Fairest of Them All Page 8

  The thing is, I don’t feel like I’m at death’s door. I don’t even feel like I’m on the verge of a one-hundred-year nap. I feel totally fine except for the fact that everything coming out of my mouth makes me sound like I’m about to tread the boards of the Globe Theatre in the seventeenth century.

  Maybe I imagined the whole thing. Or it was just a temporary affliction.

  Mozart follows me into my room, so I decide to use him as my test subject.

  “Thou art such a valorous dog.”

  Ugh! It’s for reals and it’s not temporary.

  I scratch behind Mozart’s ears. I wish I knew who I could ask about this. My parents would be the obvious choice, but obviously I can’t tell them because it would reveal that I’m a lying liar of a daughter who can’t be trusted, and I’ll be grounded for the rest of my natural life or until I go to college, whichever comes first—

  There’s a knock on my door. “Aria? Can I come in?”

  “Aye. Enter.”

  Mom comes in and sits on the bed. “How was your day?” she asks.

  “One hath seen better.”

  “Oh? Why is that? And what’s with the ‘hath’?”

  How can I explain any of this to my parents?

  There’s no way I can do it without being honest. And being honest means telling Mom that I lied, not just about where I was today, but about going to Chess Club instead of Couture Club and so many other things that it’s getting hard to keep track. It’s a good thing I’m not like Pinocchio. My nose would be so long by now I wouldn’t be able to fit in the elevator. I probably wouldn’t be able to take the bus even, or the subway. I’d have to walk everywhere. My nose would probably be an entire city block long by now. I’d have to hire people to carry it.

  I’m just going to have to come up with another lie.

  “I hath encountered Nina in the gardens of central New York, and the lady did convince me to act in the revels by the renown’d bard William Shakespeare. I must forswear normal speech for a se’nnight.”

  I was able to escape Dad because he started singing that song about the stray cats. But Mom isn’t so easily deflected. Her lips compress into a fine line, and her eyes narrow, and I can tell she’s not buying it.

  “So you’re telling me that Dad and I have to listen to you speaking like this for a week?”

  Is that what “a se’nnight” means? Oh! Maybe it’s Shakespeak for “seven nights.” Got it. Ugh, I hope whatever this is doesn’t last that long!

  “Aye,” I say, although I’m hoping in reality the answer is nay.

  Mom opens her mouth to say something, then apparently thinks the better of it and sighs instead.

  I notice, for the first time, how tired she looks. “How wast thy day?” I ask.

  “Busy,” she says. “Ever since Snow White Charming ran that front-page feature on Enchanted Soirées, we’ve been flooded with new inquiries. I knew her site got a lot of traffic, but the response has just blown me away.”

  “Yond’s most wondrous!” I exclaim.

  “Well, yes, it is,” Mom agrees. “But the downside is that I’m going to be run off my feet for the next few weeks,” she adds, stretching out her legs. “And my feet are already tired.”

  She’s wearing these ridiculous fuzzy slippers I bought her for her birthday. They’re white lambswool and have adorable little lambkin faces on the toes. I’d challenge you to find a less chic princess item of footwear on the planet Earth. But Mom loves them because they’re comfortable. “And they’re from you,” she always says, but she has to say that because she’s my mom.

  “I don’t want you to feel like I’m neglecting you, honey,” Mom says. “So let’s make sure we plan some Mom-and-Aria time, okay? Maybe we can go shopping next Saturday?”

  Yes! Next Saturday! “Nay! Prithee, not Saturday.”

  “Why? What’s up next Saturday?” Mom asks.

  Cue Lie Number . . . what is it now—18? Or 19? I’m going to hire an extra nose carrier.

  “I hath a tourney. A battle of chess.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. Well, we’ll figure something out.” She gets up and bends down to kiss me on the forehead. “Love you, Aria.”

  “I loveth thee, Mother.”

  Mom turns back when she gets to the door. “I’m happy you’re trying out for a play. Really, I am. You know I always want to support you in everything you do. But I have to admit, I can see this speaking-in-Shakespeare thing getting really old really fast.”

