Chapter 1

Everyone has read fairytales. Everyone knows that Cinderella gets the prince and Beauty gets the Beast. There is nothing new to tell. Everyone can easily predict what happens. The only ones who are surprised are the people who sit in their basements like hermits who eat nothing but spam all day. And yes, at some point in each little girl's life, she goes to bed and wonders if something like that would happen to her.

But they grow up and understand that Prince Charming doesn't come to New York City.

They have to be content with someone else, a Jim or maybe a Larry. They need to find their own prince in their own world, because no man in tights will ever come and gather her in his arms and she will never enter his world to find him.
I accepted this and I had found my normal guy, and a reliable job at my parents’ waffle house to keep me happy.

I had a life.

So I was very confused when I stepped into the ballroom, hair in ringlets, and in a dress I didn't remember owning. Ornate, silver trim lined every edge and the light of the room reflected off its star-colored cloth. I had never worn anything so soft.

All around me diamonds dripped from chandeliers like crystal dew drops and the intensity of the rich reds and purples of the walls made my head swell. I stood on a velvet entry way with two, large mahogany doors behind me and grand staircase before me. Lavishly clothed dancers graced the lower floor, their steps tracing the elegant tile pattern of a rose vine beneath them. Their skirts twirled from their movements, creating a captivating collage of colors and energy.

           Every portion of my brain was yelling that this was a hallucination. But everything felt real. I could smell the sweat from all the people. I could feel the fabric on my skin. Could I sense all this in a hallucination? The doctors never told me that part.
Maybe I had gotten into a car accident, and was in a coma, dreaming. My mom would be shaking me awake any moment and all the doctors and nurses would be hovering over me with triumphant smiles on their faces.

They cured me! They’d say.

That could have been a perfect explanation except that I couldn’t remember any accident.

I remembered waking up each morning, eating breakfast, and going to work at the 34^th Street Waffle house. I made batter and served fat customers their portion of carbs for the day. Charlie, the truck driver, stopped in for his serving of French toast and coffee and my parents had left early to travel to Lake George.

No accident, no abnormality, just fat men and syrup.

Nothing happened that could have possibly sent me to this...kingdom.

Something poked me in my side.

“Ow!” I squired. That definitely felt real. Someone with a very bony finger had managed to pass all the layers of the dress and corset to find my ribs.

"Mademoiselle?" an attendant whispered. My eyes turned to look at the tall boy beside me with a glare. He had a blue waist coat and a polite smile. “I am sorry, but will you please step off the foray. We are expecting…”

I wasn’t listening; I figured I didn’t have to listen to fake people.

I considered insanity. Maybe this was a nightmare-like hallucination, emerging now because I was terrified of commitment. Or my boyfriend. Or it could have originated from tragic suppressed memory when I was a kid. But why a fairytale theme, or at least, why a medieval setting? I couldn't remember anything I had hated about fairytales that would have created this type of reaction. I liked the idea of fairies and I had always been fascinated by court life.

I had an idea. I pushed my hand directly towards the boy’s forehead. Characters from hallucinations or dreams didn’t have mass. My hand would go right through the boy like he was a ghost.

My hand smacked into the boy’s head with a thunk.

The attendant wrinkled his eyebrows and his formed a thin, tight line. I cradled my hand with embarrassment; I’d hit him quite hard.

If he was a hallucination, my imagination created men with really dense heads.

“Miss, please move. You are blocking the entryway. Move or you will be escorted to your chamber to, recover.”

Recover? To him I had been gazing out into thin air, probably swaying under the weight of the dress and lack of oxygen from the binding of the corset. And I had just hit him in the head.

I wanted to smack him again; he thought I was drunk.

“Move, miss.” I had even lost my title to him because of it. I wasn’t a mademoiselle anymore.

For the first time, I felt alone. Here, the first person I met already thought I was a disgrace. Hallucinations might be fake, but their judgment was real.

My own dream was rejecting me.

No, I fought for a calm. I am in control of this dream. It is mine after all. Their judgment only exists if I let it.

“Where?” was my pointed reply. I could be reasonable. He pointed down the steps, and my moment of confidence drained away.

I froze with fear.

I would not go down into that throb of dancers. It looked similar to a mosh pit. Once you fell down, as I know I would, I wouldn’t be able to get up. I would be trampled under their graceful movements, and since I was a stranger, no one would care. I would be the unfamiliar mass on the dance floor for the janitors to sweep away the next morning.

“No! Are you kidding me?”

Be calm. These men and woman probably didn’t have janitors.

They still had feet and hard shoes.

I could feel the bony hands again poking my ribs. The poke was followed by a stout shove.

I toppled down three steps before I regained my balance.

He pushed again. I toppled.

A third push. I toppled.

And again.

And again.

“Can’t I just stay here?” I pleaded. I was on the landing now with marble statues of men and animals lining either side. There was plenty of room for whoever would walk down the steps and for me.

The attendant wasn’t pleased and positioned his hands for another push.

This time I gritted my teeth and held on to the nearest statue.

“Stuart!” A man yelled from the top of the staircase.

The attendant straightened.

“Stuart, come here. Now. Stop flirting with the ladies and come help.” I could hear smothered giggles from other masculine voices.

A deep blush filled the boy’s cheeks which gave me sadistic pleasure.

“Stuart!”

“Sor-sorry, miss.” The flustered boy ran up the steps to the man.

I hugged my arms for security and faced the ballroom.
I didn't belong here. My dress was gorgeous, even compared to a few others I saw, but the body within it stood out like an ogre in Wall Street. Each person moved gracefully, managing to look pristine and at ease; I took one step and my ribs ached against the wood stays of my corset, and the endless cloth bunched around my ankles, making my movements unorganized and awkward.

Falling down stairs enough should me this easily enough.

Although I wondered, if this dream was real, how would it feel to float across the dance floor in this silk, my dress adding to the colors in a swaying movement? My mother would be jealous. She was the one who always wanted to visit the Celtic castles and imagine the balls that took place within them just so she could pretend to be invited.

Sound exploded from above me as trumpets played and a menacing creaking noise announced the mahogany doors swinging open.

This must have been why Stuart was called away.

The brass of the instruments gleamed in the light and livery of each musician was lined with gold trim against black velvet.

My eyes told me that there was something big and important walking towards me. But my brain was too numb to make sense of the information.

Another observation: the people had stopped dancing. Everyone was facing me, looking up, and looking at me.

What did they want? Did they want me to move, too? I tried to meet their eyes and dare them to continue. I was on the landing; they couldn’t trample me here.

Then I noticed. They were looking at something behind me. Someone.

I turned around.

Descending the staircase was a man dressed in a stiff midnight blue coat with dark hair that fell in combed back waves to chin. A clear jewel graced his left ear and a silver crown with bright green gems rested delicately on his forehead. His chest was raised proudly as his he lifted his hand in a lazy salute to the crowd below them. The crowd didn’t clap, or shout, simply held their gaze. It was routine to them. I was the only one who gaped.

Something was different. How he held himself was changing. He dropped his hand to his side and took easier strides, slowing his descent to the landing.

I could see the corner of his mouth twitch and his eyes were glazed with something unfamiliar. Was he angry? I recoiled; maybe I should have been trampled by the masses than to face this.

No, it was different, not anger.

The emotion in his eyes, they were sparkling. With mischief. He was laughing. I followed his gaze in curiosity, and realized.

He was looking straight at me.