PROLOGUE
THE UNVITATION
Once upon a time in the days of old, eleven fairies gathered at court before a child to hold. Only eleven, for the twelfth was dead and the thirteenth was missing. An invitation for every living fairy—except the thirteenth—had previously been sealed, sent, and delivered: a formal request to come forth and bless the sweet newborn princess.
Now all of Never After had come to Westphalia to celebrate this long-awaited day. Creatures old and new, of every height and hue—from towering dragons, their armored scales glittering gold and green, to warty goblins and rambunctious dwarves. There were garden gnomes seated on toadstools and tiny pixies fluttering their dragonfly wings, slender forest sprites and weathered crones. There were merchants and farmhands, milkmaids and pageboys. There were grand dukes and great ladies, and too many onlookers to count. For a collective breath had been held in the kingdom for countless nights, countless souls wishing upon countless stars for the overall health of every perfect petite finger and toe. It was time to exhale.
A new princess! The precious future of the kingdom.
On the day of the christening, handsome King Vladimir and beautiful Queen Olga sat atop their thrones, gleaming smiles upon their lips, brilliant white teeth shining and blinding. A dazzling display of both pride and prize as they hosted a fete of impressive size.
It was almost like magic, as if with a snap of the fingers, it had happened at long last. Voilà: a baby. All that once was, was now forgotten. A fresh new present, dreamy and vast, devoid of the unfortunate past.
And yet. And yet.
There was a motive behind each mirror.
What was that? A maniacal laugh sounded in the distance if you listened closely enough. But none could hear it, because none would hear it.
The babe—Princess Eliana—had been longed for; that she was desperately wanted was the understatement of the century. The king and queen had been in the throes of despair, hoping and waiting for this baby girl. She was the stuff of dreams delivered.
Princess Eliana was safe and warm, swaddled in cotton and fluff, wishes and moondust. She’d received a kind glance from every assembled guest, and each passing moment was its own tiny and fleeting miracle. Delight flitted through the air, leaving sparkles of joy and wonder in its wake. It was universal bliss to leave a kiss upon the little darling’s fingertips.
But something was amiss. Something, yes, something indeed, was peculiar. None could pinpoint it, or examine it in depth. No one wanted to look through the thin lace veil, a superb glamour to distract and divert.
Instead! Let us feast on the plates of pastries and pies provided for all. Blueberry, raspberry, lemon sorbet, rich layered cake. Wine and spirit, drink and dance. Let us gaze at the elaborate ball gowns, jewels, and crowns.
For this was an open invitation, come one, come all.
Come all … except one.
The members of the court chattered among themselves, trading rumor and speculation, whispered into various pointy and curious ears. Questions laced with a hint of dread and agitation.
“Where is Carabosse?”
“Where is the thirteenth fairy?”
“What of her blessing?”
The court murmured and muttered, fretted and frazzled. Carabosse, the thirteenth and most powerful fairy in all of Never After, was nowhere to be found.
No invitation had been sent.
Quite the opposite.
An unvitation, if you will.
The princess has finally arrived.
The king and queen celebrate their child.
However, your presence is not required.
It is unwanted, unwelcome, and undesired.
STAY AWAY, CARABOSSE.
Harps and flutes played melodies of lullabies for the royal babe with rosy cheeks and bright copper eyes. She yawned and stretched, then wailed. And cried. And cried some more. She wanted her mother.
Her mother!
Where was her mother?
Was she not there, on the throne? Holding a goblet to her lips, oblivious to the cries of her sweet daughter?
No!
That was not her mother.
No!
That woman on the throne—that was not her mother. The mother she would never know was not there.
Her mother was dead. Buried underground. Rotting.
The late queen, Rosanna, would never hold her daughter, the newborn in the forefront of the court, the center of this new world that kept spinning without her.
For Queen Rosanna was dead.
That woman on the throne, married to her father—that woman was not her mother.
Was it only a few weeks since King Vladimir had knelt at Queen Rosanna’s graveside and wept? It could not be, but it was. A few weeks. Mayhap a few days. Not enough time for proper mourning, no room for sufficient grieving. A king had lost his queen, yet no dirges were sung, no banners lowered in memoriam. No respects paid to his previous wife. No tears, no years of waiting. Not even a single moment of reflection. Not even a what if remaining on his tongue.
No eulogy made, the soil still fresh on the grave, King Vladimir remarried. As if he’d inhaled at her passing and exhaled a new life.
There he was, sitting proudly with his new wife, Queen Olga, and their cherub—the already-famous princess Eliana.
But largely unmentioned in the tales to come is that the thirteenth fairy, the uninvited fairy, the fairy Carabosse, was the late queen Rosanna’s sister and hence Princess Eliana’s aunt.
Carabosse had warned Rosanna about the mortal world, warned her about leaving the safety of the forest. But Rosanna didn’t listen. Rosanna gave up her magic to follow her heart, and now she was dead and buried underground.
But Carabosse was very much alive.
And, at last, she had arrived.
Unvitation and all.
A fevered hush swept over the court as Carabosse strolled in, gown trailing behind her. The tales told after this day speak of an ugly crone, hunchbacked and withered, of a threatening and vile fairy enchantress. A wicked witch, wreathed in black, with eyes like braziers and a voice of snakes and sandpaper.
The tales are wrong. The tales are twisted and untrue.
For Carabosse was breathtaking.
Tall and dark and wild and striking. She had Rosanna’s long black locks and scissor-cut cheekbones, her petal-pink lips and regal bearing, but Carabosse’s eyes were all her own. Rosanna’s eyes were chestnut brown, as warm as rain. Carabosse’s eyes were as black as night and as deep as the ocean’s depths. Her dress was gossamer and ebony, dipped in gold and sparkling with the light of a thousand fireflies. Her bare feet scarcely touched the floor. She did not walk but glided over the ballroom with hardly a sound.
The music stopped. The creatures froze. Worry reverberated and bounced off the castle walls. An eerie quiet unsettled the merry hall. More whispers sprang from lips. Gluttonous gulps became silent sips. And then came the pointing from various fingertips. All aimed at Carabosse.
“At last! She is here!”
“What will she do?”
“What has she come for?”
She eyed her sisters, the assembled fairies all in a row, with sorrow, and many hung their heads in shame. Carabosse, the eldest and best of them, strode purposefully to her niece’s crib, a wooden sleigh covered in twine and vine, and lifted her beloved sister’s baby in her arms. This little girl was all she had left of her dear Rosanna. Her heart nearly burst at the sight of the child. The resemblance uncanny, almost as though she were looking into her sister’s own warm brown eyes.