Twisted Tales

Bippity Boppity Boo

It's funny how conveniently fate hands you exactly what you need when you need it the most.

Oh, wait, that wasn't fate, that was just a side effect of being trapped in some kind of warped version of reality where the bizarre laws that govern the realm of fairy tales have been substituted for the laws of physics. Other side effects include having evil witches turn up at the worst possible moment, any woman marrying a man who already has a child from a previous marriage inexplicably going murderously insane, and the unfortunate proclivity of young men getting turned into various species of animal.

I'm ranting. At any rate, my point is that mere minutes after arriving in the town square, we stumbled upon a notice board and Alfred's sharp eyes caught something of interest.

Half hidden under yellowed parchment proclaiming a sale at Ye Olde Shoe Shoppe and a wanted poster that looked suspiciously like Erik with a mustache, there was a notice declaring the final night of the Royal Ball, which all the ladies in the land were invited to in search of a suitable wife for the prince.

"There's our Cinderella, guys," I said, jerking a thumb at the notice.

"Really?" Jack squinted and leaned in closer. "It looks more like Erik with a mustache to me."

"Not that!" I pulled the noticed from the board and held it out to them. "I mean our quest. Here's the ball, and it has the time it starts—sundown—and the dress code—fancy dress."

"Oh good, we're clearly prepared for that, then," Erik scoffed. "They're never going to let us in like this." He gestured to our clothes, which were all covered in dust, and a tad sweat stained.

"It says all the women in the entire land are invited, I'm sure the king isn't expecting them all to be dressed to the nines."

"All the women in the land," Erik repeated. "Fine, you might be able to get in looking like something the cat dragged in, but Jack and I certainly won't. And, even if they do let you in the doors, do you really think you'll be able to get close to the prince looking like an unwashed peasant?"

"Hey," I protested, a hand flying up to my slightly greasy, tangled hair; but I knew he was probably right. What you looked like played a huge role in how you interacted with royalty in fairy tales, and though a lowly kitchen wench or a swineherd or a huntsman of a simple soldier [i]could[/i] gradually earn the trust and respect of a prince or princess, we didn't have that kind of time. We would need to look like the kind of person usually privy to the inner circles of royalty if we wanted to rub elbows with the prince tonight—and tonight was our only option.

I squared my shoulders. "Actually, we might not even need the prince at all."

"What do you mean?" Jack asked.

"I mean, I had an idea. Er, sort of. I actually don't know if it will work, since it's not really... but I think it's got to be close enough, right? I'm just basing this off what Rumpelstiltskin said and what you told me, Erik, and a couple of not-totally-accurate remakes, so it could be a huge bust—but I think you were right, Erik, about having to fight magic with magic, so I figured this would be our best chance—"

"Just get on with it," Erik urged.

"First things first, we should probably try to locate our unfortunate enchanted princess du jour," I suggested.

"She's not a princess yet," said Jack in an irritatingly helpful tone.

"What?"

"She's a merchant's daughter, isn't she? So she's technically not a princess—"

I waved his words away. "Whatever—it's close enough. If everything goes according to plan, she'll be a princess this time tomorrow."

"You still haven't told us what exactly your plan is," Alfred piped up.