  Tell me about it, Mother. You think you’re sick of it?

  I have to figure out how it happened and how I can get back to normal.

  But first I have to figure out exactly how to figure that out.

  Mom and Dad have to go do their prince-and-princess thing at some big Enchanted Soirées charity fund-raiser on Sunday. I could go if I wanted to, but the last thing I feel like doing is hanging around with a lot of people I don’t know and having to make polite conversation in Shakespeak. It would make my head explode. Instead, I accept my grandparents’ invitation to meet them for brunch at Foppington’s Teacup.

  It’s crowded, as always, on a Sunday morning, but one benefit of being His Majesty Thibault Rex is that it gets you a table quickly. Like they say, “It’s good to be the king.”

  “I’m so glad you could join us, Aria,” Grandma Althea says after we’ve placed our order.

  “Aye, I’m joyous, too,” I say.

  Mom apparently called Grandma and told her about my latest “annoying teenage pretension,” as she called it. From what I overheard, she really called to complain about how it was driving her crazy.

  My grandparents ask me the usual questions about school, and I answer, but the whole time, I’m trying to summon up the courage to ask my grandfather something I’ve been wondering my whole life—and which I’m now starting to think might have something to do with my strange speech situation.

  I wait till the food arrives. My French toast is really delicious, fluffy inside and crispy on the outside. When I’ve had a few bites of sweet goodness to give me courage, I ask Grandpa the question I practiced: “Wherefore didn’t thee just buyeth an extra gold plate f’r Mother’s birth feast instead of not inviting the thirteenth wise mistress? ’Twouldn’t have cost thee much m’re and ’twould have saved a century’s w’rth o’ travails and tribulations.”

  Grandma chuckles and gazes at me with pride. “I told you she takes after my side of the family. The girl has brains, Thibault.”

  “And you’re still implying I don’t?” Grandpa says, putting down his fork.

  Uh-oh. Over a century later, it’s clear this is still a hot-button issue between my grandparents—and I just unwittingly pushed that button.

  “I told you to buy an extra gold plate and invite the woman, didn’t I?” Grandma says. “But noooooo. You had to be florin wise and denari foolish, didn’t you?” She turns to me. “King Stubborn. That should have been his name instead of Thibault.”

  “And you should have been Queen Nags-a-Lot I-Told-You-So,” Grandpa grumbles. “Listen, Aria, you have no idea how expensive it is to run a castle. Every year there’s something: A leaky roof needs fixing. Stonework needs pointing. Problems with the drawbridge. Repairs to the moat. And that’s before the soldiers and the household staff want raises.”

  “But it was just twenty florins,” Grandma says. “And look at all the trouble—”

  “Twenty florins here and twenty florins there—it all adds up!” Grandpa complains. “You have to learn financial responsibility, Aria. Don’t dip into your capital. It costs a lot of money to maintain a castle.”

  “That’s why we sold the old pile,” Grandma says. “An apartment is so much more manageable when you get to our age. Not as drafty, and one doesn’t need all the servants.”

  “Don’t speaketh so loud, Graund Dame, thou soundeth liketh a brazen-faced canker-blossom.”

  Uh-oh. I’m not sure what a brazen-faced canker-blossom is, but (a) I’m pretty sure it doesn
’t mean “a snob,” which is what I meant to say, and (b) my grandmother is NOT AMUSED.

  “I beg your pardon?” Grandma Althea snaps with the intimidating chill she often reserves for slow waiters and sales assistants. “A brazen-faced canker-blossom?”

  Grandpa Thibault is unable to stifle a snort, which earns him an icy glare from his queen.

  “Pray pardon me, good lady,” I mutter. I’d get out of my chair and bow, tugging my forelock, if I could be sure that no one would take a video and post it on the Internet, which I can’t, so I won’t. “I knowest not what I say. ’Twas erroneous to speak thusly.”

  Grandma thaws a little. “I can see why this speaking-like-your-character-twenty-four/seven method of preparation is driving poor Rose to distraction,” she says with a sniff. “Especially with all she’s got on her plate.”

