Being freed from the Sidhe was a mixed blessing for Princess Helena. On the one hand, an evil magical being no longer possessed her. On the other hand, she had to wear shoes.

 

She scowled at the pointed leather contraptions cramping her toes, as long as her forearm and curled at the tips. She was barely able to walk in them, let alone duck unwanted suitors by sprinting into the garden and climbing a tree.

 

Wincing, she hiked up layers of white cotton shift, stiff rainbow-colored petticoat, and orange silk overskirts to sit on a cushioned bench and turned to the polished silver mirror atop her dressing table. Her loose hair was tangled from this afternoon’s gallop. The sun had been warm, the breeze fresh, the air damp from last night’s rain. She had gone further and tarried longer than she should have.

 

“Brunhilda, will you please…”

 

Her voice trailed away when Gwyneth, a pinch-faced young woman whose freckles disguised her pockmarks, stood to attention instead of Brunhilda.

 

Helena bit her lip. Brunhilda was dead. Which made her sad. The elderly nursemaid may have turned out to be the evil servant of the Sidhe, but she had always coddled Helena. Let her run around barefoot. Never forced her to brush her hair. Fed her toads.

 

The princess grimaced. Her inner fairy’s unpleasant diet she would not miss.

 

“Shall I dress your hair, my lady?” Gwyneth wielded a gilded hairbrush of wild boar bristles.

 

Helena winced as her fingers went to her wind-snarled tangles. She forced a nod and sat rigidly on the padded, brocade bench. An hour ticked by on the mechanical wall clock. She bit the inside of her cheek at the sharpest tugs as her servant worked out every last knot, then pulled her long, straight black hair into sweeping loops before dusting it with nutmeg-scented powder. Headache pounded in her scalp as the last lock was fastened in place.

 

Reflected in the mirror, her sister, Moira, stood in the doorway to Helena’s bedchamber, arms crossed and rosebud mouth pulled downward. Her golden curls were smooth as silk, neatly arranged beneath a lace cap. “You’re so lucky.”

 

Helena rolled her eyes.

 

“You get to dress up and attend the feast and dancing while I’m stuck in the nursery. I’m not a child.” Despite being on the cusp of womanhood, Moira’s pout belied her claim to adulthood.

 

Hairdo complete, Gwyneth stepped back, hands folded, and Helena got to her feet and shook out her skirts.

 

Moira’s blue eyes grew round. “You’re not wearing that dress, are you?”

 

Helena looked down at her orange silk gown. Her favorite with red and purple flowers embroidered on the lace overskirt. Were the sleeves too puffed or the bodice too ruffled? If she wasn’t allowed to climb trees, surely ruffles were okay? “Yes?”

 

“You are dining with Prince Meliant! Your future husband.”

 

Helena made a face, then wiped it away before her sister noticed.

 

Moira’s nose wrinkled in distaste as she eyed the gown.

 

Would the prince disapprove? Meliant’s father’s kingdom bordered theirs, with access to a busy harbor. Father depended on her to forge an alliance through wedlock. A marriage possible now she was no longer a changeling.

 

So nearly had the Sidhe’s plan to control her, and through her, the kingdom to which she was heir, succeeded. If that witch had not crossed paths with Brunhilda in the marketplace, or followed the disguised fae servant to a secret meeting with her Sidhe master, Helena would have been forever lost to their control. No one would have questioned her decrees once she was monarch as no one had questioned Helena’s odd behavior since infancy. The Sidhe hidden inside her would have fully possessed her mind, no trace of humanity left.

 

Her sister’s voice turned breathy. “The prince is so gallant. A true knight.” She clasped her hands in front of her pale blue overskirt, swaying slightly from side to side. “Did you see him ride up, his armor shining silver, painted with gold roses, his hair gleaming brighter gold?”

 

He had a poor seat on a horse. That lovely gelding he rode had a beaten-down appearance, tail limp. And there was no need for him to tug so sharply on the reins biting into his horse’s tender mouth.

 

Helena bit back a sharp comment. She was a true princess now, a human princess. Once she shook off the last of the evil fae influence clouding her perception, she would see Prince Meliant as her sister did. Tomorrow, she and her sister would giggle about him trying to steal kisses under the trellis in the rose garden.

