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Once upon a time, there was a witch.
Generally speaking, stories such as this one tend to start with a princess (for example, the crown princess of this particular tale—a sweet girl of sixteen with golden hair and a penchant for getting into trouble quite a lot bigger than she) or a knight (for example, the crown princess’s forbidden ladylove, with a scrappy determination to steal the place of Storybook Knight from the myriad of knights who longed for the crown princess’s hand) or even a king (for example, the love of the witch’s life—though he wasn’t quite a king at this story’s beginning), but this story begins with a witch, one not quite old enough to be a crone but not quite young enough to be a maiden. Aided by the fact that the bloom of youth had not yet faded from her cheeks, the witch had grown quite comfortable in this relatively grey area, enjoying a place of great renown as advisor to the revered queen, confidante of the young princesses and those in their social circle, and regular instigator of arguments when it came to the queen’s most trusted and most exasperating advisor.
Something else unusual about this witch: she was not at all wicked. In point of fact, she was quite well-known for her compassion—Jenny the Good Witch, they called her, though she quite roundly resented the moniker. “It’s pejorative,” she informed the aforementioned Most Trusted/Most Exasperating Advisor. “It makes me sound like some kind of fairy godmother. Do I look to you like a fairy godmother?”
“No,” said the queen’s favorite advisor. “Not at all.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
The queen’s favorite advisor gave her a very long-suffering look. “Jenny,” he said, “if you want to argue with me, at least have the decency to own up to it, rather than objecting to absolutely everything I say even when I give you the answer that you clearly want to hear.”
“And how do you know what I want to hear, Rupert?” said the witch rather snippily.
“You are the most damnably exasperating woman,” said the queen’s favorite advisor, and left the room. The witch followed him around the castle so that they could keep arguing for fifteen more minutes, at which point a pre-scheduled meeting with the queen began and they argued under their breaths through most of it. (Most of the conversations with the queen’s favorite advisor did end up going in this direction).
But the title was much more fitting than the witch was perhaps willing to admit: outside of her magical responsibilities, she spent most of her time aiding others. She was governess to the younger princess for a handful of months while the queen and the queen’s favorite advisor scrambled to find a replacement (there had been something of an Incident involving frogs stuffed into a pillowcase), and when it became clear that the younger princess was quite delighted with this arrangement, she took it upon herself to carve out time in her busy schedule to provide both of the girls counsel. (Separately, of course. The princesses did have a tendency to squabble.) She found herself the first to know of her magical apprentice’s shy affection for a sweet peasant girl from a particularly unpleasant family, and took it upon herself to whisk the girl away into the safety of the castle—much to the delight of her apprentice. She enchanted a protective amulet for the queen’s favorite advisor and slipped it into his pocket, and when he found it and lifted it up with a bemused expression, she said very loudly, “Wow, Willow, That Was Really Nice Of You To Do That For Rupert, Great Job,” and walked backwards out of the advising chamber until she very nearly fell down a flight of stairs. (She was a good witch, but she was not always a subtle one.)
Most in the witch’s situation would have something to say about thankless servitude, but what made this witch particularly magical was the genuine joy she derived from helping those she loved. She loved the whimsically troublesome crown princess, and they could often be found sitting in the muddy grass with their skirts a mess, gossiping about the queen’s favorite advisor. (The queen’s favorite advisor was Very Tired Of This.) She loved the younger princess, who was growing from a high-strung girl into a gracelessly affectionate maiden, and who had a tendency to cling excessively when it came to the adults in her life. She loved her apprentice, fiery in both coiffure and confidence under her tutelage, and she made it a point to leave her laboratory and take a long walk around the castle on the days that her apprentice’s ladylove brought lunch.
Crucially, she loved the queen. For a very long time, this was not a problem: the queen was fair, just, gentle, and above all, alive. This last factor, however, changed—tragically enough, the very day that the crown princess turned fifteen years old.
It was not a happy birthday.
“This is,” said the younger princess, “the worst birthday ever.”
“It isn’t even your birthday, Dawn, would you shut up?” said the crown princess, who had buried her face in the shoulder of the queen’s favorite advisor and did not seem to be moving any time soon. “She was getting better. She’d turned a corner. Giles,” she raised tearful eyes to the queen’s favorite advisor, “does this mean—does this mean I have to be queen?”
“Buffy, you are fifteen years old,” said the queen’s favorite advisor very firmly. “No one is asking you to be queen until you’re at least eighteen.” As the crown princess’s lower lip began to tremble, he added hastily, “Possibly twenty.” This did not seem to comfort the crown princess. “Thirty?”
“For the love of God, Rupert,” said the witch. “You know she doesn’t want to be queen. How is this helping?”
It was perhaps emblematic of how serious this situation really was that the queen’s favorite advisor did not take the bait. Looking seriously into the witch’s eyes in a way that definitely did not make her feel anything other than cool, professional friendliness, he said, “Jenny, the queen’s death has the potential to destabilize the entire nation. The amount of trust that our country has in the ruling class means that whoever steps into the role of regent must be able to wield power responsibly, and I have my doubts when it comes to most Council members. Now—”
“Well, it’s going to be you, isn’t it?” said the witch, somewhat bemused.
The queen’s favorite advisor stumbled. “M-m-me?” he said, in a decidedly un-kingly sort of way.
“It kind of has to,” said the witch. “Hold on, I made a flowchart three years back.”
“You made a what?” said the queen’s favorite advisor, but the witch was already pulling the flowchart out of her bottomless bag. “Jenny, under what circumstances did you decide to—to make a comprehensive diagram about the transition of power in the event of the queen’s untimely death? Where did you even find the time?”
Even though the witch thought that this was a fairly reasonable question (the answer of course being that she thought it vital to prepare for every worst-case scenario, particularly in a country governed by a collection of ingratiating yes-men, a thankfully sensible queen, and the only two advisors with a lick of common sense), she couldn’t resist the opportunity to say, coyly, “A magician never reveals her secrets, Rupert. You should know that.”
“My mom is dead,” said the crown princess very loudly. “Can you two stop your weird pseudo-flirting for two seconds?”
The queen’s favorite advisor looked like he wanted to curl up and die. The witch, who was the most professional and competent witch in the whole world, said, “Ghwhah?” before hastily and wordlessly gesturing to the part of the flowchart that read Queen -> Queen’s Most Senior Advisor.
“But I can’t—I don’t want to be king,” said the queen’s favorite (and, as it happened, most senior) advisor. “I hardly think—that is, the amount of responsibility, of—Jenny, I rather think you’d be better suited for the position, with—with your flowcharts, and, and your tenacious refusal to ever admit defeat. You’re a far more capable and confident ruler than I. The kingdom needs someone like you at the helm.”
“Please,” said the witch. “I get appointed queen and everyone’s going to be whispering about nepotism. No one can argue that you’re being picked because you’re the queen’s favorite—”
“I am the queen’s favorite,” said the queen’s favorite advisor. “Were one writing a historical novel about this affair, I could easily be referred to as the queen’s favorite advisor.”
“Don’t be stupid, Rupert,” said the witch, rolling her eyes. “No one’s gonna call you that.”
“I think the King sounds better, actually,” said the witch’s apprentice shyly, giving the queen’s favorite advisor an encouraging little nudge with her shoulder. “Don’t you, Xander?”
“What?” said the blacksmith’s apprentice, looking somewhat terrified at being dragged into political discussions. “Uh, that’s—but Jenny the Good Witch as queen, you know, I think that could—”
“Thank you,” said the queen’s favorite advisor. “Jenny would make an excellent queen. Look at her, she’s positively regal a-a-and planning and—”
“Rupert,” said the witch, leaning down over the queen’s favorite advisor, tucking her thumb under his chin, and tilting his face up to hers. (His eyes dilated.) “One could easily argue that the hallmark of a good leader is one who fully understands how heavy a crown-wearing head is gonna be.”
“The saying, Jenny, is heavy is the head who—” Off a look from the witch, the queen’s favorite advisor let out a resigned breath. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. It’s not as if I’ve the capacity to say no to you anyway.”
And so the queen’s favorite advisor was crowned king.
