The Fairy Godmother (35 page)

It seemed that no matter what, she would have him with her, undisturbed, through the winter at least, for as the season turned, it became quite clear that magic did not answer readily to Alexander's hand. The last of the harvest was gathered in, as the leaves turned and fell from the trees and the cruel November winds began to blow, and only by that time was he getting the knack of directing power into material objects and having it
remain
there. He did turn his hand to the household work without being asked—but Elena had the distinct feeling that there was a lot more being harvested from the orchards and gardens than could be accounted for by only overt work of the six members of the household. She had a shrewd guess that the Brownies were now using more of
their
magical powers than they used to. But of course, by The Tradition, that sort of thing had to happen in secret, where and when no mortals could see, so she just averted her eyes from the huge stores of apples, vegetables, and nuts in the cellars and went on about her business.

There was still an abundance of magical power looming over the household; not
pushing,
as she was accustomed to feeling The Tradition, but just—hovering. If a mountain could “hover” that is, for that is what it felt like to her. The Tradition was clearly nonplussed by what was going on
here, but as she was operating completely outside of any Traditional path, it didn't quite know what to do with her and Alexander. For the moment, she was not going to argue; it kept her personal stores of magic topped up, and provided extra for all the things that the House-Elves were doing.

Meanwhile it appeared that Hob and Robin were calling in favors from Fae outside the household. Piece by piece, armor was appearing, wonderful stuff as light as cork, but stronger than steel, and fitted to Alexander exactly. He had a bow already from the hunting-lodge; Hob found him a sword and an axe and shield, and Robin made him a lance.

He was a proper part of the household now, and even the house responded by opening up an entirely new suite of rooms, uncompromisingly masculine and suited to a warrior, complete with an armor-stand and a big, empty, barn-like room in which he could practice. The windows looked out into some other part of Faerie than the hunting-lodge did; his rooms appeared to have been built in the edge of a sheer cliff overlooking the sea. It gave Rose vertigo; she had to leave the cleaning there to Robin or Lily.

It was not an amethyst-colored sea under a sky with two moons, though. Elena expected him to comment on that—but he did not. In fact, even though the delicious, frustrating dreams continued, he said nothing.

He treated her with respect, with honor, with courtesy; in fact, he was acting in the most Knightly fashion possible. It was utterly maddening. Not that she didn't
want
respect, honor and courtesy; but—

But she also
would
not let The Tradition turn this into a bedroom farce. Or worse. She would not let it undo all the
work she had done to help him become someone that the
Great Fae
—the Great Fae!—had been willing to make into a Champion.

She would not allow all of that to be wasted, no matter what it cost her. On that, she was determined.

Even if all she got out of this was respect, honor, and courtesy….

 

Alexander stood quietly, looking out of the window of the library at the road to the cottage, which was disappearing under a thick snowfall as dusk fell. The House-Elves had gone to bed—or at least, they had gone to wherever
their
private quarters were, leaving the house quiet.

Elena had sent them off early tonight, insisting that they could and should take a kind of half-holiday. “We can manage dinner for ourselves,” she'd said.

He hadn't objected, though she had looked at him oddly, as if she had expected him to. This fit in altogether perfectly with some half-formed ideas of his own, and even if he had to eat stale bread and rancid cheese tonight, he wasn't going to discourage anything that left the house empty for once.

Because having the Brownies around was, frankly, awkward. You never knew when they were going to just pop in a doorway. And he was very tired of awakening in the morning with his groin aching from one of those delightful and frustrating dreams.

He had decided that he was going to court Elena.
Court,
not seduce, because his intentions were ultimately honorable. That is, if Godmothers were permitted to wed. Mind, if the bedding preceded the wedding by quite some time, he
wouldn't object; it wasn't that he objected in the least to a wedding, but—well, he had the feeling that the wedding of a Godmother would turn into an Occasion that would be the talk of a dozen Kingdoms and possibly the center of news for a dozen more. He knew what weddings were like in a
single
Kingdom—bloody hell, you had to plan the wretched things for months or even
years
in advance, and the celebrations generally stretched on for a month or more, which tended to make things a great deal less than comfortable for the newly wedded couple. And the wedding of a Godmother? He rather fervently prayed that he was wrong. Because there were old, old stories that described wedding celebrations between very great heroes and important Princesses that carried on for a year and a day, and—

—no. No. He could
not
manage to perform—for “performance” would be what it was—for an audience of thousands, every day, all day, for a year and a day. And he didn't think that such a thing would really appeal to Elena, either.

If The Tradition even allowed it. A formal wedding might bring down all sorts of horrible calamities on their heads.

But becoming lovers? Well, there was nothing in The Tradition against it, so far as he could see. Witches and Hedge-Wizards could, and did, take spouses and lovers. Sorcerers and Sorceresses took lovers all the time. “Consorts,” they were called. And even the masculine counterpart to the Godmother, the full Wizards, were mentioned to have companions from time to time. No mention for Godmothers, but there was also nothing against the idea,
either. And maybe that was because the Godmothers were all assumed, traditionally, to be Fae—or because they were simply very, very discreet.

But he knew that he was going to have to tread very, very carefully. His old ways were not going to work with Elena; she was not to be “conquered,” not to be “seduced,” and certainly not to be taken by force. And the truth was that he didn't
want
to do any of those things.

The truth was, he didn't want to change the slowly unfolding friendship that was building between them, especially now that he had some of
her
respect. He just wanted to add to it.

Well, he was going to try, tonight.

And with luck, he wouldn't find himself flat on his back in the stable, with a head like a ringing bell.