 

A shudder merged with an urge to laugh, imagining standing in a perfumed evening, face lifted, eyes closed, waiting for Meliant to stop talking about himself long enough to kiss her.

 

Moira flapped her hands. “Let’s make sure you’re presentable.”

 

Gritting her teeth at her pinched toes, Helena turned one way and another for Moira’s inspection, arms out. Her sister tugged here and there, straightening and smoothing with perhaps unnecessary force. She gave an extra-hard yank on the bodice ruffles as if she would tear them off but it was too late to lace into a different gown.

 

Moira gave one last tug. “Good enough.”

 

Helena stared into the mirror. Her black hair shone in the candlelight, smooth and powdered, a few curled strands framing her rouged cheeks. Kohl lined her lashes. Rose water sweetened the lingering scent of sweat beneath swaddling layers of silk and cotton. For once, she resembled her graceful sister. Her shoulders straightened.

 

The maid waited, hands folded in front of her apron. Helena had shared Brunhilda’s contempt for the skittish maidservant and other humans in general. Without the Sidhe’s will overpowering her thoughts, Helena saw a young woman whose work-worn hands had just wrought a miracle with the princess’s appearance.

 

“Thank you, Gwyneth.”

 

The maid ducked her head as the skin beneath her freckles darkened. “My pleasure, my lady.”

 

“Yes, adequate effort.” Moira brushed the maid aside. Her brow furrowed at Helena. “You’re too tall.”

 

Helena’s shoulders drooped.

 

“No, don’t slouch. Just squat a bit.”

 

Helena crouched beneath her concealing layers of skirt. Her legs and thighs protested. She tried to step forward with bent knees. “I can’t walk like this.”

 

Moira’s lips pursed. “Not like that, you can’t. You look like a frog.”

 

Frogs were jittery in your hands, cool but not slimy. Their feet tickled your fingers while they stared with their great big eyes.

 

Helena mentally shook her head. Princesses shivered at the sight of frogs. Or screamed.

 

“Go.” Moira shooed her sister out.

 

Straightening her legs but keeping her shoulders down, Helena shuffled toward the corridor.

 

Gwyneth bobbed a curtsey as Helena passed with a tiny wave.

 

In the hallway, the extended point of Helena’s shoe caught on a carpet and nearly sent her tumbling. She caught herself and kept walking, ignoring giggles from a pair of servants hurrying the other direction.

 

I’m a princess. I’m free. I’m happy. I’m finally myself.

 

Despite the refrain, her steps slowed the closer she got to the ballroom.

 

Her heart dropped into her stomach as she paused on the threshold. Yellow and blue cloth banners covered every bit of stone wall. Baskets of flowers stood in each corner and scented blooms decorated tables lining three sides of the wide room. Candles blazed from chandeliers and floor stands, their light dancing on tiny plumes of smoke. A dozen lords and ladies mingled in the broad open space in the middle with several dozen servants darting in and out of the crowd carrying pitchers of wine and silver trays of sweets. All eyes fixed on her when the herald announced her.

 

“Princess Helena Eleanor Celestina Elizabeth de Honorus.”

 

From where her father sat at the head table, he turned slowly in her direction, then did a double take.

 

Prince Meliant looked up from his place next to her father. His eyes widened. He stood and came near enough to offer his hand. A ruby-studded circlet sat perfectly straight on his powdered, golden hair. A matching ruby cloak pin the size of her knuckle held a navy velvet cape around his broad shoulders. He swept her a graceful bow and held out his hand.

 

Several young ladies sighed.

 

Helena reminded herself to be pleased with his charming smile and foppish clothes.

 

She grasped his fingers, then eased her grip at his grimace. He led her to their elaborately carved chairs beside the king. Once they settled on purple velvet cushions, servants began bringing platters of venison, mutton, rich gravy, sweet stewed fruit, and spiced wine. A platter bearing a wild boar with an apple in its mouth, its skin browned to crackling, was presented to her father before being carved.

 

Helena’s mouth watered. The Sidhe may prefer wriggling frogs but appreciation for roasted meat and spicy gravy had supplanted any lingering desire for raw amphibians.

 

As they ate, Meliant described that afternoon’s hunting exploits.

