Iffy Magic: Confessions of a Faux Fairy Godmother

Iffy Magic

Confessions of a Faux

Fairy Godmother

S.E. Page

Iffy Magic

Confessions of a Faux Fairy Godmother

Copyright © 2016 S.E. Page

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the author, except for use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual events, locales,

organizations, or persons, is entirely coincidental.

Edited by Natalie Lakosil

Cover image by Audrey Bagley

Smashwords edition

We play at Paste—

Till qualified, for Pearl—

Then, drop the Paste—

And deem ourself a fool—

The Shapes—though—were similar—

And our new Hands

Learned Gem-Tactics—

Practicing Sands—

Emily Dickinson

Contents

Prologue: The Wish that Wasn’t

Chapter 1: Scandalous

Chapter 2: A Gathering of Goodwings

Chapter 3: The Glass Dryad

Chapter 4: The Dangers of Do-gooding

Chapter 5: Damsel in Distress

Chapter 6: Prima Desideratum

Chapter 7: By the Book

Chapter 8: The Second Cousin Catastrophe

Chapter 9: Indigo Ire

Chapter 10: Shattered Facades

Chapter 11: The Gloaming Hour

Chapter 12: How to Crash a Ball in Style

Chapter 13: Midnight Mayhem

Chapter 14: Secrets in Glass

Chapter 15: Jinxed

Chapter 16: Charmed

Chapter 17: The Prism Box

Chapter 18: Between Vales

Chapter 19: Hex the End

The Wish that Wasn’t

I killed my princess. Truly, how many fairy godmothers could say that?

Mud caked my gown as I stumbled over the trail of torn earth and snapped trees left in the wake of the flood. The odds of finding my wand in the lingering pools of murky water were abysmal, but I didn’t care if I ever saw the cursed stick again. Ember was my first mortal and I wanted her back. Mist shrouded the debris as I searched for her body, taunting me and twisting every shape into the pale phantom of the girl I’d lost.

Before last night I thought I knew the thousand and one scenarios in the Pixie Pocketbook of Magical Mandates better than the lines in my palm. Every scenario, from kissing frogs to spindle hexes, was supposed to lead a worthy damsel to eternal felicity. None of them ended with the drowning of said damsel, so why had Ember’s scenario gone so terribly wrong? Maybe it was never really meant to be hers—I just wanted it to be.

Chapter 1: Scandalous

Tradition demands that a birthstar die the hour a fairy is born, but my star refused to dwindle after falling. It hit my cradle blazing and lit my coverlet on fire. Mother only shared this story once, but the scars on her hands never let me forget how she pulled me from the flames. She should have recognized my birthstar as a dire portent of my flawed magic and traded up for something worthy like a dragon’s egg. Nobody would have blamed her for hiding the taint in her fairy bloodline, but my mother was never the sensible sort.

I had a horrible feeling that after today, though, I might very well wish that she had traded me, after all.

The brass acorn I clutched in my hand would tell me—if I dared to open it. Leaning under the shadow of a large dandelion leaf, I twisted off the acorn’s cap and placed the cool metal shell against my ears to hear my score. This was it, my entire future in a nutshell:

F a tiny voice whispered. I gulped. That couldn’t be right.

Could you please speak a little louder? I asked.

F! the acorn squealed. F as in failure, flakewing, flop—

"Shh! No need to get nasty." I screwed the cap back on, but that only muffled the little bad-mouther.

It was official: I was now the first Goodwing in my family to flunk the standardized Fairy Godmother Test since—well, since the FGT was written by the great Rosalba Goodwing herself! Goodwings made guttersnipes into sultans and milkmaids into princesses with nothing more than a flick of their wand. Goodwings never failed the FGT, ever. Until now.

I stuffed the acorn into the deepest pocket of my filmy gossamer gown and wondered if there’d be any vendors still selling poison apples at the Lost Bazaar by the time school was out. All I needed was one bite of a Red Pernicious, or better yet, a witch’s needle. With one hexed prick I’d be sent into a hundred year beauty sleep, skipping out on the scandal that was sure to erupt when my family learned about the F.

Prim!

Thoughts of enchanted slumber scattered as my best friend called my name. Feigning a smile, I watched her glide across the meadow.

I can’t believe it! Star Tulip said. I actually passed the FGT even though I forgot to study. She tossed her close-cropped blue curls. I always meant to study, truly I did.