It was then that the witch began to realize something troubling: she was no longer content. At first she attributed it to the tragic loss of the queen, looking significantly towards the misery that permeated even the new king’s coronation, the young princesses dressed all in black—but time passed, the awful pain of the queen’s death dulling into a quiet ache, and the witch was not content. She turned, then, to the fact that her apprentice was now a witch in her own right, moving out of the castle to start a school for young witches with her ladylove—but she visited her former apprentice every Sunday, sometimes every Sunday and every Monday, and the witch was not content. She thought it could be a sort of sympathy for the crown princess’s persistent dissatisfaction with the many, many, many marriage proposals from princes only interested in her beauty and her dowry—but the crown princess was learning to laugh again, thanks to a newcomer to the castle with dark hair, a wicked smile, and a determination to prove to the world that the new king allowing maidens to fight as knights was exactly what she’d always been made for.
The new king, the witch realized with a jolt, one cloudy, moonlit night in the summer of the crown princess’s seventeenth year. That’s the problem.
The witch and the king had made a mutual decision not long after his coronation: she would need to step down as advisor, focusing instead on her magical responsibilities. Both of them were incredibly aware that their dynamic would no longer work if they were no longer on equal footing with each other. “You can’t afford to antagonize your ruler when there’s an audience,” the king had said, “and I’m certainly not interested in exercising my power to stop your tongue,” which had made the witch’s heart flutter nearly out of her chest and very nearly stop her tongue anyway.
To some degree, it could have been a choice. The witch could have been a respectfully subservient advisor, presenting her arguments as suggestions and allowing the king to accept or refuse them without complaint. Yet the king had refused to even entertain the notion of enforcing the witch’s subservience, despite her having given him the power to do so—choosing instead to all but banish her from his most intimate chambers. Allowing her freedom, even as it meant the loss of her dearest friend.
The witch was not content. The witch was not even close to content. For fifteen years, she had worked side by side with her very favorite person, and only in his absence had she realized how dearly and truly she missed him. Though she was still very much in the king’s inner circle, almost all of his time and energy was poured into maintaining the country—as it should be, of course, but she hated it, and she hated herself for hating it. This was the best possible scenario. So what if she only got to see him during fetes and feasts and two-second chance meetings in the castle halls? So what if she was usually sitting at the far end of the great banquet table, with him miles away? He was—unsurprisingly—a spectacular ruler, and the kingdom was flourishing thanks to his careful and compassionate attention, and the witch was doing some really cool stuff with magnets anyway, so it was completely fine.
But that night, moonlight streaming through the windows, the witch realized with a small and painful jolt that it wasn’t fine. It wasn’t fine at all. Because as she had watched the king work with diligence and compassion to serve his people, never once abusing the power he had been given, taking great pains to create freedom and happiness for every single citizen of their fine and noble kingdom—the witch, who loved nothing better than those who helped others, had fallen very deeply in love with the king’s selfless devotion to his duty and his country.
“You can cut that sentence off a little earlier than that, you moron,” said the witch, pressing her hands to her eyes. “You’ve really just fallen in love with the king.”
Powerless was not a word that the witch would have ever applied to herself. Certainly there were witches more skilled when it came to channeling magic, but the witch made up for her lack of aptitude in spades with her wealth of knowledge, finding a thousand and one inventive little workarounds to supplement her limited power and serve the kingdom more effectively than any naturally gifted witch ever could. It was a kind of power valued highly by the country—built not on innate magical talent, but on intelligence and diligence—and it had allowed the witch to unearth wonders of magic through years and years of dedicated study. There was absolutely nothing under the sun that was out of her grasp.
If the witch so chose, she could have easily enchanted the king—drawn up a love potion, whispered an incantation, done something to make her the sole occupant of his heart—but the notion of corrupting the selfless chivalry that motivated the king was abhorrent to her. Any version of the king willing to throw over the country and the princesses for her was not the man she loved. The thought of revealing her own feelings to him was horrific; she couldn’t imagine a world where the king, now elevated to a position of great renown, would turn away from the dozens upon dozens of swooning noblewomen who all but flocked to him at every available gala. Though the kingdom would pass to the crown princess on her twentieth birthday, the king was still an absolute catch: a hero on the battlefield, an advocate for even the smallest provincial town, and—at least in the witch’s opinion—devastatingly handsome in an authoritative-yet-approachable-patriarch kind of way.
As things stood, though, the king was king, and after nearly three years of idyllic prosperity under his rule, his influence over the country was absolute. Any noblewoman with half a brain would fall at his feet and beg for his hand (at least in the witch’s opinion), and as of late, it seemed as though even half a brain wasn’t required when it came to pursuing the king. Every other duchess and countess seemed convinced that she would be the one to win the king’s heart, sway his hand, and get him to push the crown princess into abdication, securing her own position as the permanent queen of the kingdom.
The witch wasn’t too worried about that. Anyone stupid enough to think that the king would hold onto his power at the expense of the girl he’d raised from infancy would hardly be intelligent enough to actually catch the king’s attention. She’d known the king long enough to piece together the kind of woman he’d be looking for, if ever he was looking—someone a mixture of incisive and playful, who caught his attention by pretending she wasn’t looking for it. Someone who matched him, step for step. No empty-headed countess was going to be able to do that.
But the fact remained that the king would have to marry—and soon, before his time as king came to an end. At this current moment, he was the most eligible bachelor on the market, with every country scrambling to marry their daughter off to the man they assumed would inevitably usurp the throne. No one who had seen the king’s dedication to guiding the country forward would ever guess that he had every intention of stepping back as soon as the crown princess asked him to do so—meaning, of course, that quite a few diplomatic arrangements could be reached through a strategic political marriage. Certainly the king wouldn’t be hot marriage material when he wasn’t king, but while he was, any country would offer up pretty much anything along with a princess’s hand in marriage to get him and his positively saintly reputation aligned with their government.
The witch had drawn up a lot of flowcharts. It was very upsetting that she didn’t have anyone to show them to.
As the years dragged on, however, it became abundantly clear to the witch that the king did not have any intention of marrying as a political maneuver. Snippets of conversation between frustrated advisors planted the seeds of suspicion, but it was an offhanded remark from the crown princess that finally solidified her theory. “Giles is so much to deal with lately,” the crown princess complained, flopping resentfully down onto the library rug in a puff of pink satin skirt. “Do you have any idea who his ladylove is?”
The witch spilled hot coffee on her hands. Whispering a healing incantation through her teeth, she took a moment to collect herself, then said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Buffy.”
“Oh my god, do you?” The crown princess stared up at her with a bewilderingly mischievous smile. “I bet you do! He’s been talking about her a lot, you know. Nobody compares.”
“That’s—” Hastily running through the list of noblewomen that the king had seen in the last handful of weeks, the witch’s stomach turned. Absolutely all of the king’s callers as of late had been fortune-seeking sycophants. “Has he…been seeing her a lot lately?”
“You could say that,” said the crown princess coyly. “She basically lives in the castle.”
Someone who visited often. That wasn’t good either. Most of the princesses who would make a politically advantageous partner only visited once or twice a year on a diplomatic mission. “Give me a little more to work with here,” said the witch, waving a half-healed hand and wincing a little. That enchantment hadn’t been one of her best. “Physical description?”
“Physical—” The crown princess gave the witch a flat look. “God, you’re just as dumb as he is about this,” she said. “Okay. Um, dark hair, dark eyes, crazy about Giles? Ringing any bells?”
There were at least five dark-haired coquettes of high renown that came to the witch’s mind. Absolutely all of them were hell-bent on kicking the crown princess out of her own castle. “Oh, this is bad,” said the witch. “This is so bad. Buffy, has he—has he said anything to her? Has he done anything to make her think she’s got a chance with him?”
Slow and disbelieving, the crown princess said, “I mean, she’s kinda the stupidest person I’ve ever met, so I get the sense she’s missed a lot of his signals.”
“Okay. Okay. That’s good. That means we have time. Is there—is he planning to ask for her hand?”
“Jenny?!?” said the crown princess, waving her hands and staring incredulously at the witch. “Are you even listening to yourself? Or to me?”