 

As darkness fell, Elena began rummaging among the things in the pantry, and Alexander, probably hearing the clatter, came wandering in with a wistfully hopeful look on his face. “I don't know anything about cooking that doesn't involve spitting a bird over a fire,” he admitted. “It's not the sort of thing that Princes are taught.”

“Well, it
is
the sort of thing that I had to learn,” she replied dryly. “Or did I not ever tell you my sordid little life-history?”

“Actually,” he said, looking interested. “No. Of course, I know now that all Godmothers and a lot of Wizards are out of failed Tradition paths, so I assumed you were, too. Which one?”

She told him as she rummaged up the ingredients for
omelettes and began cracking eggs into a bowl. He listened with every evidence of interest, and when she thrust a knife and some mushrooms at him, managed to chop them without losing either the interest or the fingers. “So you would have married a Prince?” he said, when he'd finished. “How—odd. I can't see you in that role, somehow. Oh, maybe it would have been all right for you when you were sixteen or even eighteen, but not now. Crown Princesses don't really do very much other than the occasional Good Work, and I can't imagine you being content with being merely ornamental, wandering about the Palace gardens and posing amongst the peacocks, sitting for hours at your embroidery frame. It seems too passive.”

Well—my goodness!
“Why, thank you for that,” she said, carefully tending the pan over the stove. “I believe that is one of the nicest things you have ever said to me. I must admit, I can't imagine
you
kicking about idly in your father's Court anymore.”

“No, neither can I.” He watched with interest as she slid the first omelette onto a plate. “I swear, that must be some sort of magic of its own—turning things into
food,
I mean.”

“Hmm. Robin would agree with you.” She turned out her own omelette, and joined him at the table. “Have you ever thought about how brave the first person to eat an egg must have been? Think about the way they look raw. I mean—
eeeyew!
”

They ate in silence, which she took as a good sign that she hadn't produced a dinner that positively revolted him. But after the food was gone, and the dishes left in the sink, an awkward-silence sprung up between them. It lasted long
enough to become uncomfortable, until finally she stood up abruptly.

But so did he, at the exact same moment.

Somehow, either her feet got tangled up in the legs of the chair she had been sitting in, or she lost her balance a little; for whatever reason, she started to fall, and was just catching herself, when she found instead that he had caught her.

For a moment, in which she found herself strangely short of breath, they stood in a frozen tableau, faces mere inches apart, staring into each other's eyes.

She expected him, at that moment, to seize her as he had tried before; expected a hand to paw at her breast, and all the rest of it. Expected, in fact, anything except what actually happened.

“Elena,” he said haltingly, “have you been dreaming of purple oceans?”

She nodded, speechless.

He sighed. “Oh, good. Then may I kiss you?”

“Only if you do it the way you do it
there
,” she replied without thinking.

And he did.

And it was better than in the dream.

They separated only when it became obvious, at least to her, that if they didn't, they were likely to end up naked on the kitchen floor, which was very hard and very cold.

He was breathing very heavily, as if he had been running. “I—I wasn't intending—not like—I'm not—” he said, “Really. I swear. And I wouldn't—I don't—”

She stared deeply into his eyes for a long moment, then said, “I think we should take this discussion to your rooms.”

He blinked. “Why?”

“They're downstairs. They're closer. Randolf.” Not that Randolf couldn't watch them anyway, in all likelihood, but at least he wouldn't be in the next room.

“Ah.” He cleared his throat. “Elena, may I invite you to my rooms?”

“You may,” she replied, suppressing the urge to giggle. “And I accept your invitation.”

It struck her that
nothing
he was doing or saying would have fit in with any Traditional path—not a bawdy song, not a tale of seduction and abandonment. Was he deliberately trying to break with The Tradition, or was this purely by accident?

Whichever it was, he gravely led the way to his suite, bowed her in with just as much gravity, and then looked as if he was at a loss for what to do next.

She made up his mind for him, by sitting down on the hearth-rug (which was the skin of a bear bigger than anything
she
had ever seen; it must have been the size of a draft-horse when it was alive). The fire didn't need poking up, but he did it anyway, then sat down beside her.

She was trying to think of something to say when he spoke. “Tell me about your dreams, will you?” he asked. “Do you have them every night? Are they always the same?”

“I've been having them most nights, and they're never
exactly
the same,” she said, staring into the fire, leaning back on her elbows. “They always start when I find myself in a—a very odd place. I'm on the shore of some large body of
water, and it's night, but very bright, bright enough to see colors.”

“Because there are two moons in the sky,” he said instantly. “And the sand is purple. So is the water.”

“It's sweet, too, not salty,” she put in.

“Is it? I never tasted it,” he replied, a little surprised. “When my dreams start, I'm usually right at the water's edge.”

“So am I, but sometimes I'm wading in the water up to my ankles.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “And I don't seem to be wearing very much to speak of.”

“Ah—” he flushed, and couldn't look at her for a moment. “When I was very young, I had a book of tales, and that's the sort of thing the Fairies in it wore. Of course—” he continued thoughtfully “—they also looked like ten-year-old children. Which you don't.”

“Especially not in
that
,” she said dryly, and he flushed again. “Apparently we're having the same dream.”

“Does that mean something?” he asked, and ran his fingers through his hair, nervously. “Is it significant?”

“I wish I could tell you.” She turned her gaze back to the fire. “What I can tell you is that I—like you, in the dreams and out of them. Very much. I didn't, before, but you're a rather different fellow now than you were when I turned you into an ass. I wouldn't do that now.”

That made him laugh, which pleased her. “And if you were to meet me now, what sort of animal would you turn me into?”

“I wouldn't,” she replied, and turned back to look at him again. “Because you would treat the poor old woman well.”