What? I’d missed the huge festival on Midsummer’s Eve to prepare for the FGT, and I still got an F. Skunk cabbage!

Have you ever heard lyrics so lovely? Star Tulip asked as she crashed into a sunflower. She tumbled down by my feet and waved a silver acorn that chimed her praises.

C. Careless yet capable, capricious but competent—

Congratulations! I said. It wasn’t fair. Star Tulip only took the test because I did. Her dream was to open a charmed petal perfumery in the Faerie city of Carolai. My dream was to go to the Mortal Vale and help humans to their happily ever after.

Why’d you flit off right after Rhodora handed out our acorns? Star Tulip asked, her bell-like voice chiming with reproach. "As your closest wingmate, I kind of thought you might include me in on the big moment, you know, the one where the youngest daughter in the illustrious Goodwing line finally earns her wand."

About that— I paused, my wings twitching nervously. But I just couldn’t bring myself to pull out the insulting acorn in my pocket. Besides, everyone would know my miserable secret soon enough, why spoil the surprise? I wanted to open mine in private, I said instead. No need to act like a pixie with a head stuffed full of peacock feathers just because of my family name.

Star Tulip squashed me in a hug. Oh, Prim, even if you weren’t a Goodwing you’d be splendiferous! I don’t understand your absurd fascination with helping mortals, but if I was one of those—those humans—you’re the only one I’d want for my fairy godmother.

Thanks, I said. I had to blink twice to squeeze back tears. I’d never be anyone’s fairy godmother now. What would I be? A nearby daffodil coughed, interrupting my downward-spiraling thoughts.

Attention! a nasal voice sputtered from the flower’s center. This is Mistress Rhodora. All fairies are to collect their final projects from the testing rings and report to the Maypole. Today we have the pleasure of hearing from Meadowlark’s most accomplished pupil, the renowned—

Please don’t say it.

—Sweet Vetch!

I winced. The most glamorous godmother on either side of the Vale would drop in the hour I lost any chance of ever becoming like her.

Got to fly, I said, vaulting into the air. Meet you at the Maypole.

Primrose, wait up! Ugh! Sometimes you can be such a crick in the wing, Star Tulip grumbled, but I ignored her protests.

I had to know if my final project was the reason I failed the FGT. By royal decree of Queen Calypso, all fairies were allowed a second chance on the written portion, but if it was my final project that sunk me, well, my doom was sealed tighter than a genie in a bottle. There were no repeats on the final project.

The grass bent in my wake and peony petals ripped free of their stems as I sped over the meadow, but I pushed my aching wings to whir faster. Meadowlark Preparatory School for Fairy Godmothers was only an acre in length, but today the field of nodding flowers felt like fifty leagues of torture.

’Scuse me, coming through. I squeezed between two drifting fairies and narrowly missed crashing into a third.

Slow down before you clip someone’s wing! one of them snapped.

Sorry! I called. But my mad flight paid off. I was the first fairy to make it to the testing rings. Over fifty circles of mushrooms covered the greensward, but mine was the easiest to find, as it was the only circle of scarlet mushrooms. Rhodora did that on purpose, the nasty old hag.

I dropped to the grass next to my ring—the ring that was supposed to be circling my final project. Yesterday, I’d left a crystal coach complete with a stylish gossamer rain cover and silver honeyglobe lanterns standing in the center. But that was yesterday. Today there was only a lopsided orange pumpkin covered in knobby bumps.

My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach.

I’d been so sure my glamour would stick this time! To pass my final project I just needed to perform a standard conveyance spell, but it might as well have been a dragonslaughter hex. I had to be the only pixie in all of Faerie who couldn’t do a proper glamour, just measly ephemera—magic that vanished at midnight sharp. The Faerie Court would never grant me a second chance now. After all, what self-respecting knight wanted a fairy godmother whose gift of a magic sword reverted into a mop handle mid-dragon duel? It just wouldn’t do.

Primrose, is that handsome little pumpkin your final project? a honeysuckle-sweet voice said behind me.

I turned to face Calla Lily and the entourage of fairies that followed her like drone bees. I was in no mood to play one of her word games, but it was too late to hex myself into a cross-eyed newt and hide under a damp rock. What do you want? I asked.