“Buffy, I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, but I think you’re gonna need to be a little more direct than that,” said the witch flatly.
“Um, clearly,” said the crown princess, “and I would really like to be, but Giles made me promise that I wouldn’t tell anyone he’s in love, and you are pretty much the last person I should be talking to about this.”
That wasn’t good either. That meant that the king knew she would have Opinions about whoever it was he was enamored with—probably because she was some kind of fortune-seeking nightmare, and he was too taken in to want to hear a single argumentative word about her. “Buffy, just answer my question,” said the witch. “Is he planning to ask for her hand?”
“This was a bad idea,” said the crown princess. “This was a very bad idea. I think I should go somewhere else now.”
The witch caught the crown princess’s arm before she could skedaddle. “Buffy,” she said.
The crown princess’s puffy sleeves dropped as her shoulders slumped. With a sigh, she said, “He’s…going to propose to her at the next ball. Sent her a fancy invitation and everything.”
“Okay,” said the witch. “Okay. I can fix this. Do not tell Rupert that you told me anything, or he’s gonna change his plans and I cannot have that.”
“What do you mean, you can fix this?” said the crown princess warily. “You’re not gonna do something insane again, are you?”
“Goodbye, Buffy,” said the witch, pushing the crown princess out of the library and shutting the door behind her.
Her heart was pounding. Her eyes were stinging. God, she’d been so stupid. Nearly three years of the most beautiful women in the world practically throwing themselves at him, and she’d expected him to stay rational and reasonable the whole time? Whoever had managed to bewitch the king couldn’t possibly be doing it for the right reasons, not if she was silly enough to miss the fact that he was head over heels in love with her. Something had to be done to keep him from ruining his chances for a politically advantageous marriage.
Half a decade ago, were they in this situation, the witch would have simply stuck to the king’s side like glue, ruining absolutely every chance for the intimate solitude that a proper proposal needed. But if what the crown princess said was true, the king would likely be trying to actively avoid the witch all through the ball, because whoever it was that he wanted to propose to was someone that he knew she wouldn’t approve of.
If the witch attended this ball, she would be—well—powerless. Powerless in the face of the king’s undying passion for someone that was not her. And obviously she didn’t care about that, not even slightly, just—she wanted to make sure that the king was making a politically responsible decision! That was it! That was all! Maybe it would be nice to ruin some other lady’s chances, particularly some other lady who wouldn’t have looked twice at the queen’s favorite advisor—particularly when the witch hadn’t taken her eyes off of the queen’s favorite advisor for a second, and couldn’t take her eyes off of the king either.
But her primary motives were for the sake of the kingdom and the crown princess, and no one could argue with that.
(The witch was not blushing.)
So the witch couldn’t attend this ball. That was clear. Her unique position would make it impossible for her to apprehend the king, who was frustratingly good at avoiding her when he wanted to. If there was some way to make it impossible for him to avoid her, impossible for him to ignore her, impossible for him to slip away and propose to some simpering sycophant who just wanted to grab the throne for herself—
And then it hit her.
“This is,” said the witch, “the best idea I have ever had.”
“This is,” said the witch’s former apprentice, “the worst idea you have ever had.”
“Willow, I am asking you to support me right now in my time of need,” said the witch. “You can do the incantation, right? This kind of a glamour is well above my pay grade.”
“I can mostly do the incantation,” said the witch’s former apprentice, squinting warily at the text. “My power isn’t strong enough for a long-lasting illusion spell either. I can keep it up till midnight, but at the very last strike of twelve, you’re going to start turning back, so—”
“Rupert’s an old man who usually only stays at these things till ten PM anyway,” said the witch, waving a dismissive hand. “We’ll be fine. All I have to do is keep him busy and distracted until the party starts winding down. Buffy said he’s in love with someone with dark hair, right?”
The witch’s former apprentice slowly shut the book and gave the witch a look that very clearly said you are the stupidest person I have ever met.
“I don’t need you getting uppity with me,” said the witch indignantly. “I am aware that this isn’t the best plan in the world, but it’s all I have under short notice, and it’ll help me collect more information about the lady he’s really interested in so that I can figure out how to get her out of the castle.” These last few words were said through her teeth. “So if you would please—”
“Okay, Jenny, god!” said the witch’s former apprentice, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Just—what do you want to look like?”
“Um…” The last thing the witch wanted was to look anything like herself. “Red hair,” she said, eyes landing on her former apprentice’s shoulder-length tresses. “…Grey eyes. Full figure, and at least three inches taller than I am right now.”
The witch’s former apprentice nodded, eyes darting down to the book as she began to read.
The change came on quickly. The witch felt it first in her head, then in her eyes, then in her mouth, then—a cascade of glitter obscured her vision, and when it cleared, she was looking at a stunningly beautiful stranger in the mirror. This woman, whoever she was, made the ladies of the court look like gargoyles.
“I pulled out all the stops,” said the witch’s former apprentice significantly. “You’re the loveliest lady that magic can make.”
The witch wasn’t sure how to feel about this. She’d thought that she’d enjoy the disguise, but the thought of the king looking at some mysteriously gorgeous noblewoman with desire in his eyes made her stomach hurt—particularly when she had never gotten to experience that look directed at Jenny the Good Witch. This isn’t about you, she reminded herself. This is to protect king and country. This is a public service. You’re doing a public service. Get your head in the damn game.
“One more thing,” said the witch’s former apprentice, and raised her hand towards the sky, tugging something free from the heavens and in through the open window. A beautiful golden dress flew into the witch’s arms, shimmering like sunlight on a summer day. “No one will be able to take their eyes off of you,” said the witch’s former apprentice. “You’ll shine like the sun.”
“Thanks, Willow,” said the witch very softly.
The witch’s former apprentice—who, in all honesty, was by this point quite the witch herself—inclined her head and smiled a little sadly. “You’re not that hard to see, Jenny,” she said. “You still hold yourself exactly the same way. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that he’ll be able to recognize you.”
“It’s been years,” said the witch, “and he’s been busy, and I’ve been busy, and—and he’s not gonna be looking for me at that ball, anyway.”
The witch’s former apprentice looked, then, to the gorgeous scroll lying unopened on the witch’s desk. Quietly, she said, “He did send you an invitation.”
The witch cast a spell of her own fifteen minutes before her entrance: a simple whisper. Princess Imogen is coming. The gossips picked it up first, turning towards the nearest person to ask with urgent curiosity exactly who Princess Imogen could possibly be, and exactly what she was doing at a summer ball that no foreign royalty would have any interest in coming to anyway. The noblewomen, who had dressed in their finest gowns to catch the eye of the king, demanded in low whispers behind their fans that their servants hunt down any information about this Princess Imogen—particularly, whether she was all that lovely to look at. Those in the king’s inner circle exchanged some very tired looks, and the crown princess in particular looked almost guilty when the king turned bemused eyes towards her. “Princess Imogen,” he repeated to himself, a furrow to his brow. “Well. I only hope that my greeting her won’t delay tonight’s plans.”
The crown princess groaned miserably and buried her face in her best friend’s shoulder. Her best friend, who also happened to be the witch’s former apprentice, was beginning to look a little worried herself.
“Is Jenny coming?” said the king, nervous color rising to his cheeks. “I did send her a handwritten invitation—”
“OH WOW OH NO I THINK THE MUSICIANS NEED SOME HELP OVER THERE,” said the crown princess, and booked it. Almost all of the king’s inner circle followed suit.
By the time Princess Imogen did arrive, the ball was abuzz with curiosity, to the point where an anticipatory hush fell through the hall when the trumpets announced her entrance. She was not preceded by any delegation; she entered alone, head held high, so beautiful that it was almost painful to look at her for too long. Even the most vicious gossips had fallen silent, all but entranced by this mystery princess who held herself like a queen.
The king was staring with the rest, eyes wide. He had gone very, very still.
