernest, gets between us and tries to help. “Mr. Farnesworth. Frank. Be reasonable. The boy was merely trying to help.”

“Frank? I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m Ernest, your favorite swan. You spent hours talking to me, confiding in me your dreams of writing a novel someday.”

“Confiding what? I did no such thing. Where are my swans?”

“And now, we can write together. We can drive to my father’s home in Key West for Hemingway Days, the festival of my namesake, Ernest Hemingway.”

Harry or Truman intercedes. “We can be friends, Frank, real human friends. We like you.”

“I’m calling the police. I don’t want friends. I want my birds. And I want you OUT!”

Meg takes my arm and pulls me toward the shoe shop. “I’ll make sure he leaves, Mr. F. He just has to clear out his stuff.”

“Good!” Farnesworth is still shaking with anger, but he backs off. As I leave, the swans are still trying to convince him they’re real.

“Get my stuff?” I say to Meg. “I work here. My mother’s place, remember? Now that you nabbed a prince, you want to get rid of me?”

“Shh.” Meg puts finger to lips. “Of course not. We’ll work it out. But you don’t want your mother getting kicked out, do you?”

She has a point. “No.”

“Okay, then, you’re going to have to lay low awhile. I’ll take Philippe up to his sister.”

“Be careful,” I say. “Sieglinde could still be after him. There could be spies.”

“Not to worry,” Philippe says. “I will defeat zem all.”

“Yeah, ’cause you did such a great job the first time.”

“Come on.” Meg takes my hand. Her fingers feel so soft, and again, I can’t believe I missed my chance with her. “There’s something I have to show you.”

I follow her back to the shoe repair. When I get there, she gestures toward the coffee shop. “It’s in here.”

It’s about time the place was open, and sure enough, Sean, one of her brothers, is there, opening up.

“You’re back,” he says.

“Just got here.”

“Who’s the stiff?” He gestures at Philippe.

“Oh, him?” Meg looks behind her and beams. “That’s Prince Philippe Andrew Claude of Aloria. We’re going to be married.”

“Yeah, right.” Sean smirks. “So you going to take this shift?”

“No such luck for you. I have to show Johnny the stuff. Shove over.”

She walks past him, into the pantry, where they keep the coffee and extra sugar and stuff. She throws open the door. “There you go!”

“What’s this?”

“Your stuff.”

I look. There, from floor to ceiling, are stacks of shoe boxes. And not just any shoe boxes. These are lime green ones with pink lettering. Next to a picture of a palm tree, in fancy script, they say:

Gianni Marco of South Beach

“Gianni?”

“It sounded cooler than Johnny,” Meg says.

“So you got me shoe boxes?”

“Not shoe
boxes,
Johnny. Look inside.”

I pull out one box. It’s heavy, not empty. I open it.

Inside is a pair of sandals. Hot pink metallic leather lining, leather upper with silver crystal detailing, five-inch acrylic heel with glitter inside. My design! “How did you . . . ?”