Me? Calla Lily arched her brow. "Nothing. I merely wished to congratulate you on such a fine specimen. I’d no idea that you had a fondness for vegetable gardens." Several of her drones tittered on cue. I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying something extremely hexing.

My own practical glamour demonstration was rather dull. Calla Lily gestured to a nearby minaret that glittered so fiercely it seemed as if raw starlight rippled within its smooth glass walls. Still, you might say that I passed the FGT with flying colors. She held up a golden acorn between her fingers which spilled open with a rainbow that floated away on the breeze.

A, the acorn crooned in dulcet tones. You astound me, astonish, and amaze—

Careful, I told myself. The last thing I wanted was for my wings to sparkle green with envy in front of everyone.

She leaned her pale heart-shaped face close to mine. I noticed that you were the only one Rhodora gave a brass acorn. Everyone else got silver or gold. Is the brass acorn a special honor reserved for Goodwings, or maybe, perhaps . . . just you?

That did it. Just me, I said. But this is all for you, Calla Lily.

Focusing my mind on the opal currents swirling in the air, I pulled one towards me by force of will alone, grateful that at least the winds of Faerie were always thick with magic. I drew an iridescent trickle of magic into myself and then channeled it back into the pumpkin on a single slant of thought. Sparkles sprayed out of the pumpkin as it changed into a large pie, complete with a porcelain dish and golden-baked crust. The dish rose into the air, and just as I was about to wipe Calla Lily’s smirk with its contents, I felt a smart tap on my shoulder.

May I ask what it is you are doing with that pastry, Miss Goodwing? It was Mistress Rhodora. The emerald tip of her wand glinted a mere inch from my nose.

Dragon’s mugwort! Now I was really in trouble. Hungry? I asked, gesturing to the floating pie. Just make sure that you eat it before midnight. My magic is highly perish—

That’s enough! The only thing I find more detestable than idle prattle is idle magic, Rhodora said. A dart of green light shot from her wand and hit my pie. The dish flipped upside down and dropped to the grass with an inglorious squelch and splatter.

What a waste! I sighed. It would’ve looked so much better dribbling from Calla Lily’s golden locks.

Dawdling is disgraceful, young ladies, Rhodora said. Collect your final projects and assemble at the Maypole.

Yes, Mistress, Calla Lily whispered. She threw a single imperious glance at her shimmering minaret, and it rippled to the ground until only a two-inch tall tower stood in her ring of mushrooms.

Even I had to admit that Calla Lily’s touch was elegant, efficient—everything my magic wasn’t. I was about to slink off to the Maypole behind Calla Lily and her sycophants when Rhodora stopped me with a jab of her wand.

Not you. We need to talk.

My wings wilted against my back. Rhodora had the wizened heart of a prune. Whatever she had to say, I was sure it would only further sour my day.

"Your Pixie Pocketbook of Magical Mandates, Rhodora said. Give it to me."

She may as well have asked for my life. N-no, I stuttered. "It’s mine."

"My dear, you failed the FGT. What possible use do you have for a fairy godmother’s rule book? Rhodora’s pinched lavender lips curved in a smile. Or did you think I’d make an exception for the daughter of Rose Pogonia Goodwing?"

No, never! My wings fluttered with my rising temper, but I forced my feet back onto the ground. I yanked my worn-out copy from my pocket and thrust it at her.

Rhodora held the little green book between the tips of her fingers like a dead rodent. What a pity. You’ve completely ruined it with your scribbling. She snapped her fingers, and the Pocketbook and my precious notations disintegrated in a burst of flame. It was all I could do not to cry out as the embers drifted to the grass and twinkled out.

Rhodora raised my chin with her wand tip. There will be no unseemly displays of magic when Sweet Vetch arrives. Am I quite clear?

Crystalline, I said.

For some reason my eyes were blurry by the time I arrived at the Maypole. There had to be a patch of Four Leaf Clover growing somewhere in the meadow, that was all. Or maybe it was just the prism flickers bouncing off the translucent wings of the other fairies flocking around the silver pole on the hill that was making them water. I was not crying!

Gotcha! Star Tulip crashed into my side and knocked us both to the grass. Don’t think you can give me the slip just because you’re a fairy godmother now.

Believe me, I’m not going anywhere, I said. Tomorrow, I’d tell her the truth tomorrow . . . if I hadn’t bitten a Red Pernicious by then.