Princess Imogen moved through the crowd with ease, the party all but stumbling to get out of her way. No one in the room doubted that this regal, magical woman was the only one suited to marry the king, to the point where some of the noblewomen were beginning to feel rather foolish in their ridiculous and ostentatious ballgowns. The Princess’s ballgown was simple and beautiful—bright and warm as the summer sun—and her loose red hair fell down her back, a thousand times more lovely than any of the jewels and flowers adorning the noblewomen’s coiffures.
“Your Majesty,” said Princess Imogen, and curtsied.
Too spellbound by the Princess’s beauty, nearly everyone in the room missed the fact that Princess Imogen’s curtsy was absolutely horrible, a decade behind the times, and looked a bit like the sort of thing an out-of-society witch would think looked elegant and graceful after practicing it in front of the mirror once or twice. One person did not miss this at all.
“Say something,” hissed the crown princess through her teeth, elbowing the king in the ribs.
“Oof,” said the king, color rising to his cheeks, and stumbled forward into a bow of his own. “A-ah—Your, Your Highness. Might I ask what—” He seemed positively flabbergasted. “What—what,” he finally settled on, and bowed again.
“Does your Highness inquire what brings me to your court?” asked Princess Imogen smoothly.
“Yes,” said the king, waving a weak hand. He didn’t seem able to stop staring at Princess Imogen. “That.”
Princess Imogen stepped forward, extending her hand to the king. The king took it. “Only a dance,” said Princess Imogen. “Or two. If your Highness isn’t otherwise occupied.”
“I—” said the king, and that was when the musicians started to play.
Taking the musical cue, the rest of the party-goers partnered off themselves, leaving Princess Imogen and the king in a sort of stasis in the very middle of the ballroom. “Is your Highness otherwise occupied?” said Princess Imogen, arching an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine any of these people holding a candle to a foreign princess with unknown intentions.”
As they began to dance, the king said slowly, “That’s—not exactly a very kind thing to say, you know, your Highness. Station isn’t what I look for in a dance partner.”
“Station is what you should look for in a dance partner,” said Princess Imogen, letting the king twirl her and smiling prettily as her skirt billowed out. “You’re the most-sought-after bachelor in all the land, you know, your Highness, and a marriage with a well-to-do princess could easily fortify your country for years to come.”
“Is that what this is about?” said the king, an incredulous laugh in his voice. “Well—Princess, if that’s what I’m to call you tonight, I rather think that it’s hardly your place to criticize my methods when it comes to seeking a partner. I hardly make it a secret that I have no intention to remain king after the crown princess comes of age.”
“But you’re king now,” Princess Imogen countered. “You could marry now.”
“And for what? A diplomatic alliance that will surely fall apart the second I’m no longer on the throne?” The king’s fingers grazed the small of Princess Imogen’s back. Princess Imogen absolutely did not shiver, even a little bit. “If I’m to marry, Princess, it will be only for love.”
Despite herself, Princess Imogen felt a soft flutter of warmth. This was the closest she had been to the king in years. “For a principled ruler with a reputation of selfless service,” she said, “you are a surprisingly selfish idealist. There are quite a lot of ways to structure a marriage contract and ensnare a country sufficiently enough that an alliance is not dependent on your continuing as king.”
“That’s thoroughly duplicitous,” said the king, meeting her eyes quite seriously, “and I am too deeply in love with another to even consider the notion.”
Princess Imogen’s step faltered. The king’s steadying hand on her waist was the only thing that kept her from falling to the floor entirely. “In love with another,” she echoed. “And what would your beloved think of you dancing with a foreign princess?”
The king seemed to seriously consider the question. “Now, that’s a riddle,” he finally said. “Say you were my beloved, Princess. What would you think?”
Haughtily, Princess Imogen said, “I should be exceedingly jealous and never give you the time of day again.”
The king’s mouth twitched. “You are impossible,” he said.
“Any woman to whom you have promised your heart would be jealous to see you dancing with another woman,” countered Princess Imogen. “I’m hardly coming to this situation with a unique perspective.”
“Riddle me this, then,” said the king, twirling Princess Imogen again. “If I have not yet truly confessed my feelings to the woman I love, would she then have any right to be jealous? She doesn’t know with any certainty that my heart belongs to her and only her—how can she know that it’s her I’m thinking of, even as I dance with you?”
This was not a fun dance at all. “What does she have, then, that I don’t?” said Princess Imogen hotly.
“Nothing at all,” said the king easily. “One might argue that you have quite a bit more than she usually does.”
“Clearly I do,” said Princess Imogen. “I am a beautiful princess.”
“Do you always bewitch men by behaving like a belligerent child when one expresses he isn’t interested in being won?” said the king, a teasing smile playing across his face. “I do hate to disappoint you, Princess, but that sort of thing doesn’t at all work on me. Wouldn’t you like to hear more about the woman I love?”
And then Princess Imogen heard it: the first strike of twelve. “God fucking damn it,” she whispered under her breath, and pulled her hand free of the king’s, darting away through the crowd before he had fully realized what had happened. She thought she heard him call her name—couldn’t have heard him call it, though, because she had almost heard a Jenny, and all he knew was Imogen of incredible beauty and presumed wealth. She was halfway out of the ballroom when she saw pinpricks of glitter in her peripheral vision, and all the way out of the ballroom when the change took place, only barely managing to transfigure the summer-sun dress and hide herself behind a suit of armor as the king tumbled out into the hallway. It had been a close shave, but—
“Jenny, for God’s sake,” said the king, staring incredulously at her. “You do know there’s a party going on inside, don’t you? Don’t hide behind the antiques, you’ll knock one over again.”
“Don’t patronize me,” the witch shot back, cheeks burning. “Don’t you have a whole bunch of noblewomen just aching to dance with you? I’d hate to disappoint them.” And without waiting for his answer, she’d already clambered out from behind the suit of armor and hurried down the hall. She refused to let him see her cry.
“You transfigured the dress?” said the witch’s former apprentice.
“…Can you fix it?” said the witch.
“Can I—Jenny, I brought that dress down from the sky,” said the witch’s former apprentice disbelievingly. “There’s literally no other dress like it. I can fix it, sure, but it’s going to take at least a few months, possibly longer—and what do you need it for, anyway? Didn’t you find out what you needed to?”
The witch wasn’t sure if she had.
She hadn’t been certain what to expect when the king talked of his ladylove. Some part of her had expected for him to be fatuous and foolish in his affection, enough so that it would easily be swayed from one pretty young thing to another—and the notion of Princess Imogen’s magnificence not swaying the king suggested something even more terrifying. Whoever it was that the king loved, he really loved her—not just a passing fancy based on a fluttery, flirty courtier, but a deep, honest love. There was no way that the witch could compete with that.
“Jenny?”
Not that the witch wanted to compete with that. The witch was very obviously doing a public service.
“Jenny—”
And even if the witch did want to compete with that, Princess Imogen—for whatever reason—wasn’t the king’s type. Heir to a kingdom, so beautiful that she’d literally brought the ball to a grinding halt, witty and wise and able to keep up with him on the dance floor, and she wasn’t the king’s type. What the hell was the witch supposed to do with that?
“Jenny!” said the witch’s former apprentice very loudly. The witch knocked over a stack of spellbooks. “Look, I—I can fix the dress, but I don’t see why you’ll need it if—”
“I need to go to the garden fête as Imogen,” said the witch.
“The—the garden fête?” The witch’s former apprentice looked positively bewildered. “But Giles sent Jenny the Good Witch an invitation to the fête! You don’t need to go as Imogen! Why would you—”
“All I learned is that he’s really in love with his lady,” said the witch, hugging her elbows. “Whoever she is.”
Softly, the witch’s former apprentice said, “Jenny…”
“And that’s not enough to figure out how to stop him from proposing to her,” said the witch, “or—” Her throat seized up. She pressed on. “Or if I even need to stop him from proposing to her. Maybe I could be wrong, you know? Maybe there’s really something about this lady that makes her special, whoever she is.”