  Way to make me feel super guilty, Grandma! Now I feel bad about lying to my parents and my grandparents, and the fact that because of that lie I’ve got this crazy speech thing that’s driving my mother crazy when she’s got so much going on with work.

  I debate whether or not to casually ask Grandpa and Grandma if they’ve ever heard of a speech affliction that makes you speak in Shakespearean English.

  Pros: If it has something to do with pricking my finger, then maybe they’ll know something about it, because they’re old and remember things from Once Upon a Time.

  Cons: If it has something to do with pricking my finger, they might get suspicious and wonder why I was around sharp objects, and then my cover will be blown before the first episode of Teen Couture even airs, and I’ll never know if I could have made it.

  Since searching the Internet has let me down, I decide asking them is a risk I have to take.

  “Grandsire, in times of old, didst thou hearest of a gent who didst suddenly have affliction of the tongues?”

  Grandpa Thibault strokes his beard thoughtfully.

  “Hmmm . . . why does that ring a bell, Althea?”

  “I don’t know, Tibby darling. It’s not ringing any bells in my head.”

  “It sounds to me like a spell of some kind,” Grandpa says. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  Grandma is busy stirring sugar into her tea. “I do wish they’d have lumps of sugar instead of these silly packets. So much more civilized.” Putting the spoon down on the saucer of her teacup, she agrees with Grandpa. “I think you’re right about the spell. Now I am starting to hear some faint bell tinkling in the old noggin. I can’t remember—was it one of the scullery maids or a kitchen maid who was afflicted? One day, every time the head cook asked her a question she would respond in rhyme. Cook boxed the poor girl in the ears many a time before we realized that it was an enchantment that was making her so contrary, not insubordination.”

  I don’t know what having your ears boxed actually means, but it sounds seriously painful. I feel sorry for that poor misunderstood maid.

  “So . . . how didst they cure that lady?” I ask.

  “I can’t remember,” Grandpa says. “It was Once Upon a Time.”

  Seriously? My grandfather goes on forever about Once Upon a Time and how much better everything was then. But now I need to know something of critical importance to my life, and he can’t remember the details?

  “I seem to recollect we summoned one of the wisewomen to reverse the spell,” Grandma Althea says. Her brow furrows. “Why the sudden interest, Aria dear?”

  Think fast, Aria. Also—lie.

  “Methinks should I have to use these words until the day I shuffle off this mortal coil, dear Mother wouldst go mad,” I say, which is totally the truth. “But ’tis not a plague that afflicts me. ’Tis a play.” That part’s totally a lie. Number 20, I think it was.

  “That’s a relief,” Grandpa says. “Because I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for a wisewoman in New York City.”

  Grandma winks at me, takes out her lipstick case, and starts reapplying her lipstick.

  “Why, the Internet of course, you old fool,” she says.

  I expect Grandpa to assert his kingly authority, but he smiles at Grandma with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Of course, Althea. How could I rule without you by my side?”

  All this old-folks mushiness is the signal for me to make my exit.

  I thank my grandparents for brunch, kiss them good-bye, and wish them “Adieu!”

  As soon as I get out of the restaurant, I send a text to Sophie: HELP! Can I come over? It’s a 911 but weird and mysterious.

  So this is good. My texts don’t come out in Shakespeak. If I can’t get cured by next Saturday, I wonder if I can get my personal-device assistant to speak for me.

  I ♥ weird and mysterious! Come right over! she replies.

  As I walk to Sophie’s apartment, I worry about how to tell her about my problem and ask for help. If I tell her I think I’m under a spell, will she think I’ve totally lost it? Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should have tried Nina and Dakota first.

  But Sophie is my BFF, and has been for as long as I can remember. She’s the one I’ve always trusted with my problems.

  Mrs. Solano greets me at the door.

  “Aria, what a nice surprise! Sophie didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “ ’Twasn’t planned but a mom’nt ago.”

  “Well, that’s an interesting way of putting that it was last minute,” Mrs. Solano says, nodding her head approvingly. “Very Shakespearean.”

