The Fairy Godmother (14 page)

It was then that Elena noticed what she had not before; that the young woman was just beginning to show her pregnancy. Ah, this must be something to do with that, Elena thought—but then wondered. She
knew
this village had a midwife, and a good one. Why ask Madame Bella for help?

“Well, this should be the last time it's this hard, my dear,” Madame soothed. “Now just you remember, if you get a craving for
anything
out-of-season, you send straight to me, that minute, and I'll make a special trip here or send my Apprentice. I don't think you will, once I've done with you today, but it's still possible. Now, Elena,
watch
and listen.”

When Madame said “watch” in
that
tone of voice, it meant magic.

Elena blinked, and saw the whirls of magical power swirling tightly around the young woman, so thick that her features were blurred, as if she wore a veil.

“Rosalie, do you surrender your power to me, freely and of your own will?” Madame asked, slowly, carefully, and clearly. She held her wand just over the crown of the young
woman's head. “Do you renounce this power, not only for yourself, but for the sake of your unborn child?”

“I do,” Rosalie replied, bowing her head slightly. “I renounce it for the life I have chosen, for the sake of my unborn child, and for the love that I bear my husband.”

With each word that the young woman spoke, the power slowed, and somehow
relaxed
, until it no longer bound her like coils of wire, but lay about her like loose hay.

“Then I assume it, for the pledge I have made, for the sake of those who will need it, and my duty to those who call upon me,” Madame said, circling young Rosalie's head three times with the tip of her wand—and the power followed it, flowing around and upwards, vanishing
into
the wand, as if it was somehow sucking it up. That was the only analogy that Elena could make—

The
spell
was a simple enough one, but she saw by the frown of concentration on Madame's face that the effort to make it work was intense. And before all of the power had been absorbed, she stopped.

Rosalie's head shot up. “You aren't done!” she cried, accusingly. “I can feel it—”

Madame held up her hand. “Hush, dear. We'll take the burden from you, no fear—but I want my Apprentice to take a hand and finish the job.”

Rosalie looked at Elena doubtfully, but did not voice those doubts, perhaps because she was too polite to do so. Elena took Madame's place, her wand outstretched. “Rosalie,” she said, carefully, “do you surrender your power to me, freely, and of your own will? Do you renounce this
power, not only for yourself, but for the sake of your unborn child?”

The power had begun to wrap Rosalie in its coils again when Madame had released it; now, as Rosalie repeated what she had said to Madame, it relaxed again.

“Then I assume it,” Elena said, “for the pledge I have made, for the sake of those who will need it, and my duty to those who will call upon me.” And as she circled Rosalie's head with the tip of her own wand, she concentrated, fiercely, on doing the
opposite
of what she had learned to do so far—not to dispense power, but to take it in.

It was a great deal more difficult than she would have guessed. Not only was she fighting against the training she'd had so far, but she could feel the whole weight of The Tradition bearing down on her in a kind of sullen resistance. The Tradition
wanted
this young woman for something. It bent its power towards making her into that something. It was like an enormous, blind, insensate beast,
pushing
her towards that end, and it did not want to let her go down some other path.

But Rosalie did not want to go there. She was happy with her little cottage, her gentle, simple husband, happy to be ordinary and fit in with the rest of the village as a pea fits among its neighbors in a pod. The more The Tradition pushed her, the more she pushed back, and that was what made it painless for her to give up the power that was collecting around her.

Given the amount of it, Elena had a good idea of why she had seemed so distressed.
She
knew that sort of distant-storm tenseness that the coiled-up power around you made
you feel; the sense that there was something, somewhere, you urgently had to do. It was not unlike feeling that a dreadful headache was poised, waiting to strike you the moment you dropped your guard. It wore on you, until all you could think about was this
weight
on you, the feeling of nerves stretched thin. Slowly, reluctantly, the power let go of Rosalie and passed to Elena—

Where, exactly, it went, she couldn't really tell. But she could feel a sort of weight to it, and felt it join her power, as if she was a vessel, and it was water flowing in from some outside source.

Finally the last of the power was gone. There was no more magic sparkling and glowing around Rosalie than there was around any of her perfectly ordinary neighbors.

Rosalie might not have been able to see the difference, but she certainly sensed it. Her shoulders straightened, as did her back; she opened her eyes and smiled, and her brow was no longer furrowed.

“Well, Apprentice!” she said, her voice bright with pleasure. “I expect you'll not be an Apprentice much longer!”

Elena flushed. “I still have a lot to learn,” she murmured, embarrassed, as Madame chuckled.

“We'll be off, then,” was all Madame said. “Now that you're sorted. But remember,
any
craving, and you send to me! That may not sound like much, but believe me, it's important!”

“I will,” Rosalie promised.

“All right,” Elena said, once they were well out of the village, “what was all
that
about?”

“Rosalie is a rare one,” Madame replied. “In fact, you
won't find a girl like her in a hundred years. She's a doubler—when she was younger, before she married her sweetheart, The Tradition was trying to make her into a Fair Rosalinda.”

“Oh good heavens—” Elena said, her hand going to her lips in consternation.

The Tradition was not
all
happy endings. “Fair Rosalinda” was one of the uglier directions that The Tradition could go into—the beautiful peasant orphan girl who is seduced by a King, set up in her own secluded bower, and murdered by his Queen when she discovers his philandering.

“Oh, yes,” Madame said grimly. “A fine romantic tragedy, if it were to happen to someone else, long ago and far away…not such a fine thing if it was supposed to happen to you.”