“Buffy promised Giles to keep her lips zipped, but I didn’t,” said the witch’s former apprentice under her breath. A little more loudly, she said, “Listen, Jenny, you should know—”
“I just want to find out for myself,” said the witch, cutting her former apprentice off. “So—Willow, don’t tell me who she is, okay? I don’t—” The thought of the king, some mystery woman’s hands clasped in his, him smiling the way he’d smiled at Princess Imogen—that warm, unwavering love in his eyes just at the memory of the woman he’d given his heart to—it hurt almost too much to bear. “I don’t know if I can take it,” she said, in a tiny, thready voice.
The witch’s former apprentice was chewing on her lip, looking a mixture of worried and sad. “…I can help you for as long as you need,” she said, “but I really think that this is something you should actually talk to Giles about.”
“I don’t want to talk to Rupert about it,” said the witch, color rising to her cheeks. “It’s bad enough hearing him wax poetry about this lady when I’m Imogen, I—I don’t know if I could take it as Jenny.”
“Well, you didn’t hear him say that much about her, did you?” said the witch’s former apprentice with a small frown. “Or you wouldn’t be putting on the whole Imogen thing again.” Off of the witch’s look, she let out a sheepish breath. “Um. Not my point. Look, I’ve said my piece, I think you should talk to Giles, you can do your own thing from here on out, but…” She trailed off, looking almost plaintively towards the witch. “The way I see it, all you’re doing is prolonging the inevitable. You need to be able to let him make his own decisions about who he wants to marry.”
“So you’re saying you want him to marry someone well below his station?” said the witch hotly. “He could have any princess from any country, and you’re saying that he should be setting his cap at some nobody from our court who doesn’t bring a thing to the match? He deserves—” Her heart was pounding. “He deserves the most beautiful princess, the most expensive dowry, the most advantageous match for our country—”
Quietly, the witch’s former apprentice said, “And what makes you think that that’s what he’s looking for?”
“Absolutely no one that he’s looking towards sees him,” said the witch, her voice shaking. “All of them just see a chess piece in their stupid political games. None of them care about the man he was before he was a king, and—and if he has to marry one of them, I think it should at least be someone who can give him and his kingdom a substantial financial reward. To—” She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. “To fucking make up for the fact that all they want from him is a king. To pay for it.”
“Goddess, I can’t do this,” said the witch’s former apprentice abruptly. “Jenny, you’re in love with him.”
The witch froze.
“If I’m going to help you,” said the witch’s former apprentice, “I need you to at least be honest with me about that, okay? You’re in love with him. That’s not—”
“Willow, can you make me a fucking dress or not?” demanded the witch, tears springing to her eyes. There were pinpricks of pain in her palms; it felt as though she might have broken the skin.
After a long moment, the witch’s former apprentice turned towards the window, reaching up towards the setting sun. Carefully, she tugged free a silvery-blue dress that shone like the moon through the clouds on the night that the witch realized where her heart lay. “I’ve always thought that the moon feels a little bit more wistful than the sun,” she said, quiet and thoughtful. “I used to sit with the moon on those nights before I knew that Tara—” A small smile stole across her face. “Well. The moon’s a good companion for a situation like yours, Jenny, and you’ll glow like moonlight in that garden.”
The witch ran her thumb along the delicately embroidered bodice. It felt like a twilight breeze.
“Stroke of midnight,” her former apprentice reminded her. “Keep an eye on the time if you want to keep the whole Imogen thing going.”
The twilight fête was in full swing by the time Princess Imogen arrived. The crown princess and her friends were clustered cheerfully around the food, completely ignoring (and, in the case of the crown princess’s friends, artfully blocking) any attempts made by noblemen to make any conversation or even contact with either of the young princesses. The king, as ever, was positively swamped by adoring noblewomen, but when a hush fell over the party, they parted with anxious shame to clear a path and give the Princess exactly what she’d come to their party for.
Really, thought Princess Imogen, moving neatly through the gaping crowds to curtsy to the king, it was as though they’d never seen a magically beautiful woman in a one-of-a-kind heavenly gown before. “Your Majesty,” she said, giving the king a perfect smile. “Forgive me for my most indecorous exit when last we met.”
The king was continuing to stare at her, brow furrowed.
“Is all not forgiven?” asked Princess Imogen, brow arched. “Shall I have to pay obeisance again?”
“No—no, ah, Princess, only—” After a long moment, the king finally said, “It’s simply that I wasn’t expecting to see you like this again.”
“As opposed to?”
The king hesitated. Then he said, “Your Highness, a-am I right in assuming that your presence is an intentional deterrent of sorts?”
“Gwhuh?” said Princess Imogen. It took her a moment to collect herself, during which she attempted to disguise her outburst in a coughing fit. “Apologies,” she managed. “Only—what—what?”
“It’s no secret among the courtiers that I’m quite deeply in love with a woman well below my station,” said the king, meeting her eyes with startling uncertainty, “and you seem rather dedicated to making it quite difficult for me to steal away and finally make my feelings known to her. I can’t help but wonder if you’re—opposed—to the notion of my loving her.”
“We hardly know each other—” Princess Imogen’s heart was pounding.
“Yet you show up at the very ball I’d planned to ask for my dear heart’s hand in marriage,” the king countered, “and given your high station, it would look appallingly rude if I simply ignored you upon your arrival.”
“I am a princess from a foreign country—”
“From where, exactly?” said the king.
Princess Imogen had not actually thought about this one. Casting about, her eyes landed on one of the noblewomen (dressed, appallingly enough, in what seemed to be a garish attempt at replicating her own sun-bright dress from the last ball), and she stammered, “Sun—Sunny—” before settling on, “Sunny…Dale.”
“Sunnydale?” said the king.
“Sunnydale,” said Princess Imogen very decisively. “I am the Princess of Sunnydale.”
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that country,” said the king conversationally. “Might you tell me a bit more about it?”
Hotly, Princess Imogen said, “You, sir, are dodging the question—” but was cut off when the music began to play, and the king extended a hand. Arching an eyebrow, she said, “You do know that you’ve greeted me more than sufficiently, don’t you? I should think that you would jump at the opportunity to foist me off on some noble and weave your way through the crowd to whichever painted lady over there is yours.”
The king’s hand dropped. There was a very strange expression on his face. “My lady,” he said, “don’t you know?”
“Know what?” said Princess Imogen, glaring furiously at him. “I should think it very clear that I don’t know who your lady is—and incidentally, given that we two have only met twice, I find it quite hard to believe that it might be me. Kindly restrict yourself to Your Highness, or Princess—I shall not hear myself referred to as yours when I know you aren’t mine.”
She was acutely aware of the fact that her mask was slipping. It was hard, all of a sudden, to maintain the image of that unruffled, impartial, high-society lady who was simply making idle conversation—hard especially because she knew him, knew him as hers and only hers, and for years and years she had assumed that they would always work side by side. And now he was a king, and she was a make-believe princess in a borrowed gown, and everything hurt so much that she was halfway to running out of the party all over again.
Softly, the king said, “Not a high-society soul in this ballroom holds a candle to my lady.”
That got Princess Imogen’s attention. “Are you saying—” Her eyes darted towards the nobles, doing a rapid head count. Absolutely every eligible fortune-seeker was present. “She’s not here?”
The king did not answer this question—only extended his hand again. “I won’t call you my lady again, Princess Imogen, because you are quite right to assert that you are not her,” he said. “My lady is not a princess, and to be entirely honest, I don’t think I’m the sort who would know how to love a princess. But I would like to share a dance with you—a full one. Uninterrupted.”
Princess Imogen took the king’s hand. There was a strange, acrid feeling in her chest. “You really are in love with her,” she said, letting him lead her to the dance floor. “I suppose—” It took her a moment to organize her jumbled thoughts into a believable half-truth. “I’ve heard gossip in the castle,” she said. “It’s much of why I came here. An all-powerful king like yourself smitten with a woman well below his station—one can’t help but worry that he’s picked the sort of fortune-hunting flatterer who won’t suit him as a wife when he inevitably abdicates the throne.” She hesitated. “I know I come off as rather—cold and unusual,” she said, “but much of it is simply just that I worry you’ll find yourself with a wife who only loves you for the power she thinks you will provide. I’ve heard so many of these noblewomen talking about how easy it would be to sway you into taking the throne, and I-I…” She swallowed, hardly able to look at him. “I know you well enough to know that you are much too noble a man to ever do that,” she said. “Much too loving a father to ever betray the girl you’ve watched grow up. The notion of you marrying a woman who doesn’t understand that is enough to tear me into pieces.”
