jet-black hair impeccably styled in its severe downward bob, her eyebrows tweezed into constant shock.
“. . . Please don’t patronize me,” her two-toned red-and-violet lips snapped as she impatiently waved for me to deposit her breakfast tray and vanish from sight. “That’s not an excuse. That’s a flimsy taradiddle, and you know it!”
I put down the tray, but I didn’t leave. Instead I poured her tea and cut her grapefruit sections into the way she preferred, thirty miniscule morsels she could consume while talking. That I dipped each one into a clear pool of sweet agave syrup was a secret I alone knew.
Her Majesty switched ears, and I handed her a tiny grapefruit sliver on a cocktail fork. She took it without thinking. “All right. I’ll tolerate your pathetic explanation, but it had better be satisfactory.”
I fed her an almond on a silver spoon. She crunched and listened as I carefully patted the corner of her mouth with an authentic French doily. “Yes, well, that’s all very logical. Still, it doesn’t explain how he got away.” I fed her another nut, and she didn’t object.
“Tea?” I whispered.
She nodded, and I handed her a cup with a healthy dose of honey. Sipping and sighing, placated by subversive shots of sucrose, she finally collapsed into her high-backed chair in front of the wall of flickering monitors.
“I apologize for becoming agitated,” she was saying. “But I insist on finding out why we lost those screen shots. We had a full moon. The trolls were on his tail. We had ideal conditions last night for catching him in the act!”
The hairs on my arms rose. Was she talking about my prince?
I busied myself by sorting through her mail from Friday, removing anything that might be displeasing, while I hung on her every word.
“As soon as Robert gets in Monday morning, tell him I want to see if we can do a digital restoration. We have to at least try. Only Fairyland’s entire future is at stake!” With that she slid the phone to Off and tossed it onto her desk blotter, pounding her fist into the armrest of her chair. Even Tinker Bell, snoozing on her pillow, gave a tiny yip of alarm.
I remained silent until she finished her tea. When I heard the clatter of the cup on its saucer, I stacked the mail and chirped brightly, “I don’t know what you did with your hair this morning, ma’am, but it’s even more perfect than usual.”
She went, “Hmph.”
“No, really. Look.” And I brought over her Magic Mirror, so she could see for herself.
“It must be the new rinse I’ve been using. The one with deadly nightshade.” The Queen fingered a few strands. Then, abruptly standing, she said, “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, Zoe. It’s no use. We have a huge problem on our hands that’s not going to be solved with tea and compliments. Hurry now and get my makeup. The princesses are waiting to be weighed.”
I fetched her compact—Alabaster Plaster—and proceeded to powder her nose. “It’s Sunday, ma’am. We don’t do weigh-ins on Sunday.”
“We do now that Adele has gained three pounds.” Sufficiently deathly pale, she ferreted out her lipstick. “Don’t argue with me, Zoe. You know how I despise truculence.”
Did I ever. After applying a fresh coat of Baneberry Red to her lips, I collected the weight charts, found a new pen, and hurried after the Queen, her robes flowing behind her as she proceeded down the hallway to the elevator to Our World, where three of the second-shift princesses were waiting while Valerie, the gorgeous Sleeping Beauty, was in Wardrobe getting made up.
In their underwear, Snow White, Rapunzel, and Cinderella jumped to attention when we burst through the doors. “All right, ladies. I hope you’ve been working out and drinking your water.” The Queen uncovered the doctor’s scale. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that violation of Rule Number Seven is a deal breaker.”
Rule #7: Princesses will not gain or lose more than three pounds from the recorded weight at their audition.
Adele, a Cinderella, swallowed hard while Laura, a Snow White, who was as pale as a china doll with hair the color of licorice, stepped onto the scale. She had nothing to worry about, even though she didn’t get much exercise lying around all afternoon in a glass coffin. I wrote down her weight: 119.
“Do you know what Rule Number Twenty-Two is, Zoe?” the Queen asked as I charted Laura’s weight on the