 

She took long gulps from her wine cup to swallow the sharp comments on the tip of her tongue.

 

Three endless hours later with stomach uncomfortably full and brain pleasantly fuzzy, she interrupted Meliant’s monologue by loudly exclaiming, “Oh, good, jugglers.”

 

Three women and three men in glittery costumes somersaulted into the open area between the tables, expressions exaggerated beneath heavy face paint. Two tossed gaily-painted balls back and forth, two tossed gleaming silver rings, one held a burning firebrand between his teeth, and one balanced four swords on his palm. When they finished with a dizzying series of tosses, catches, and leaps, she jumped to her feet, clapping.

 

Laughing, she turned to Meliant. “That was fantastic.”

 

“Yes.” He slapped his hands together slowly, a faint smile on his face.

 

She sat down again, tucking her hands beneath the folds of her overskirt. Princesses do not laugh and jump.

 

After the jugglers left, a string quartet began a measured tune.

 

Meliant stood and offered her his hand. “Shall we dance?”

 

Her stomach flipped. Dancing while possessed by an evil fairy controlling your movements and distracting your thoughts had been impossible. Since then, she had been afraid to try.

 

She swallowed jittery nerves fluttering her chest and tried to still her trembling as she put her hand in the prince’s.

 

He swept her toward the dance area.

 

Sweat trickled down her back as they pushed through the press of guests and servants. Heavy scents of rosewater and jasmine veiled the musky odor of bodies encased in layers of velvet. Her heavy meal gurgled in her stomach. She regretted the last goblet of wine.

 

Thank goodness a servant had opened the double doors that led from ballroom to garden and an evening breeze freshened the thick air.

 

The prince bowed to her. She curtsied in return, furiously counting along with the tune’s rhythm.

 

Meliant stepped left at the same time as she. They bumped.

 

“Sorry.” She hurriedly took two steps right.

 

His charming smile faltered, but he continued the dance without missing a beat.

 

Once or twice his lips tightened, but they made it to the end without bumping again. By the time the final notes shivered on the air, several couples had joined them on the floor, moving in sync. It was easier once she could follow the other ladies’ steps but after another song ended the prince bowed and suggested they refresh themselves. Relief mingled with disappointment. She had begun to enjoy swaying in time with the music.

 

The moment they made it to the edge of the dance area, a pair of young women in soft yellow and pastel pink gowns, noticeably bare of ruffles, crowded close.

 

“You’re such a graceful dancer.” One fluttered her lashes at the prince.

 

“I was in awe of your elegance.” The other giggled and clasped her hands.

 

Meliant’s chest expanded. “I’m truly honored by the praise of two such beautiful damsels.”

 

Both giggled.

 

“I hear your mastery of dancing is only excelled by your hunting skill.” Lashes fluttered again.

 

The prince preened further and began repeating the tales Helena had heard at dinner.

 

A maidservant tapped Helena’s arm and offered a fresh goblet. She smiled gratefully and downed half.

 

Flattery was a vital social skill for a princess. She clenched her jaw and tried to appear similarly impressed whenever one of the young ladies oohed and aahed at the prince’s tale.

 

Meliant was on the story about the buck he had shot. He swept his velvet cloak back from his right shoulder and struck a pose as if shooting a bow. One of the young ladies tittered as she touched his narrow upper arm. The princess downed the rest of her wine.

 

Her shoes pinched her toes. The tinkling instruments were too soft to drown out the buzz of a dozen conversations surrounding her. The fragrant flowers were overpoweringly sweet. Her stomach gurgled.

 

From beyond the open doors at the other side of the room, an evening breeze cut aside the warm closeness of human bodies, leftover food, and wilting flowers. She ducked into the crowd, left her empty goblet on the nearest table, and scurried outside.

 

In the moonlit garden, she sat on a bench long enough to tug off her uncomfortable shoes. She wiggled her toes in the cool dirt, closing her eyes to listen to a chorus of frogs in the pond beyond a hedge. Then she got to her feet, gathered her skirts in one hand, and sprinted toward a copse of willows.