Visibly stunned, the king murmured, “Princess, you speak with quite astounding confidence when it comes to quite intimate details regarding my life. Are you quite certain we’ve only met twice before?”
“Who is she?” asked Princess Imogen.
“No one among my courtiers,” said the king. “No one among my advisors. Twice I have invited her to my ballroom; twice she has turned down my invitation.”
Princess Imogen stared at him. “She turned you down?” she repeated. “Who in the world has the audacity to turn down a king’s personal invitation without being one of the nobility?”
“Who indeed,” said the king. His mouth twitched.
Princess Imogen was beginning to feel a bit less like a princess and a bit more like a lovelorn and utterly miserable witch. “And you love her?” she said. “Even as she turns you away, you love her?”
“Princess, I have loved her since the very moment I met her,” said the king softly. “Long before I was crowned king.”
“But I—” Princess Imogen very narrowly stopped herself from finishing her sentence. I didn’t know you were in love. “She knew you when—when you were only the queen’s favorite advisor?”
“She did.”
“And she doesn’t love you?”
“You know, she makes it very hard to ascertain whether that is the case,” said the king somewhat wryly.
“So—” Princess Imogen was finding it very hard to speak. Or dance. Were it not for the king leading her, she felt suddenly very certain that she might just tip over and fall into one of the food tables, skirts and all. “You are in love,” she said, “with a woman who knew you—knows you—not as a king, but as a man.”
“Just so.”
“And you don’t know whether or not she returns those feelings.”
“I don’t,” said the king. His gloved thumb brushed quietly against her wrist.
“But you love her—” Oh, everything hurt. “Too terribly—to care about anything outside of making sure your love is known.” Her eyes stung. “You don’t need it returned. You just need it known.”
“Your Highness,” said the king, a note of anxious urgency to his voice. “We don’t need to dance, if you—”
“I’m fine,” said Princess Imogen, trying to twirl to make her point and very nearly knocking a nearby couple over.
Carefully, the king took Princess Imogen in his arms, just close enough to blur the line between a decorous waltz and a torrid embrace. Softly, he said, “Have you known that sort of love, my lady?”
That was the last goddamn straw. Yanking herself free from the king’s arms, Princess Imogen ran out of the garden, knocking people out of her way left and right. As the clock struck midnight, she was already halfway down the castle steps—and when she heard footsteps behind her, she took a running leap into the topiaries, all but throwing herself into the brambles. The lovely moon-glow dress was ruined.
“Princess?” called the king. “Princess—oh, for the love of God.” A pair of hands closed around her waist, pulling her out of the thicket, and Jenny only barely had time to transfigure the moon-glow dress before she was nose-to-nose with the king. “Jenny,” he said, very tiredly, “would you stop giving me the runaround?”
“I don’t see how I’m giving you the runaround,” said the witch, sticking her chin out and glaring at him.
“You—the—” The king stared incredulously at her. “How exactly do you intend to explain the fact that I saw you dive headfirst into a bramble bush?”
“It’s calisthenics,” said the witch.
“It—” The king threw his hands up, stepping back. “Is that all that you have to say?”
“Why would I have anything else to say?” Tears stinging her eyes, the witch stared down the king. “We haven’t talked,” she said, “actually talked, in years, because you wanted to give me my goddamn freedom, and in that time—or maybe even before it—you somehow managed to find the love of your fucking life.”
“Jenny—”
“No.” The witch held up a hand. “I had to hear from Buffy that you’re pining after some lower-class nut-job who won’t even attend a Royal Ball when she’s given a personal invitation, and I’m supposed to—what? Throw rice at the wedding? You’re the King, Rupert. If you’re going to get married, it should be to someone who loves you, not someone who’s a social climber or an antisocial shut-in. You deserve so much more than what you’re getting right now, a-and—” She couldn’t finish her sentence.
“Jenny,” said the king again, very softly. “Please, I-I’ve been wanting to talk to you for—for much too long, and—”
“I can’t do this,” said the witch, her voice breaking, and a wave of her hand transported her away from the topiaries and up into her chambers. Unable to hold her tears back any longer, she collapsed into a heap of sobs in the middle of her bed, burying her face in the pillow as her shoulders shook.
It just fucking hurt. All of it. Seeing the king trapped in a duty he’d only ever taken on for the sake of the crown princess, seeing the way it prevented him from ever being seen as anything but a king, knowing that what he deserved was a woman of nobility and not some nobody witch with nothing to bring to the marriage—and knowing, now, that he was in love in a way that didn’t waver. In love in a way that she didn’t seem able to talk him out of, whether she was Princess Imogen or Jenny the Good Witch.
Her former apprentice had been right. This wasn’t something that the witch could control, no matter how much she wanted to.
“You need to stop transfiguring Willow’s dresses,” said Tara.
Jenny, who was a bit too miserable to exist within the confines of a fairy tale, leaned heavily back against the wall of Willow and Tara’s room and didn’t say anything.
“She’s kinda just…been like this,” said Willow. “So has Giles. I don’t know what’s up, but I…I think they kind of had a fight? Sort of?”
“He keeps inviting me to his stupid balls and I’m not going,” said Jenny. “I don’t know why the hell he hasn’t just proposed to the love of his life, whoever she is, but he hasn’t, and I’m not going to a single ball until he is either happily engaged or thoroughly heartbroken. I can’t live like this.”
Willow hesitated. Then she said, “You know, um…my dresses haven’t been working out so great for you, a-and that’s why I kind of asked Tara for her help on this one.”
“I told you, Willow, I’m not going—”
Turning to the starlit sky, Tara reached neatly out the window and plucked a single star free. In her cupped hands, it blossomed out into a beautiful blue dress, the fabric shimmering with a thousand and one glowing circles.
“Oh,” said Jenny softly, heart in her throat. It was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen.
“You don’t have to go,” said Tara. A small, mischievous smile darted across her face. “But this is a ballgown, Jenny, and I can’t exactly give it to someone who isn’t planning on going to a ball.”
Unsteadily, Jenny said, “I’m not a princess, Tara. I don’t wear dresses like that.”
Willow and Tara exchanged a look. Quietly, Willow said, “Jenny, you’ve been talking a lot about how obvious it is that Giles is gonna be taken in by some dumb noblewoman who only wants him for his money, but, um, I kinda have trouble believing that someone as smart as you would fall super hard for a guy stupid enough to go for someone like the Widow Kendall.”
“No one’s gonna go for the Widow Kendall,” said Jenny sourly. “Her daughter is terrifying.”
“So not the point,” said Willow steadily. “What I’m trying to say here is…” She glanced hesitantly towards Tara.
“Are you sure this is really about all those ladies?” Tara finished gently. “Or is it maybe about you?”
The ache in Jenny’s chest was palpable. Eyes on the dress’s swirling, whirling stars, she said, “He could have any woman in the world.” She felt a hand on her shoulder and roughly shrugged it off. “Any woman,” she said again. “I’m fucking phenomenal, we all know that, but how do I compete with goddamn princesses? How do I measure up to noblewomen? And that’s all discounting the fact that he’s been in love with some mystery lady for a ridiculously long amount of time, to the point where he’s ready to marry her even as she completely ignores his summons. I—” A single tear fell onto the luminescent fabric. “I don’t know how I can possibly win him over now,” she said. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Another look passed between Willow and Tara. Then Willow said, “Start with Imogen.”
“…What?” Jenny looked bemusedly up at Willow. “You said the whole Imogen thing was stupid—”
“I think we’re kinda well past that point,” said Willow, pulling a face. “If it makes it easier for you to talk to Giles as Imogen, start there. Go to the masquerade next Tuesday and see what you can find out.” A small smile stole across her face. “Maybe he’ll be expecting you.”
