Princess Floralinda thought she could not cry for a broken heart, certainly not on command. But the fairy had become a bit friendlier, and up close was certainly so pretty that it was hard to be angry. Such beautiful little features—such cunning little pointed ears and nails on each finger and toe—such eyes, iridescent, like the chips of opal in her grandmother’s rings. It said, “Then could I prevail upon you to carry me down to the bottom, or to lower me down on a string?”
As there was nothing in the room that could be lowered down any further than two or three flights at best, and as the difficulty of getting to the bottom was the problem whole and entire, Floralinda supposed not.
“There’s nothing for it,” the fairy said. “I shall have to wait to bathe in the light of the full moon, and we’ve just had one, so it will take weeks. The wing will grow back then, and by that point you will be gone, so at least I’ll have full use of the tower.”
A great hope seized Floralinda.
“Oh,” she gasped, “oh, do you really think that I will be gone?”
“Naturally, yes,” said the fairy. “Those are goblin bites on your hands, aren’t they? They’re quite infected. Goblins are filthy. You’ll be dead in a week.”
At Floralinda’s new bout of tears, the fairy said a bit diffidently, “Cheer up; you might die earlier.”
“Oh, please,” managed Floralinda, “please, I really don’t want to die; it would break my mother’s heart, and there would be such a fuss over the funeral, and I wouldn’t even be there in the coffin, and my aunts would say dreadful things—oh, please! Don’t you have any fairy magic that could make me well, or couldn’t you take me to Fairyland, or call the birds and beasts to help us?”
The fairy didn’t think much of that idea; it didn’t seem to rate birds or beasts very highly. “Fairy magic is mostly wish-based, and very particular and contextual,” it said. “As I said, if you were a child without modern biology textbooks or access to a free-thinking nanny, I might do a great deal. It’s not that I’m not sympathetic to the idea. I think the limitations of fairy magic are really restricting us in this day and age, and I’ve said so, and proved so. No, fairy magic won’t make you well, and I can’t take you to Fairyland and wouldn’t if I could.”
Floralinda sank back into the pillows again, her head and her hands hurting, feeling white with dismay. She was exhausted. Maybe she was dying. She had never died before, and the closest she had come was contracting chicken-pox and six colds and very mild scarlatina. “Perhaps,” she whispered, “perhaps I’ll live, and you could go and get a doctor, or at least tell someone where I am?”
“I think that would probably annoy the witch who put you in here,” said the fairy frankly, “and I have enough trouble in my life without annoying witches. You must understand that it is really none of my business.”
“That’s very hard on me,” said Floralinda.
“I would blame the princes,” said the fairy. “Princes aren’t what they used to be. They’re soft. Fancy not coming to look for you, just because twenty-four of them were eaten up already.”
But Floralinda had not been able to blame the princes. It seemed hard lines for them too. If she had been a prince rather than a princess, and had been told, ‘Get out to that tower and have a go, there’s a good prince, don’t get precious about yourself,’ she would not have liked it either. All the big strong fat princes had probably been crunched up already, with just the small weedy princes left over, or worse the small chubby princes, for whom it would have been twice as unfair. She said this, and the fairy said she was being soppy.
“If you tell me your name,” it said, with the air of someone conferring a great favour, “I might whisper it into a bluebell, and the bluebell might whisper it to a foxglove, and the foxglove might whisper it to a daisy, and daisies will tell anyone anything. That can hardly be tracked back to me.” (And this seemed to please the fairy, being relatively easy and not really any skin off the fairy’s lovely nose.)
“My name is Floralinda Amelia Melisande Augustina Eleanora Selina,” said Floralinda.
“Ho, ho! Daisies will make absolute Whispers-down-the-Lane of that,” said the fairy. “My name is Cobweb.”
Which made Floralinda happy, because it was just like in her Shakespeare.
Her head still ached, and her eyes kept closing of their own volition, and talking seemed harder than it ever had when she had been back home and had talked nineteen to the dozen all day to everyone. She did not know what to do now that she was dying; but she bravely held on to hope.
“And you are sure, Cobweb,” she said, “that I can’t make a wish? Perhaps if it’s a very small wish, you’ll find you’re able to grant it?”
“Have a go,” said Cobweb indifferently, “but do keep in mind I think the whole thing’s a bit embarrassing.”
“I wish that I might be rescued,” wished Floralinda.
“Too large a wish; make it smaller,” said Cobweb, after a moment.
“I wish that I didn’t have to die,” wished Floralinda.
“You are misunderstanding ‘smaller’,” said Cobweb.
“I wish that I might be safe,” wished Floralinda.
“Too woolly,” said Cobweb. “You’re not listening. Try to get as close to ‘How I wish Mummy would come home from the hospital soon, and bring me a dear little baby,’ as you can.”
Floralinda did not know if her mother was in hospital, though of course she hoped not; but she did not quite want her mother to bring her a dear little baby, which sounded as though it would create problems. The whole matter of who was in current possession of the christening robe would be brought up all over again. Her head felt as though it was full of broth, and none of her thoughts were floating to the top.
She thought back to all the days and days of tally-marks in the diary down the back of the armchair, and she thought of the tops of the trees of the forest spread out beneath the tower window, and of the ceaseless, unending cries of the diamond-tipped dragon on the first floor. She thought of the taste of wheaten bread and the taste of white bread, and of oranges, and milk, and water. She thought of how she was always afraid, and how when she wasn’t afraid she was bored to tears, and how no matter whether bored or afraid she was always in pain.
So Floralinda raised her weak voice, and she was so ill and tired that the wish came out as—
“Please, God, please let things be different.”
“You’ll regret that one,” said Cobweb.
But Floralinda was already asleep.
Princess Floralinda had part of her wish come true immediately: with Cobweb around, things changed. It could not be said that they changed exactly for the better. Of course it was delightful to have someone to say, “Good morning,” to, and to be able to express a thought and have a response that wasn’t just made up inside your own head. Anyone who has been inside a sick-room for ages will know how good it is to see a new face. But although Cobweb was really delightful to look at, it didn’t have very nice manners, and wasn’t at all sympathetic, nor indeed particularly interested in Floralinda.