The word ‘home’ came to mind first. I didn’t want to be trapped here. Although technically, I wanted my family back—my twenty-first century life, not just my house.

I picked up the quill pen, hesitating before dipping it into the ink bottle. The thought of my old life reminded me that once I went home, I would have to endure my America’s Top Talent audition becoming a viral video.

The weight of all those opinions, all the sneering laughs—it was enough to crush a person, to squeeze the air right out of me.

As badly as I wanted to be with my family, I still dreaded enduring nationwide humiliation. So did that mean I desired respect the most? Is that what I’d really meant when I wished for fame—I wanted the world to respect me? I twirled the quill pen between my fingers, thinking. No, I’d wanted more than respect. I’d wanted sighs of admiration from fans and the glitter of camera flashes going off around me. I’d wanted to feel the wet cement under my palms in the Hollywood walk of fame. I’d wanted everyone at my school to regret the way they’d treated me.

Fame seemed so vain and needy when I thought of it like that. Certainly I desired more from life than the adoration of strangers. What did I really want?

When Chrissy had told me she’d give me three wishes, it had been easy to think of things to ask for. Ironic. Right now I didn’t really know what would make me happy.

Donovan, unconcerned by my indecision, surveyed the painting, then the room’s woodwork. It all spoke of wealth, of dozens of craftsmen doing the king’s bidding. “If I get the answer right, I’ll be a royal guest here, and I’ll be given everything I need to solve the mystery?”

Madam Saxton sighed at his optimism. “Of course.”

I dipped the quill into the ink bottle. Rivulets of black ink dripped off the end.

Back in the hallway, Donovan heard me tell Chrissy that since I wasn’t famous in my century, my wish was void. He probably expected me to write something along those lines—fame or admiration. I needed something that he couldn’t guess.

Freedom, I decided. It wasn’t a lie. I wanted freedom from the bad things in my life.

I made sure Donovan was standing far enough away that he couldn’t see what I wrote. I also checked to make sure there weren’t any mirrors or reflective surfaces nearby that would let him see my paper. Then I put the tip of the quill pen to the paper and made an F.

There is a reason people stopped using feathers to write with. My F came out gloppy. I had to write slowly and in large script so the letters didn’t bleed into an unrecognizable blob. I wasn’t about to risk having to whisper my word to Madam Saxton.

Donovan strolled across his section of the room, hands clasped behind his back, studying me. He sent me a wide grin, one that probably made most girls melt. “I don’t think Princess Mercedes is writing riches or beauty. People don’t value what they’ve always had in abundance.”

Yeah, right. Empty flattery wouldn’t make me give him any clues. I rolled my eyes and went back to writing.

“It certainly isn’t the word cooperation,” he added.

It occurred to me that Donovan, like me, couldn’t lie without magical consequences. Did he really think I was beautiful? I replayed his words and just as quickly, the compliment soured. Donovan hadn’t said I was beautiful. He’d made two unrelated comments—I wouldn’t write beauty or riches, and people didn’t value what they had a lot of. He must have worded it that way because he didn’t think I was beautiful and only wanted the appearance of flattery. Jerk.

Donovan noted my scowl and kept slowly pacing. “I doubt she wrote kindness. Charity toward strangers doesn’t seem likely either.”

If I folded the paper now, the ink would smudge and the word would be indecipherable. I leaned over the paper and blew on the ink to dry it.

“Are you almost done?” Donovan called. “It’s a word, not a birthday cake.”

I blew on the paper a couple more times. After the ink dried, I folded the paper once, and then twice.

Madame Saxton watched my caution with evident weariness. “You see the crux of the problem,” she said to Donovan. “Despite the rewards the king offers, how can anyone discover the princesses’ secrets if the girls remain unwilling to share them? It’s fruitless to risk your life in such a venture.”

She shook her head sadly. “Whatever dark spell is upon our dear princesses, I fear it will remain until a greater magic can overcome it.”

I didn’t comment on my hopeless status. “Move away from Madam Saxton,” I told Donovan. “I don’t want you reading over her shoulder while she unfolds this.”

He smiled, clearly humoring me, then sauntered in my direction holding his hands up in surrender. His eyes were confident, though. He was far from surrendering. “I’ll stay as far away from Madam Saxton as you like.”

I kept watching his dark blue eyes, wondering at his assurance. Did he think I was so transparent he could guess my word?

I lifted my chin, met his eyes, and strode toward Madam Saxton. I was glad I wore a dress made for a princess. It carried its own confidence within its silk and brocade.

My eyes were on Donovan’s, so I didn’t see his hand move until it was too late. As he passed by me, he reached out and yanked the paper from my hand.

“Hey!” I yelled, lunging at him. “You can’t take that! That’s cheating!”

Donovan used his height to hold the paper out of my reach. He was stronger than I’d expected. He didn’t budge even with me knocking into him, tugging at his arm. He unfolded the paper above my head. “Freedom,” he called to Madam Saxton. “Princess Mercedes wants freedom.” He flipped the paper so she could see it and then gave it back to me. “I expected it to say goblet. Go figure.”

I clenched my fists and stamped my foot, something that didn’t make nearly the dramatic sound I’d hoped for. Slippers weren’t meant for stomping. “That doesn’t count. You cheated.”

Donovan met my protest with another smile, this one triumphant. “Madam Saxton never said I couldn’t cheat.”

I glared at him. “It’s obviously implied. Thus, the term cheating. She told you to guess.”

He shook his head. “No. She said I had to tell her what you’d written. I did.”

I looked to Madam Saxton for support, for agreement. I expected her to be angry. Instead her eyes shone happily. Her whole face was lit up with hope.

I marched to her, indignant. “He has no integrity. Is that the sort of man King Rothschild wants as a successor?”

“What King Rothschild wants,” Donovan answered for her, “is someone who can figure out the slipper mystery. Someone who can free the princesses from their dark curse. All the guys who’ve come to the castle before, maybe they had integrity and chivalry, and they wore those—” He waved a hand as though it would help him produce the words he wanted, “—capes and fancy clothes, but how successful were they when it came to learning the truth?”

That seemed to decide the matter for Madam Saxton. She clapped her hands together with enthusiasm. “Well said. Perhaps you’re just the one to succeed.”

Her excitement irked me. She actually thought this cheating probation dude was some sort of savior. She strode to Donovan, all action now. With a contemplative “Hmm,” she fingered the edge of his coat where buttons were missing. “I’ll need to give you clothing befitting a royal suitor.”

Apparently deeming the coat a hopeless cause, she tugged it off his arms. “We mustn’t insult Capenzia by letting the King Rothschild think only poor travelers and vagabonds value his daughters.”

Underneath his coat, Donovan wore a coarse gray shirt that was stained and ill-fitting. Madam Saxton made huffing noises at it. “It’s a good thing you’re a handsome lad. The right clothes will transform you well enough. From here on, you’re Prince Donovan from the kingdom of . . .”