The masquerade was in full swing by the time Princess Imogen arrived, her red hair bound up in a shimmering scarf and hidden from view. Her face was obscured by an ornate and gorgeous mask that she had plucked out of the sky (through some gentle coaching on the part of her former apprentice’s ladylove), but the dress was a dead giveaway: as ever, a hush filled the room when she swept down the ballroom steps.
On the other side of the ballroom, a masked man in a deep red coat stood up a little straighter, moving with great rapidity to greet Princess Imogen as she entered the party. Taking her hand and pressing it between both of his, he said, “Jenny,” with such earnestly ardent affection that it took the stunned Princess a moment to remember how to form words. “I’ve missed you at these parties,” the king continued, entirely oblivious to Princess Imogen’s predicament. “I was certain that you had to attend one at some point, but these last handful of weeks have been utterly torturous—”
“You forget yourself,” said Princess Imogen, her heart pounding so hard that it felt as though it might burst from overexertion. “I am Princess Imogen.”
The king raised his mask, his smile so sweetly bemused that Jenny could hardly breathe for loving him. “You’re clearly Jenny,” he said. “A bit taller, certainly, but I know you’ve a habit of wearing unnecessarily high heels to these affairs—and besides which, you’ve that set to your shoulders that you get when you’re particularly cross with me. I’d know you anywhere.”
Pointedly, Princess Imogen raised her own mask.
The king blinked, his smile slipping. “Ah,” he said. “Damn these bloody masquerades.”
“Am I truly not your preferred company?” said Princess Imogen, trying her very best to adopt the haughty, superior tones she’d heard used by the noble ladies of the court. “I am beautiful enough to hush the masses into complacency, crafty enough to steal a dance from you without even asking—”
“And all of that pales in comparison to Jenny,” said the king.
Princess Imogen felt as though she had been struck by lightning. A woman who wasn’t of the nobility, a woman who knew the king before he took the throne, a woman who had turned down every single one of the king’s invitations to dance— “Jenny,” she said. “Jenny hasn’t been at a single one of these balls.”
The king hesitated, eyes darting around. “Princess,” he said, “I must ask that we—continue this conversation in a more intimate location. Perhaps the gardens?”
Too overcome to answer, Princess Imogen made a strange little hand gesture that the king seemed to interpret as a yes.
“Perhaps the gardens,” the king repeated, and offered Princess Imogen his arm, tucking her limp hand into the crook of his elbow when she made no attempt to take it herself. Donning his mask, he gently led Princess Imogen out of the ballroom. “Lucky thing, this masquerade,” he said, a nervous laugh to his voice. “Not a soul in that room knows me well enough to recognize me with my mask on—outside of the children, of course, and they certainly won’t interrupt us. They’ve been pushing me towards this for weeks.”
“Towards me?” said Princess Imogen, her words coming out much higher and squeakier than she intended.
After a moment of consideration, the king said, “Towards a woman they believe more than worthy of taking her rightful place by my side.”
“So they do want you to marry a princess.”
“Oh, for—this is a conversation we are having when we get to the gardens, your Highness,” said the king exhaustedly, leading Princess Imogen down the garden steps. “Left—left—there,” he said with great relief, guiding Princess Imogen to a stone bench surrounded by rosebushes. Sitting down next to her—close enough that his knees pressed against hers even through the Princess’s full skirt—he took her hands in his. “Princess,” he said.
Princess Imogen did not trust herself to speak.
“I-I…think I will have to choose my words with precision,” said the king, lacing his fingers with hers, “seeing as you do have a tendency to dash off at a moment’s notice, and I should hate for my confession to inspire another of your flights. I…” He swallowed, eyes wet. “I only hope that you will hear me out,” he said, “even if my feelings are not quite what you think that they should be.”
Princess Imogen could not speak.
“I am in love,” said the king, “deeply and profoundly in love, with Jenny the Good Witch. I have been in love with her since the very moment I saw her, and over a decade has passed without that love wavering. She is…” A small, unsteady smile stole across his face. “Far, far beyond anything I could ever deserve,” he said, “and all of the wealth and power I can offer her seems a paltry offering in comparison to the boundless happiness she would surely bring me as my wife.”
Princess Imogen could not breathe. She felt as though she might be dreaming.
(Something glittered in her peripheral vision.)
“She is not a princess,” said the king. “I could never love a princess. I am not a king, your Highness, and she has never treated me like one. She is the one woman in the entire world who sees me as I am—a fallible, fatuous, foolish man who tries and tries to do what he can for those that he loves.” He swallowed, eyes wet. “Years ago, we agreed that we could not work together unless we were working as equals,” he said. “She assumed that I meant for her to step down as an advisor. Fool that I was, I was too afraid to admit that I wanted her—have always wanted her—to rule this kingdom at my side. To do me the incredible honor of giving me her hand in marriage.”
Emphatically, dizzily, Princess Imogen said, “I am so stupid.”
The king gave her a crooked little smile. He was opening his mouth to say something else when—
“Oh, no,” said Princess Imogen, her voice breaking, as she finally heard the very last strike of twelve.
She had been so diligent, the first two times—running away at the very first stroke, not wasting time with even a perfunctory excuse—but her state of emotional distraction had made it impossible to hear anything but the king saying I am in love with Jenny the Good Witch. Impossible to notice anything when everything had distilled to his fingers twined tenderly with hers, his sweet, earnest eyes, his steady, honest confession. The king was notoriously a tentative, nervous man when it came to matters of the heart; it said something particularly significant that admitting this love didn’t give him even a moment’s pause. That unwavering love she’d coveted had been hers all along.
Glitter overwhelmed her vision, and when it finally cleared, the hair that had spilled out of her shimmering scarf was pitch-dark. Horrified, the witch jerked her hands away from the king, trying in vain to hide her face—but his tight grip on her elbow, preventing her from running again, made it very clear that the damage had been done. “Rupert, I’m so sorry,” she said tearfully, entirely unable to raise her eyes to his. “I didn’t—this whole thing got so out of hand. I didn’t mean to—God, you must have so many questions right now, I don’t even know what you must think of me—”
“Jenny, why on earth are you apologizing?” said Rupert, sounding genuinely bewildered.
That got Jenny’s attention. Looking incredulously up at him, she said, “I pretended to be a foreign princess so that I could figure out who you were trying to marry and stop it from happening, and you’re asking why I’m apologizing? I tricked you into believing—”
A snort of laughter cut her off entirely. “Sorry,” said Rupert, pressing twitching lips together. Another giggle escaped. “Sorry. This—this is a very serious situation—” And with that, he collapsed into a paroxysm of giggles, pressing a hand to his mouth in a futile attempt to stifle his laughter.
Too strung-out and bewildered to even respond, Jenny kind of just stared.
“Tricked me,” Rupert wheezed, “as though—Jenny, you came directly into the ballroom, unaccompanied by any delegation, and did that dreadfully out-of-date curtsy that no princess in their right mind would ever so much as attempt in front of a king as renowned as myself. You forgot to magic away the beauty mark on your neck, you still dance like you’re five-foot-six when Princess Imogen has to be at least five-foot-nine, and you talk with your hands. How on earth did you think I wouldn’t know you straightaway? I’d know you with my eyes shut.”
“…What?” said Jenny. “But I—I was Imogen!”
“Ah, yes,” said Rupert, who was only barely managing to control his laughter. “A beautiful, regal, intelligent, impossible woman. Nothing at all like Jenny the Good Witch, I’m sure.”
“You—” Color rising to her cheeks, Jenny found herself torn between incredulity and an almost intoxicating happiness. “All that stuff you just said—you knew that you were saying it to me?”
Rupert went a bit pink. Sheepishly, he said, “I, I would have preferred not to propose to Princess Imogen, but Jenny the Good Witch has been rather impossible to get alone lately.”
“You said—” A lot of things were beginning to make sense very fast. “At the garden fête,” said Jenny weakly. “You said that I was making it quite difficult for you to ask your ladylove for her hand.”
“Well, you were,” said Rupert, giving her a that-should-be-obvious kind of look.
“You said that Princess Imogen has quite a bit more than I usually do.”
“Well, she does.” Rupert gestured to the dress, then about three inches above Jenny’s head. “Not that she needs it.”
