The Fairy Godmother Read Online Free PDF Page B

blanket.
    And this was the earliest she had been able to go to sleep in as long as she could recall. Usually she was awake until after midnight with all of the tasks she had to finish—later than that, if the Horrids had been to a ball or a party, and she had to stay up to help them undress. She usually didn’t get to go to sleep on a full stomach, either.
    It had been a very long day, nevertheless, and an emotional one. She was tired, as tired as she ever had been.
    And no one is going to wake me with a scream for something, she realized, as she felt her muscles relaxing in the unaccustomed warmth. The empty house felt—odd. There was a hollowness to it. There were no little sounds below her, of people moving about or making noises in their sleep.
    Through her open window, which overlooked the kitchen-garden, she heard voices coming from the house next door. Not loud enough to make out what was being said, but loud enough to know that it was Blanche and Fleur, and a third, unfamiliar voice.
    She smiled a little. It was probably a client of Fleur’s;someone like Fleur usually saw a lot of clients after dark. Few people wanted to be seen patronizing a Witch, even if that Witch was someone who had a heart full of only good, true as a priest, and honest as a magistrate.
    Everyone knew that Fleur was a Witch of course, and had been since she was very small indeed, though no one every actually said the word aloud. This was why they called her “Madame,” although, unlike her sister, she had never had a husband. You just called a Witch “Madame”—it was respectful, and it didn’t do to treat a Witch with disrespect. That was why Elena had chosen her words so carefully when she’d asked for Fleur’s “good wishes,” and why Blanche had asked so carefully if she could “tell Fleur.” Words took on extra weight, and extra potency, when there was a Witch involved. You were careful about words around Witches.
    Not that Fleur had a great deal of magic of the sort that tales were made of. No, Fleur’s power lay in healing and herbs; she was a very small Witch, as Witches went. Ask her to cure your child or get your dry cow to give milk again, and there was no problem. Ask her to cast a love spell or break a curse, and she would look at you helplessly, and shrug.
    As she had the day that Elena, weeping after having had yet another possession appropriated by one of the Horrids, had come running into the neighbor’s garden and begged Fleur to make Madame go away.
    Fleur had only looked at her, sadly. “I cannot, dear,” she said, slowly. “I am bound to tell you the truth, my pet. Somewhere, Madame obtained a very powerful love spell, andyour father is entrapped in it. I cannot break it, though I wish with all my heart that I could. I could not even begin to guess how to break it, in fact.”
    Elena stared at the moon framed in her window as she remembered that dreadful moment. It had been an epiphany of sorts. Until that moment, she had believed that all endings were happy ones, that all good adults could help children, if only the children asked, and that good things happened to good people, if only they were brave enough. In that moment, she had learned that sometimes good people were helpless, that terrible things happened to good people, that there were sad endings as well as happy ones.
    Worst of all, she had learned that no matter how brave and good you were, bad people often won, and that her father was lost to her forever.
    From that moment, she mourned him as if he was dead—and indeed, for all intents and purposes, he might just as well have died. He came less and less to protect her from her stepmother and stepsisters, until at last he did nothing at all. He scarcely seemed to realize that she existed. He totally forgot that he had ever been married to anyone else, and spent his every waking moment trying to find some new means of pleasing