Carabosse

by Delia Sherman

There were twelve fairies at the feast. Never

Thirteen. The day the queen gave birth, the king

Sent out twelve messengers on horses,

One to each of us, begging us

To bless her, name her, crown her with our favor.

So we came.

There was a banquet — well, there'd have to be,

With jewelled plates and cups, the usual fee

For fairy-godmothering. My sisters returned

The usual gifts: Beauty. Wit. A lovely voice.

Goodness (of course). Good taste (that was Martha,

Wincing at the jewelled cups, the queen's gown).

Grace. Patience. An ear for music. Dexterity

(To help her learn Princessly skills, as sewing

Dancing, playing the lute). Amiability.

Intelligence.

I meant to give her a long life.

I raised my wand and caught her eyes. They were

Gray and awake. Her cheeks were flushed with pink,

Her hair transparent down. She batted at

My wand and laughed. The court transfixed me

With expectant eyes — the king and queen,

My sisters, ladies, nobles, serving men,

Waiting for my gift. I considered

Her life, her marriage to a prince raised

Blind to the world behind the jewelled cups,

And said, "Sweet child, I give your life to you

To lead as you will, to go or stay, to use

My sisters' gifts, or let them be. Rule

In your own right, consortless and free.

If you choose."

The king raged; the queen wept; my sisters

Stood aghast. Not marry? The kiss of death,

A harsher curse than marriage to a frog,

Or kissing a hedgehog, or serving a witch, or even

Herding geese, since all these led to mating.

As a good fairy, I did what I could; I gave her

A hundred years' sleep, a hedge of briars, a spell

That would sort her suitors, test them for grace,

For patience, for wit and intelligence and good taste,

For amiability and a lovely voice.

A man who would be her mate,

Not her master.