“Hamilton, Ohio,” he supplied.

She nodded, folding his coat over her arm. “That sounds sufficiently exotic.”

I crumpled my paper, making freedom disappear in the creases. “That’s because you’ve never been to Ohio.”

“You’re a fifth son,” she continued, “so you’ve no chance of an inheritance from your goodly parents, but when you heard of King Rothschild’s dilemma, you came straightway to assist him.” She opened the door and stood aside so he could follow her out.

Donovan gave me a parting smile. All teeth and charm.

Madam Saxton turned back to me and made a shooing motion with her hand. “Princess Mercedes, don’t idle about. You must go into supper now. Your parents await you.”

I had no other choice really. I stalked off down the hallway.

Chapter 9

The dining room smelled delicious, like warm, roasted tastiness. The mandolin player barely looked up when I came in this time. The princesses were equally uninterested in my arrival. They glanced at me, and then went back to their meals and conversations.

Each wore an elaborate dress, all in pastel colors so they gave off the impression of rows of Easter eggs. Jeweled necklaces flashed and gleamed in the light—pearls, diamonds, amethysts, and pale blue stones I didn’t have a name for. The blonde princesses looked as pretty as porcelain, as though they should be sitting in a doll cabinet somewhere surveying the lesser knickknacks.

The obviously imported princesses were as elegantly dressed, but less graceful in their manners. They didn’t raise their pinkies while holding their glasses or dab their napkins to their lips with the same dainty flourishes.

As I walked to my place at the table, I wondered what wishes had brought these girls to the castle. Were they glad to be here? None seemed particularly sad or upset. Although maybe that was because they were busy enjoying the feast. That’s what it looked like—a Thanksgiving feast complete with savory dishes and more than one turkey.

I sat down at the empty seat, already worried that I would have the worst table manners. I’d never been the type who could tell a dessert fork from a regular fork. If it had prongs, I figured I could use it to eat. I would have to copy the BPs—blonde princesses’—mannerisms to figure out what to do.

The king set his goblet on the table with a loud thunk. “Lo, my youngest daughter arrives at last. Mercedes, you finally deign to dine with us?”

“Uh . . .” I didn’t understand the question.

The queen looked at me with motherly concern, making the tiny wrinkles around her eyes deepen. “We worried your food would grow cold.”

“Grow cold?” the king sputtered. “If I’d traipsed in late to supper at her age, my father would have given me nothing save a crust of bread, which,” he slapped his hand onto the table so forcefully his silverware rattled, “is precisely what Sadie shall be given now.”

“But I was . . .” taking care of fairy business and trying to circumvent your decree about suitors. I couldn’t finish that statement. Instead I murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“And you shall continue to be.” The king motioned to a serving man who carried a wooden tray piled with cheese and bread. “Princess Mercedes will contemplate her punctuality while dining on bread crusts and water. Give her nothing else.”

The man bowed. “Yes, Sire.”

I hoped the queen would argue my cause, but she went back to eating without any sort of comment. When the servant arrived at my seat, he took a loaf of bread from his tray and curtly ripped the end off. He set it on my plate where it lay, forlorn and dry-looking. It seemed oddly out of place on the fancy silver place setting. I picked up the crust and bit an edge off. It was as stiff as Styrofoam.

Great. In my last fairy tale, I was served seaweed and raw fish. Now I got bread crusts. I really should have made wishes with better dining choices.

King Rothschild went back to his conversation with the queen, my disturbance forgotten. The two princesses sitting at my side—both the blonde variety—were too wrapped up in a conversation about their new fur-lined cloaks to speak to me. The mandolin player crooned out a song about a knight and the ill-fated love he felt for his lady.

I wondered where Jason was and what he was doing. Chrissy had made him a prince, so hopefully he had servants attending his head wound. I would see him tonight when the princesses snuck out and went to the secret ball. What would I say to him? How could I explain I hadn’t meant any of this to happen?

I tore off pieces of crust and ate them in silence. No matter how I envisioned the scenario, it always ended with me feeling pathetic and stupid, not to mention guilty for ruining his life.

I would just have to assure him I could get us out of this mess. I would steal the goblet and trade it for our passage home.

Several minutes later when Donovan and Madam Saxton walked in, his hair was combed and his face shaved clean. He wore an embroidered black vest over a white shirt with sleeves that poofed from his shoulders in typical Renaissance style. Shiny black boots went to his knees and a wide leather belt hung around his hips, holding a sword much more ornate than the one he’d come with. He should have looked ridiculous—he was just a parrot shy of a pirate costume—and yet he had a swagger that made the outfit work. He caught my eye and winked, then he and Madam Saxton strode to the front of the king’s table. Donovan bowed at the waist, making a show of it.

Madam Saxton gave a quick curtsy. “Prince Donovan of the Kingdom of Hamilton-Ohio, having heard of your daughters’ beauty and the great mystery besetting them, has come to offer his services.”

Half of the princesses giggled and leaned together to talk. The other half eyed Donovan with curiosity.

King Rothschild picked up a turkey leg from his plate and took a bite. “Hamilton-Ohio, eh? I’ve heard naught of that kingdom. Where is it?”

“Very far away,” Donovan said. “It’s next to the kingdom of Cincinnati.”

“Cincinnati?” King Rothschild repeated with disapproval. “What sort of kingdom uses the word ‘sin’ in its name twice? Does it want to encourage ruffian behavior? What next? PlunderPlunder-ati?”

The queen patted her husband’s arm reassuringly. “I’m sure it’s a lovely place.”

King Rothschild grunted, unconvinced, and turned his attention to Donovan again. “You believe you can discover the reason my daughters’ slippers are worn to ribbons each night?”

The queen dabbed her napkin to her lips, then gingerly set the cloth on the table. “It’s simply horrible. The cobblers can’t keep up, and then my girls have nothing to wear—well, nothing that matches anyway, and you know how ladies hate that.” She let out a small laugh, expecting Donovan to agree.

He nodded politely. “Have you tried sending them to bed without slippers?”

The queen frowned at the suggestion. “That doesn’t seem proper. Well-bred ladies need footwear befitting each occasion. Isn’t it the same in your land?”

“I wasn’t suggesting anything, Your Majesty. I’m only asking what methods you’ve already used to solve the problem.” Donovan was poised while he spoke. Not freaked out and fumbling like I’d been when I first found myself in the mermaid kingdom.

He glanced upward in thought. “Have you tried putting something else beneath the princesses’ beds to see if other objects get worn out? Perhaps the beds are enchanted.”

“Enchanted beds?” the king repeated, letting the idea sit in his mind.

“In my land,” Donovan said, “some people think monsters live under their beds. Perhaps in your land you have monsters who suck the life out of shoes.”

The queen put a hand to her chest, displaying an array of golden rings. “Is such a thing possible?”

“Very possible,” Donovan said, though his expression remained unworried. “I’ve had teachers who assigned books that sucked the enjoyment out of reading.”