My hair blew into my face as twelve pixies glided overhead pulling the Maypole’s ribbons outwards like the rays of a silk star. As the pixies released them the ribbons expanded into a multihued pavilion that enveloped the meadow in an airy shell. Rhodora tapped her wand against the silver pole in the center of the pavilion. Rows of wooden benches dropped from the air and thudded to the ground in shimmering puffs that dusted my dress hem in leftover motes of magic.

Take your seats in an orderly fashion, Rhodora commanded. Backs straight, wings folded.

As I slumped on a bench next to Star Tulip, I could feel the pressure of the brass acorn in my pocket like a witch’s curse. I wish. Even a witch’s curse would be better than the truth in the nut. My gaze dropped to my feet under the crushing weight of my shame, but a flicker of warmth lit inside me as I noticed a few globs of pumpkin pie speckling my black velvet slippers. Now here was a problem I could fix! Being the only pixie in Faerie who couldn’t do a proper glamour, I spent a lot of time with my eyes downcast, a drab view I’d learned to embellish by twisting magic into every pair of slippers I ever wore. My ephemera always faded away by the stroke of twelve, but I didn’t care. I’d barely changed the black velvet into seed pearl and cream satin shoes when a burst of crimson smoke mixed with the strong scent of nectar flooded the pavilion.

Coughing on the cloying airs, I gazed up at the ivy-covered gazebo floating above us. My jaw dropped as I gaped at the fairy leaning against the silver railing. Goodwings may be renowned for their traditional respectability, but this fairy was the idol of every Meadowlark pixie for her flashy glamour—no sparkle spared. She was so stunning it hurt just to squint at her. Her amethyst hair piled in glowing curls on top of her head, and her white gossamer gown was sewn with hundreds of splintered star drops so that a hypnotic shimmer surrounded her with even the tiniest movement.

Rhodora fluttered to the front of the gazebo. May I present to you Meadowlark School’s most accomplished pupil and now a famous fairy godmother in her own right—Sweet Vetch.

Oh, you flatter me, Sweet Vetch said in a fluting voice. I adore that. She waved her ruby-studded wand to encompass us all. I was once just like you, naïve and tenderhearted . . . She paused, cupping a hand around her lips. "But let me tell you a little secret—I got over it! The Mortal Vale is a field of human dreams waiting for the right fairy godmother to pick them. Are you the right fairy godmother for the job? I was."

As Sweet Vetch detailed her successful human ventures, I began to get suspicious. Six peasants crowned princess in five moons? That was unnatural! The cardinal rule of the Pocketbook was never to force dreams to come true, but only to gently nudge them in the right direction with magic. It was dangerous to push the wrong happily ever after on a human, but nobody else seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. The other fairies were mesmerized by her tales, and even Star Tulip hung on Sweet Vetch’s words with rapt attention. Maybe I was just being bitter.

So take heart. With incredible talent and spectacular skills, you, too, will succeed as I have in the Mortal Vale, Sweet Vetch finished at last. The pavilion filled with enthusiastic applause as row after row of fairies rose up from their benches and clapped.

I didn’t get what all the fuss was about. One would think she could do mirror magic, the highest degree of glamour that delved into the inmost soul of a person and reflected what was there. But no fairy had done mirror magic since the forging of Excalibur five hundred years ago, and besides—I somehow got the feeling that the only reflection Sweet Vetch cared for was her own.

Star Tulip nudged me in the side. Prim, do you think Sweet Vetch might write something encouraging in my Pocketbook? she asked.

You, too, can be me. Sincerely, Sweet Vetch. I could see that. Oh, I really had to stop being bitter.

Why don’t you ask her? I said. There was no sense in sulking in my seat like a pouting pixie. As I stood up to add my own applause, my dress caught on the edge of the bench and the gossamer ripped. The brass acorn slipped from my pocket and hit the ground before I could catch it, the cap popped off with a dull metallic clang, and—

F! the malevolent nut yelled in a shrill voice that carried over the applause. F as in forget your future, ’cause you’re a freak of fairy nature, a fiasco, a fizzled out—

The clapping faltered as all eyes turned towards the brass acorn. I could pretend the evil little maligner wasn’t mine, right? Wrong.

Miss Goodwing! Rhodora thundered. Silence your acorn at once!