Elena had read of several “Fair Rosalindas” already; magic entered the picture only after the poor thing was dead—poisoned or strangled and the body buried somewhere hidden—

But usually, the Fair Rosalinda was drowned. Then a musician would enter the tale. Sometimes he would make a pipe or some other instrument of the reeds or the tree growing from her hidden grave—in the most macabre and disturbing versions, he would make a harp from her bones and string it with her golden hair. And then he would go before the King, who was grieving for his lost love, and when he played, the instrument would have but one song—

“The Queen hath murdered me,”
Elena murmured.

“I will
not
have one of those in
my
Kingdoms,” Madame said fiercely. “I found her before the King did, before her
breasts began to bud—she, in her turn, had already begun to feel the coils of the power around her and when I had explained something of what was going to happen, begged me to take it from her. Which I've been doing, and I had hoped that when she wedded, The Tradition would give over and let her go. But it hasn't; I had some suspicions as to why, and I think they've just been confirmed now that I know she's with child. Failing to make her a Rosalinda, The Tradition now wants to make her child a Ladderlocks.”

“Oh,
please!
” Elena said, as much in disgust as anything else. “What has the poor thing done to be so put-upon?”

The Ladderlocks story was more fantastical and less—but only a trifle less—unpleasant than that of Rosalinda. The mother of a Ladderlocks child would be overcome with a craving for some out-of-season food to the point where she could eat that and only that. Naturally, the only place her distracted husband can find this food would be in the garden of some Black Witch or Evil Sorceress. He would steal it, be caught, and pledge to give the woman his child to save his own life. On the birth of Ladderlocks—always a girl—the Witch would take her away, lock her in a tower, and among other things, forbid her to cut her hair…and the rest of that tale was familiar to any child in any Kingdom that Elena had any knowledge of. It might end well, but there was often a great deal of horror before the end came—

“I can't even bear to think about being locked up in a tower for sixteen years,” Elena replied. “I don't know why the girls don't go mad.”

“Some of them do,” Madame confirmed. “I know of one who hung herself with her own hair.”

Elena shuddered, and looked away for a moment.

“And then there's the dozens of poor young fellows who die at the hands of the Dark One before one of them manages to get to the tower,” Madame continued, frowning fiercely. “A Ladderlocks is nothing more than bait for a deathtrap, and I
won't
have one of those in my Kingdoms, either!”

Elena nodded, knowing that even when a young man managed to get to the tower, climb the hair, and win the maiden, he still might not escape the Witch unscathed. They were almost always caught, and sometimes the poor young man who fell in love with Ladderlocks found himself blinded by the thorns around her tower, or sometimes worse than that. A Ladderlocks tale often had more tragedy than triumph about it.

It was a tale best prevented.

“I wish I knew why The Tradition was so set on having
her
,” Bella replied. “But as long as I keep draining her, at least until her first-born is actually
born
, the magic won't attract the other half of the equation.”

“The Evil Witch.” Elena nodded. “She knows, of course?”

“I've drummed it into her head often enough,” Bella said grimly. “And it will have to be
her
that prevents it; her husband is kind, sweet, gentle, handsome as the dawn, and as dense as a bag of stones. She loves him, but she knows very well that he is prime material for the loving but stupid husband who climbs the wall around the Witch's garden to steal her rampion. And it would not matter how many times she warns him about it, he won't remember. The Tradition can shove him about like a coin in a game of Shove Ha'penny.”

At that moment, Elena felt a surge of anger at The Tradition, that faceless, formless
thing
that pushed and pulled people about with no regard for what they might want or need. She met Madame's eyes, and saw that same anger there.

“Yes,” Bella said, softly, only just audible over the sound of hooves and wheels on the hard-packed road. “I hoped you would feel that. I hoped when I took you as my Apprentice, that you were cut from the same cloth as me. Some Godmothers are only willing to assist in the making of the happy endings.
I
am of a different mind.”

“There will be no Fair Rosalindas in
my
Kingdoms,” Elena said, just as softly, but just as firmly.

Madame gave a quick nod, as if she and Elena had just made a pledged pact. And perhaps, they had.

“Good,” was all she said, then she turned her attention back to the road.

Madame changed the topic to something innocuous. Nothing more was said on that subject.

But then again, nothing more needed to be.

 

As harvest turned towards autumn, the days became noticeably shorter, and the air grew chill at night, Madame took to leaving Elena in charge of the cottage for several days at a time. “Keep Randolf company,” was all she usually said, before she went off on whatever mysterious errands were taking her away. “He gets lonely sometimes. He'll chatter at you about plays he's been watching; just nod and make appreciative noises, even if you can't understand half of what he's nattering on about.”

Elena was growing very fond of the Slave of the Mirror by this point; Randolf was perhaps the most artless person she had ever known. Despite everything he saw, and everything he had lived through, he maintained a kind of innocence. He had no pretenses, nothing about him was a sham.

Furthermore, he had beautiful manners, and was perfectly pleased to give her the one set of lessons she found it difficult to accept from anyone else in the household—the lessons in what he called
deportment
and
she
called “fitting in.”

Madame just simply seemed to change everything about herself without thinking, depending on what costume she wore, from dotty old peasant woman to gracious Lady of exalted breeding and impeccable pedigree. Lily had just laughed when Elena had broached the subject, and advised her to “just be yourself, and be damned to them as doesn't like it.”

And the haughty Rose, Elena thought, would be so critical that the lesson would get lost in the criticism.

Ah, but Randolf had not only been
watching
Kings and Queens for two hundred years or more, until recently he had been the prized possession of several queens of the evil sort. So, when Madame Bella was away, Elena would spend several evening hours in her sitting room, not merely keeping Randolf company, but learning from him.

“Just what
does
Madame do, off on her own of late?” she asked him one night, after a long and complicated session on Precedence. Randolf was not showing her anything but his own face at the moment; she had gotten so used to conversing with a disembodied head that it nolonger seemed at all odd.