  I just smile and head down the hallway to Sophie’s room, because I don’t want to have to lie if I don’t have to. When I open the bedroom door, Sophie’s wearing headphones and doing some pretty wild shimmying to a song only she can hear. Then she starts belting out the chorus to “I Ace My Life,” by the Whiz Girls, using her hairbrush as a microphone.

  When she leaps onto the bed, I start slow-clapping. She realizes I’m there and almost falls off.

  “Jeez, Aria, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  “Mine eyes hath feasteth on the dance.”

  “Say what?”

  Sophie has to help me find a cure. I’m sick of having to explain myself every time I open my mouth.

  “Thou wert dancing as the wind in a hurricane.”

  “I was rocking pretty hard, wasn’t I?” she says, taking off her headphones and putting the hairbrush on her dresser. “But come on—SPILL! What is this 911 weird, mysterious emergency?”

  “Thou hadst better sittest,” I tell her.

  Sophie plops herself at the head of her bed and looks at me inquiringly.

  “So?” she says. “And by the way, why are you talking like you’re in a Shakespeare play?”

  I start dancing around, hitting an imaginary bell like she’s hit the jackpot.

  “Okay, you’re starting to freak me out now. Do you have some weird illness?”

  Since the curse doesn’t seem to work when I text, I take out my phone and type furiously, then press send.

  I pricked my finger and I think I’m under a spell that makes me speak like I’m in a Shakespeare play. From what I’ve been able to figure out, the only way to get cured is to find a wisewoman.

  Sophie’s phone buzzes, and I gesture that she should read it. She does and then stares at me, eyes wide.

  “You’re pranking me, right?”

  “Verily, I wish that ’twere so. Nay, ’tis truth.”

  “Okay, tell me everything,” she says. “Starting from the beginning.”

  It takes me a while to tell her the whole story, which I do half in texts and half in Shakespeak.

  “This is totally crazy,” Sophie says.

  “Forsooth, I feel like a cockered beef-witted measle.”

  “A what?!” Sophie starts laughing. “I’m totally going to call Luca that later.”

  “Nay, prithee do not. We must attend to th’ task at hand.”

  “You’re right,” Sophie says. “Sorry. We have to focus on finding the cure spell.” She bites her lip as she thinks of how to go abou
t that. I hope she has better luck than I did. “Wait! I bet Mom could help.”

  Mrs. Solano works in the Rare Book Division of the New York Public Library, and she has access to all kinds of strange and wonderful manuscripts from Once Upon a Time all over the world.

  “Hey, ho!” I exclaim. “Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.” I think I just quoted A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but I can’t be sure. “But . . . what shall thee bid h’r?”

  “ ‘Bid her’? What do you mean by that?”

  I take out my phone and text. What are you going to tell your mom?

  Sophie gives me a Duh look. “The truth, of course. How would we make up a lie stranger than that?”

  I should have remembered that Sophie talks to her parents about everything because her parents are normal and chill. I, on the other hand, have been forced to be Lying McLiarPants, because if I told my parents about anything I really want to do, they’d stop me from doing it.

  But look where that got me. My parents may be overprotective, but I guess they have their reasons.

  “Who wouldst putteth me und’r a spell . . . and wherefore?”

  “People think you’re just a regular kid,” Sophie says. “And Rosie Charming. But all of a sudden you’ve ended up talking in Shakespeak. And Rosie went from jeans-and-Converse girl to a walking Très Chic model and back again.”

  “How now—dost thou bethink Rosie wast bespelled, too?”

  “I don’t know, but it sure is weird, isn’t it?” Sophie says, her brow furrowed in evident concern. “I’m going to have to keep my eye on Dakota and Nina in case some strange Once Upon a Time craziness starts happening to them, too.”

  “Prithee, canst thou returneth to curing my good self?”

  “Yeah, sorry. So I’ll ask Mom for help,” Sophie says. “But I still think you should tell your parents.”

  “Nay!” I exclaim. I text furiously: They’ll yank me out of Teen Couture before the judges even get to cut me!