“But . . . you know what I am.”
“Yes, I do know.” She stroked her hand down the side of his face and met his eyes. “You’re my angel.”
He gave a disgusted laugh. “No chance of that.”
“Then, what are you?”
“I’m a ...” He stopped and stared off into the distance, his head spinning. What was he exactly? He’d almost said he was a vampire, but he’d been acting weird - like a mortal — ever since his encounter with Grace the night before. Until then, his world had been narrow and constricted, the rules clear. He drank blood. His master controlled him. He died when the sun came up. Now, nothing made sense. She’d changed him with her voice, her very being. But what did that mean? Changed him how? “It’s impossible, but I don’t know any more. I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”
“There’s a legend,” she said, drawing his attention back to her.
He frowned. “A legend? About what?”
She smiled and snuggled closer. “Sound healing has existed for millennia. For most of that time it was also used to raise the dead - to restore the spark of life. Or so the story goes. History tells of an actual sound ceremony used to reclaim the souls of people possessed by demons.”
“You’re kidding, right? That’s impossible.” He laughed and leaned back so he could see her face. “But, on the other hand, I’ve said the word ‘impossible’ more times than I ever have before, and I haven’t been right yet.”
She nodded. “Something is only impossible until we know better.”
Wait. Did she just say something about raising the dead and being possessed by demons? What’s she trying to tell me? How could she know?
“So, what’s that legend got to do with me? What are you saying?”
She gazed at him, her eyes soft and compassionate. “When I sang with you, I became a part of you. I sensed your mind — your soul. And now you’re different - more. A mystical transformation occurred. But you had to desire the change before it could happen. You literally intended yourself into a new existence.”
He shook his head. “That sounds crazy, Grace. That’s imposs—”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “Impossible? Apparently not. And I was never afraid of you because I’ve been waiting for you.”
“What?”
She grinned, then put on Roz’s fake gypsy-fortune-teller accent. “You see, there’s an ancient prediction, passed down by the gypsy women in my friend’s family. It is foretold that I will meet an extraordinary man who will be reborn, and together we will do the impossible.” She pressed her lips to his. “I think we’ve already begun.”
“Yes, I guess that’s possible. Tell me more about that extraordinary man ...”
The Princess and the Peas
Alyssa Day
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a princess in a tiny kingdom known as Elvania. The kingdom’s exact location is long lost in the mists of time; some say it became part of France, while others claim it for Switzerland. The Swiss claim has more merit, perhaps, as the precedent of impartial and wintry-cold neutrality has sometimes been a guiding tenet of that people. All agree that the princess claimed a lovely view of the waters of what is now called Lake Geneva from her turret bedroom.
Not that she cared much for views. Or lakes. Or anything at all, in fact, other than her single-minded, unswerving quest for the perfect husband.
This is her story. (Except where it isn’t.)
“Lucinda!” The dulcet shrieks of Her-Royal-Pain-In-The-Nether-Regions rang through Lucy’s skull like a trumpet blown by a particularly incompetent musician. She shot up out of her narrow bed, clutching the threadbare quilt to her chest, blinking stupidly, wondering what was on fire.
With any luck, she was. She being Princess Margarita Glori-ana Dolores Tresor Montague. “Glory” to her friends - not that she had any. Lady, mistress and personal hell to Lucinda since the two of them had been ten years old.
When the cry didn’t repeat itself, Lucy closed her eyes and started to sink back into her lumpy mattress, hoping that it had been a nightmare. Maybe she could fall back into that inexplicably tingly dream, although it was curious that Ian, his dark eyes flashing, had been riding his horse through the main hall, coming to get her. Since when did she dream of Ian?
More to the point, since when did any dream leave her feeling quite so ... breathless?
She repressed that line of enquiry and opened a single eye. The glimmers of pink light edging through her narrow window told her that it could be no more than an hour since the princess had finally (finally!) pronounced herself pleased enough with the preparations so that Lucy could crawl off to her room - the tiny chamber adjacent to Glory’s own - and catch at least a few short hours of sleep before the guests arrived.
More stinking royalty.
If Lucy lived through the week, it would be a miracle. Why couldn’t she be a cook or a scullery maid or even a laundress? Surely slaving away in the hot kitchens or over the clothes boiling away in the pots must be a stroll in the gardens compared to dancing attendance on the spoiled brat of a princess.