Star Tulip gasped, but Calla Lily and just about every other fairy in Meadowlark broke into tinkling peals of laughter. Except for Vetch. The glittering fairy godmother looked vaguely amused and gave me a pitying smile that cut worse than everything else. Chill crystals shot through my wings as they flared bright white with embarrassment. Abandoning the wretched acorn, I shot up towards the pavilion roof.

Let me out! I said. Stray currents of magic in the air twisted with my wild emotions and leaked into my words before I could pull them back. My wayward spell hit the filmy material, and the entire pavilion shimmered into a massive bubble . . . which promptly burst as I slammed into the iridescent barrier. The laughter turned to startled screams as a curtain of water fell and drenched the fairies below. Oops! I had a feeling that this was definitely what Rhodora would call an unseemly display of magic, but I didn’t stick around to find out.

I shot across the meadow towards the outskirts of Carolai. The shadow of the mountain city loomed over me as I drew closer. The Quartz Dome of the Faerie Court cast dazzling rays from the airy heights of the thirteenth terrace carved into the forested mountainside. But I pulled my gaze away towards the base where Market Terrace spread in a motley collection of brightly dyed tents and makeshift shops lining winding cobblestone streets and alleys that never led in a straight direction.

There were no poison apples left at the Lost Bazaar. It figured.

I drifted past vendor stalls selling phoenix feathers, singing spices and other exotic curios until I came to the massive arch of the Golden Portcullis standing at the heart of the Lost Bazaar. For sixteen years I’d watched the hosts of Faerie pass through the ancient stone gate into the Mortal Vale, and I’d always thought that one day I’d make the same journey, just as every Goodwing before me. But it would be sheer torture for me to go now. Only fairy godmothers were authorized to deal directly with humans.

To make human dreams come true . . . that was none of my business anymore.

***

The old king balanced on the edge of the third floor balustrade and sincerely hoped that his imminent demise would not be as swift as it was sure to be exceedingly uncomfortable. Breath enough to leave the warning after his fall, that was all he truly needed, but if he failed . . . No doubt the royal guards would label his death a tragic case of attempted volitation. Useless dolts, the lot of them!

Come down from that precarious perch, Your Majesty, Captain Merrit pleaded as he inched towards him, his thin brown mustache twitching nervously on his upper lip. There are far safer places within the castle where you may master the art of flight.

The king sighed with infinite weariness even as a stray summer breeze cooled the burning prickle of the noon sun on the bare crown of his head. Every nincompoop in the kingdom from the highest noble to the lowliest peasant believed that he was a few cuckoos short of a proper flock. Simply put, stark raving mad—and they were right. Today marked seven years to the day since the Spider had tricked him into opening the music box and unleashing the spell that robbed him of both will and all semblance of wit.

But death . . . now death would give them back.

Come down, Captain Merrit repeated in a patronizing tone that might’ve earned him a beheading in better times. It’s tea time. Can’t you smell the scones?

The king’s hands clenched into trembling fists. The entire kingdom was webbed in the Spider’s enchantments, and the captain of the guard would have him sniffing pastries?

A pox on you and all tea-time edibles! the king shouted, but his tongue twisted the syllables into another sentence entirely. Someone forgot to line their ducks in a row, he giggled instead. The spell mangled all his words into gibberish, but the king vowed that he would say one true thing—and if the price was his last breath, so be it.

He would speak the Spider’s name.

The king’s lips grew heavy and burned like molten lead as he strained against the spell woven into his life force. He spat the words between his teeth. Captain, I order you to take your men and seize— His words cut off abruptly as he felt the invisible prick of fangs in his neck. Twin points of agony slid deep into his flesh and silenced his voice. He should’ve known the spell’s muzzle wouldn’t break so easily. The king staggered and fell off the balustrade.

The wrong way.

Blood clouded his eyes as he woke up lying on the cold marble floor of the balcony, but the silhouette of the Spider was still visible through the red haze. The man hovered over him anxiously as if he were actually concerned for his well-being. Hah! The king flinched as the Spider leaned down and reached a pale hand towards him, but it was only to gently press a kerchief against the throbbing wound on his temple.

You are becoming far too temperamental in your old age, Sire, the Spider said in a sliding velvet whisper that fell too low for the guards to hear. I think it’s high time that Prince Fitzwilliam returned home from his studies abroad, don’t you? If he’s anything like his father, he’ll prove most biddable to my wishes.

The king slammed the Spider in the chest and knocked him backwards.