 

Her favorite climbing tree towered in the middle, with sturdy branches sprouting all along the trunk, almost to the ground. She tied up her skirts to hop from one branch to another until she was high enough to look across the palace grounds in all directions: from the rose-scented flower gardens she had crossed to hedge mazes to rows of almond and cherry trees in blossom. She nestled her back against the bark, pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around, and rested her chin on them.

 

Despite the peaceful croaking and nighttime scent of greenery, her heart grew heavy. Her behavior again failed to resemble a gracious princess. Would she never be truly free of Sidhe influence? Never be a proper human?

 

Tears thickened her throat. She blinked to clear her watery vision. She had disappointed her father. Her sister. Made herself a fool.

 

Yet how could she bear to go back inside? Gossip would have started the moment she disappeared from the crowd. That gossip had never rankled her when full of the Sidhe’s contempt for humans trapped in a mundane world with oversized bodies and tiny minds. Now—she sniffled—she was human enough to feel stung when ladies snickered behind their hands or gentlemen abruptly changed direction to avoid having to converse with their princess.

 

A swirl of songbirds fluttered from the hedgerow between the garden and the copse of willows. On the ground beneath her, a twig snapped beneath a heavy boot. Heart pounding, Helena peered between the leafy branches below her. Why had she left her shoes where they could be discovered?

 

She held her breath. Below her, someone came to a stop and looked up. Moonlight illuminated a crowned head of silver hair.

 

Her father tilted his face upward and squinted at her. “Helena?”

 

“Yes, Father?” Her voice was scratchy.

 

“Please climb down where I can see you.”

 

She focused on the prickly bark beneath her hands as she stepped from limb to limb. She stopped shoulder height from the ground and sat on the second-lowest branch, staring down at the bark clutched tightly in her shaking hands.

 

Her heart shriveled in her chest when her father sighed heavily.

 

“This was your mother’s favorite climbing tree.”

 

Helena’s jaw dropped. Her mother had been a queen. Queens didn’t climb trees.

 

She stared at her father. His eyes misted in the twilight as he reached out to lay a hand against the tree’s thick trunk.

 

Then the corners of his lips twitched. “She’d toss her head and give me some offhand lie about why her hands were dirty, her dress torn, and leaves caught in her hair as if I cared that she climbed trees.” His eyes closed. When he opened them, his teary grey eyes fastened on Helena. “You remind me so much of her.”

 

Helena managed to make her mouth work. “Me?” Her voice squeaked.

 

Surely pretty, genteel Moira more resembled their mother with her golden hair and rosebud mouth.

 

“Perhaps not in looks but in every other way, yes.” He caressed the rough bark. “You have her skill with horses, too. Many a time my heart nearly stopped in my chest at the speed she rode or the jumps she made.” He looked up at Helena. “Prince Meliant is a fool.”

 

Her breath backed up in her chest. Other humans thought him a braggart? “Moira thinks highly of him.”

 

“Your sister is young, inexperienced. Youth is its own kind of foolish.”

 

Helena twisted her fingers into a ripped shred of orange silk. “But Moira never tears her clothes climbing trees or gets twigs in her hair riding too fast.”

 

“Both of those turn my hair grey, I admit, but behaving unconventionally isn’t foolishness. Willingness to be yourself when you’re different, and stand up for yourself, is as admirable as it is difficult.”

 

She leaned back against the trunk. For so long, there had been a tug-of-war for control of herself, and she assumed any differences between her and most other ladies were because they had always been human. But maybe, she was human in a different way.

 

Watching her father carefully, she asked, “Is it okay if I don’t marry Meliant?”

 

His shoulders slumped. “Our kingdom needs access to that harbor, but I can negotiate other terms. Come down now. We must return to the ball.” The king raised his arms to her.

 

Ignoring his outstretched palms, she hopped from the branch, landing in a crouch on her bare feet and grinned.

 

He laughed, then smirked and pointed to her abandoned shoes lying on the ground beneath the tree. “I brought your slippers.”

 

Her nose wrinkled. She opened her mouth.

 

“Yes, you have to wear them.”

 

She closed her mouth.

 

He winked. “At least until you get to your chair.”

 

Smiling, she took his proffered arm. He plucked a leaf out of her hair and she shook out her skirts. The chorus of frogs sang them back through the garden toward the lights and music and chatter of the ballroom.

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