44Chapter Two: Questionnaires, Princesses, and Other Such Headaches
Despite Internet, some royals remain rooted in tradition. So everyday I have to sort through the huge piles of requests, complaints, and questionnaires. I hope these people thank the wood nymphs for their precious parchments, but I doubt it.
The first questionnaire of the day was marbled, with a faint scent of musk lingering on it. It didn't look dangerous. Hesitantly, I picked it up.
The picture revealed the typical inbred good looks without any warts, pimples, or disfigurements. The pose was a pleasant one, with the young man looking down from a white stallion, his sword thrust upright into the clear blue sky. The prince's curly blonde hair fell to nicely shaped ears. Soft blue eyes were tinted with green. His chin was square and firm, with just a hint of a cleft.
Okay, so far so good – nothing too hideous (Beasts take forever to match with their true loves). I scanned the questionnaire.
Name.
Crown Prince Sebastian Alexander, son of King Jack XXI, descended from King Jack XX, who was descended from King Jack XIX, who was descended from . . .
Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather help me! Royals are so original.
Age.
Twenty-three. The best age don't you agree? Young enough to rule prolifically, productively, fruitfully, prosperously, abundantly, richly, ornately, . . .
I'm betting he ate a dictionary and decided to throw it up for pure spite. I skimmed to the next seven paragraphs. It was enough to know that the load of hogwash was just an inane as the first three sentences.
Describe yourself in three words or less.
Three words really cannot cover a prince such as myself. Perhaps you have been misled by the mediocre masses before me. It seems a shame, but that is royalty these days, not the true blood it once was . . .
The utter idiocy had gone on for thirty pages – and only at the end had he given me those three words. The bloody end! Not to mention the appalling spelling . . .
Oh? Those words.
Courageous.
Gorgeous.
Flawless. Can any other word possibly compare to my magnificence?
Oh yes, this prince was a keeper all right.
What are you looking for in a wife?
Good bloodlines, of course. I would hate to contaminate my heirs with blood any less than the best.
Lovely. Glad to hear your opinion, you elitist . . . can't say that word as it is forbidden in my contract.
. . . She must also be beautiful, graceful, well-mannered, soft-spoken, well cultured, well read, and enchanting. Not to mention, she must also be able to cook, clean, dance, sew, embroider, and tell stories . . .
Ten pages later . . .
. . . In short, she must be able to complement my perfection and prove an asset to my kingdom, and a suitable companion that I would not be ashamed to have draped on my arm.
Is all this humanly possible? And would you even want to marry someone so, so perfect?
What is your best characteristic and why?
My strength of course! I must be able to fight dragons, grapple with trolls, lift swords from stones, best ogres . . .
Another brainless prince, how . . . cliché.
What is your most memorable experience and what did you learn from it?
As a young prince, I was often troubled by a certain commoner who did not understand his rank. He seemed to think, I shudder to write this, we were friends. No matter how often I explained the differences of our stations he thought we could be 'playmates.' Ridiculous isn't it? So one day I agreed to be his 'friend' and agreed to play soldier with him. As we engaged in a mock swordfight, I noticed that a guard was approaching in the distance. I dropped my guard in an instance, throwing the commoner off balance, so he crashed into me. I, of course, had him beaten for touching my royal personage. His family left court in disgrace. I never saw him again. I learned from this that royalty is always above the commoner, and that the easiest way to get rid of someone . . .
I will not strangle my customers. I will not strangle my customers. I will not strangle my customers.
My fingers are twitching.
Angry for the commoner's sake and furious with the prince's indifference, I threw the questionnaire across the room, all seventy-five pages of it. Yes it was childish, and yes as a fairy godmother I am supposed to be above such pettiness. Sue me.
Notice who still has her job.
I put my head down on the mahogany desk, and fought a dawning headache. Now who annoyed me as much as this prince did? Eenie, meanie . . .
There was a knock on my cottage door, and I glanced up. The door screeched on its hinges, and a chaotic mass of golden hair, blue eyes, dark lashes, a trembling mouth, and a steady flow of tears came hurtling towards me. Perfect.
Prince Charming, please meet your One True Love.
"Good morning, Jeanette. It's been a while." . . . and entire twenty-one hours and fifteen minutes, in fact.
"Emy!" She wailed as she threw her arms around me. "Emy, I'm so old!"
"Jeanette. You are not old. And my name is Emmaline."
"I'm nineteen, Emy! I'm an old maid." The girl burst into heart-wrenching sobs again. I refrained from rolling my eyes.
Must there always be a crisis?
"It's Emmaline, Jeanette." I don't think she even heard me.
"Is there something wrong with me? Aren't I beautiful enough? Sabrina says my eyes are too close together. Is that true? Am I hideous?" At my dazed expression, she burst into fresh hysterics. "Oh, am I truly that ugly? Why aren't the suitors lining up at my door?"
. . . It's because you live in the freaking highest room of the tallest tower, which happens to be guarded by a dragon.
I give you kudos on originality, Princess.
"Jeanette, you're very beautiful. Your eyes are not too close together. Sabrina is an idiot. And I will find you the perfect prince. Just wait a little longer."
"You really think so?"
"Yes, Jeanette, I really do. You're gorgeous, you're young, and you're very wealthy from the diamond mines." And you have a silver spoon so long; you're going to whack something with it.
Personally, I felt for the dwarves. They had been the ones exploited after all.
Since everything I really wanted to know about this damsel in perpetual distress was already written out in hot pink marker on her questionnaire, I decided to leave her to her sobs.
I detest tears almost as much as I dislike the nickname.
I considered the prince's questionnaire to her. It was a perfect match. This particular male specimen was gorgeous, graceful, brave, snooty, and utterly idiotic. She was gorgeous, terrified, and utterly idiotic. What more was there to a match?
Oh yeah . . .
"Jeanette, dear, what do you think about commoners?"
"Commoners? Why should I bother to think about them?"
"But if you really had to what would say?"
"Nothing! Why would I even waste speech on such filth."
"If it was necessary to find you the perfect prince, what would you say?"
See I'm being nice. I would refuse to hook a fellow humanitarian up with such a snobby prince.
"Oh well, then I think they are disgusting, dirty creature. I don't see why we need to have them at all."
Because someone needs to pay the ridiculously high taxes that support your fashion accessories.
'So you don't mind a prince who is proud of taking advantage of a servant who just wanted to be his friend?"
"Oh I don't care about that, as long as he's handsome? Is he handsome? Oh please Emy, I couldn't bear to marry someone ugly."
"He's very handsome Jeanette."
"He's not one of those cursed princes, though, is he? I mean I know they turn all gorgeous in the end, but I couldn't bear to see them. I mean, my cousin kissed a frog prince once, but . . ."
I hate this generation.
Oh right, fairy godmothers aren't allowed to hate. We're good little angels that wave pixie dust and make everything better.
I only loathe this generation.
A/N: Sorry it's been such a long time! But I am back from hiatus . . so sit back, relax, and enjoy the edited version. (As always - if you are good with grammar, spelling, or any other editing, e-mail me)