“I hate you so much,” said Jenny, pressing her forehead into his shoulder.
Rupert laughed—a dizzy, positively exultant sound. She didn’t think she had ever heard him happier.
“You are awfully cocky for a guy who still doesn’t know how his ladylove feels about him,” said Jenny. “I mean, seriously. What the hell could you possibly take away from this? This is the most deranged thing I have ever done, and that’s counting the time I let Buffy convince me that Duke Theodore was an automaton with nefarious designs on our queen.”
“If I recall,” Rupert said, resting a light hand atop Jenny’s head, “Buffy was actually right about that whole affair.”
“So not the point right now!”
“Jenny, you gave me a tearfully impassioned speech about the sort of woman I deserve,” Rupert pointed out, “right after masquerading on multiple occasions as that very woman. I should have to be very dim-witted to misunderstand your intentions when they’re all but written in India ink on your forehead.”
Raising her head to meet Rupert’s eyes, Jenny saw that they were shining with affection. “You were looking at me,” she realized aloud, a warm, breathless joy suffusing her. “You were—you were talking to Imogen about the woman you loved—and you were looking at me like that.”
“I love you,” said Rupert. “After the positively bewildering events of the last month, I am quite solidly certain that you love me. And—if you’re amenable—no, not amenable—damn those children, they’re in my head. Buffy said I should just ask you to be my queen, but that really does seem a bit—”
No longer able to contain herself, Jenny surged forward and kissed him, tangling her hands in that excellent hair of his and luxuriating in the incomparable joy of being close to him again. The kiss was broken because they were both laughing, maybe crying, and she said, “I missed you!” and kissed him again. She was stupid, she thought blissfully. Really stupid. The fucking stupidest.
“Jenny, you never actually—mm—that is to say, you didn’t quite accept—” Rupert placed his hands on her shoulders, reluctantly pulling away. “Is that—are you—”
“Oh, I have a lot of arguments as to why marrying the castle witch is the political equivalent of shooting yourself in the foot,” said Jenny, “and I’m probably going to have to make them into some kind of a presentation tomorrow, because this is going to take some serious diplomatic maneuvers before it looks good for the kingdom, and I feel like you didn’t even consider any of that. We’re going to have to work this one out for months. Or, you know what, you plan the wedding and I handle the politics. I know you love a good party.”
“I really don’t,” said Rupert.
“You have been throwing balls every other week, Rupert, you’re telling me you don’t love a good party?”
“I have been throwing balls every other week to create a situation where it would be impossible for you to avoid me, and yet you seem to have managed that not once, not twice, but very nearly three times. If I have to plan another bloody party, I am going to be violently ill, and it is going to be your fault.” Jenny had burst into peals of dizzily delighted laughter. “Stop that. You have given me at least twenty grey hairs this last month, showing up as Imogen and making it impossible to carry on a conversation, let alone pledge my undying love—”
Still giggling, Jenny settled herself in Rupert’s arms again, pressing her cheek against his crushed-velvet waistcoat. His voice trailed off into a warm sigh as he drew her close, burying his face in her hair. “Princess Imogen,” she said softly. “I really thought it would work.”
“Quite honestly, I-I think it did,” Rupert murmured. “I hardly even noticed the woman you made up, Jenny. You shine too brightly to be contained by any fictitious fairytale.”
Jenny smiled and cuddled closer, the music from the ballroom drifting out into the garden as her love held her tight.
Once upon a time, there was a princess.
“Oh, no thanks,” said Buffy. “That is the problem with this whole situation. Absolutely everyone has been operating under the assumption that I intend to stay a princess and eventually become queen, even though Giles has been running this show since I was in diapers. Look, Giles, you’re about to marry the smartest, flow-chartiest lady in the entire kingdom, and quite honestly, the thought of Jenny not getting to be queen on a permanent basis is deeply upsetting to me.”
“Say what now?” said Jenny.
“I’m abdicating,” said Buffy.
“Ah, Buffy, technically speaking, you have to actually take the throne before you can abdicate,” Rupert interjected. Off of Jenny and Buffy’s looks, he winced, then added, “…which is not the point I was trying to make.” Composing himself, he tried again. “Buffy, this is—this is no small matter. You’d be giving up your birthright, your kingdom—”
“Except I kinda wouldn’t,” said Buffy, and gave him a small, soft smile. “Because the kingdom’s been in safe hands for a really long time now.”
“You have everything it takes to be queen,” Rupert persisted. “I-if this is anxiety stemming from a lack of faith—”
“Um, actually, kinda the opposite,” Buffy quipped.
Rupert stared blankly at her.
“This is courage,” clarified Buffy, “stemming from an excess of Faith.”
Faith, who had been trying to covertly disassemble an antique suit of armor, dropped the helmet in order to smile and wave at Rupert and Jenny. “Is this where I come in?” she said. At Buffy’s blushing nod, she helpfully supplied, “So, uh, hey, Majesty, how would you feel about me and your daughter eloping and having a whole bunch of adventures for the next coupla years? B’s never seen the Enchanted Forest—”
“The Enchanted Forest?” said Rupert, his voice going up an octave. “With the mountain trolls?”
“Easy, honey,” said Jenny, squeezing his shoulder. “You know Buffy’s a terror with a sword.” She considered. “And a mace. And a crossbow. God, she’s got a lot of weapons mastered.”
“I don’t want to be queen,” said Buffy, her determined smile wavering. “You and I both know that that’s not gonna change. And Giles, you and Jenny care so much about this kingdom. You love working together to help keep it running. I started believing in true love when I was ten and I saw you two have that intense argument about crop rotation in the southern provinces.”
“I was right,” said Jenny immediately.
“You were not right,” said Rupert. “You didn’t take the drought into account. How is that—”
“Ahem,” said Buffy, effectively silencing a sheepish Rupert and Jenny. (Faith snickered.) “My point is that…I’ll take the throne if you guys really don’t want to rule, but I think you need to know that I don’t want to be queen. I won’t be happy as queen. And it’s not a power grab if I’m giving you the power, Giles, so don’t even try to start with me about that.”
Slowly, Rupert turned to look at Jenny.
“What?” said Jenny, bemused.
“My lady,” said Rupert, and a smile stole across his face, “I expect you’ve drawn up some sort of a strategy when it comes to maneuvering our way through Buffy’s abdication without accusations of my usurping the throne? You’re never one to hesitate when it comes to complicated diagrams regarding the transition of power.”
“…You want to do this?” Jenny was staring to smile too.
“There is no woman on heaven or earth more suited to guide me, my love,” said Rupert tenderly.
“Oh, barf,” said Faith. “B, we got what we wanted, can we go before they start sucking face again? They always forget that other people are here.”
“Give me a minute,” said Buffy, who was watching Rupert and Jenny with starry eyes. “Ten-year-old Buffy is totally punching the air right now.”
Jenny the Good Witch married King Rupert the Just on a breezy summer day, lavender woven into her dark braid. The noble ladies of the court, much to the new queen’s surprise, took the news that the king was marrying her with a sort of disgruntled acceptance, as though they’d been expecting such a thing for quite a long time. (“It’s not like he was subtle,” said her brand new stepdaughter. “Lady Halfrek once walked in on him practicing pick-up lines on an armoire.”) Not to anyone’s surprise, Jenny took to the role of queen like a fish to water—showing up to advisory meetings with a thousand complicated charts, neatly manipulating particularly obsequious advisors into agreeing with her rather than her husband, and driving the king positively insane by refusing to agree to anything now that she was on equal ground with him again.
“Really, Jenny,” he said, “you would think that a handful of years watching me run this kingdom would raise me at least a bit higher in your estimation. You act as though I can’t do a thing without you.”
“Can you?” said the queen coyly, pressing a playful kiss to his cheek.
“W-well—” The king fumbled, then said, “Not—as such, no—”
A genuine smile stole across the queen’s face and she hid her face in her husband’s shoulder. It took her a moment to raise her head again, and when she did, he was smiling like a man who held the heavens in his arms. “Like you said, right?” she said. “The most damnably exasperating woman.”
“Just so,” said the king softly. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”