Chapter One

"Every fairy tale had a bloody lining. Every one had teeth and claws."
- Alice Hoffman

Jane

They came in droves the day I opened. Who knew this part of town could be so messed up?

Wait. My bad. Psychologically challenged. I'm a professional. I need to act – and speak – accordingly. Because that shit sells, apparently.

But seriously – they came from all over. One with this issue, one with another. One with two issues and one with "none" (which of course meant she was worse than any other case I'd seen). Some had weird hats, others no pants. Some even just sat on my doorstep and rocked themselves into insanity. I learned to never take my eyes off their faces – one could be too easily scarred in this job.

Not five minutes after the morning paper (with a large and disturbing advertisement featuring my blushing face on the front page) had been set out in cafes, hospitals and delivered to every house in Elphoria, I had my first knock at the door. I hadn't expected anyone to come for at least a week, maybe two. That's what I'd been told. So bubble wrap and cardboard boxes sparsely decorated the office. At least there was a desk and two chairs set out. No couch, however. It was just too…predictable.

I answered the door with a manufactured smile – it's funny how fast those come on. Not even twenty-four hours in this and I was already fake.

"Good morning." Not really, but whatever.

She was shorter than me by a head, with the brightest jade green eyes that made me think of a cat – when you've just kicked it because it's scratched you up the leg. Only now the cat wants back in your good books.

"I need help," she whispered, as though mortified and sure someone important would hear. Didn't she know this whole office block was deserted? It was a dump and cheap for a reason – no one wanted in.

"Don't we all?" I snorted back. "You're in the right place."

I extended an arm and moved aside. She stepped through into my office.

"This is…nice."

"If you like living in a trash can."

She shrugged and before taking the seat on offer, swung her hair over her shoulder (I noticed now that it went past her feet and trailed on the carpet behind her). Every ruler length or so, there was a ribbon or bit of twine tied around her hair. It looked like an abnormally obese snake was sucking on her head.

"What can I do for you?" I asked, taking my own seat.

She fidgeted. "Can you cure me?"

"Can you tell me your problem first? I'm no Jesus. I don't read minds." Obviously she's never seen a shrink before. Probably should have, my mind snidely added.

The girl bit her lip. She couldn't have been more than seventeen – I had a sister who was eighteen and there was just that one little indiscernible difference that told me this girl was younger. Like when you look at an apple and the colour of the skin tells you which one will be crisp. Well, this girl was crisp. My sister was getting on to mushy, changing colour – that kind of thing.

"I – I can show you."

I nodded and she began pulling ribbon and twine out of her hair, finally finishing with a silk scarf at her hairline. Then she stood to her feet. "Promise not to freak out?"

What?

And then she did what I did but didn't expect her to do. She certainly looked like the kind of girl who would walk past guys and pull her fingers through her hair in a way that said, "you can try, but you'll never succeed." However, I didn't count on what I witnessed that day actually happening. Ever.

Her hair began to fall out. Patches here and there until eventually, she looked like a worn dolly. Her eyes glistened as she stared down at me.

"I'm losing it – all of it. Who's going to love me now?"

And then the water works went into overdrive.

Oh hell, my mind mumbled. We are not qualified for this crap yet. Just go back to your basic training. She's a nutcase.

"Please take a seat, Miss…uh?"

"Ra-Rapunzel." She was shaking.

I paused. Of course I'd heard her name before. Who hadn't? The princess was called Rapunzel, but she disappeared years ago. Some time during infancy – I can't really remember. I was in college then, surviving my degree thanks to cheap liquor and daily sleep-ins. I don't doubt I was the first to pass through college this way, but I'm almost positive that I was the first to get through college with a distinction average without attending classes.

"Okay, Rapunzel." I tried to make it sound like I really cared. Really, I did try. "So you're losing your hair. But, uh, how did you manage to keep most of it, you know…in your head. You weren't leaving hair behind you as you came in the door."

I was sure she hadn't but all the same, as I said it, I checked the doorway. Clear. Hair creeps me out. Especially hair in the shower drain. Ugh.

"I got a spell from a witch."

I sighed. Naturally. Best not to even go there.

Another approach. "Rapunzel, you're a young, beautiful woman – your identity isn't in your hair. That's not what makes you you."

"But you're wrong!" she cried.

I thought I'd made a good point. That pearl of wisdom had cost my mother two thousand in college. Still, not even I fully believed me. Maybe I would if I'd actually gone to class.

"My hair is everything," she continued to sob. "If I don't have it, I don't find a man. And if I don't find a man, I don't get to leave the castle."

"But you're not in the castle now."

She shook her head, as though the truth was painfully clear and I just wasn't getting it. "I got a free pass for today. I'm buying vegetables for mother."

Of course. A free pass. Why didn't I think of that? How bloody ridiculous.

"You came here, though."

"So you can cure me."

"Right."

We sat in silence. Her wide blue eyes searched my face and I couldn't take my own eyes off her head. It was, well…naked.

"What do you think I do, Rapunzel?"

"Well, your ad says that you can solve any problem."

Ah yes. The ad. I was definitely going to kill Chalmers later on for that. Good for nothing PA. Who cares if I wasn't paying him – he still should have listened to what I suggested. Solve any problem? Like hell I could. That was faulty advertising. I'd intended on going with something more neutral: "I'll give your cracked psyche a crack and if I can't fix it, your money back!"

"I'm a psychologist," I said, "not a hairdresser. If you're losing your hair, it would be best for you to speak to the hair experts. Clearly" – I pointed at my unruly mess of black curls – "I'm no expert."

"But-"

"I can see you're very distraught," I continued, moving to the door, "but I really don't think I can help you, so if you don't mind, I've still got unpacking to do."

I waited for her to move, the door wide-open letting out stale, musty air. She didn't budge.

"You don't get it," she whispered. "I'm not just losing my hair – I'm losing my mind."

"Well then," I replied, letting the door swing shut, "that's an entirely different kettle of fish and $250 straight up. I take cash."

I was twelve when I decided life sucked.

Now hold up for a moment. Yes, I decided life sucked – but I wasn't about to write some sappy song with a broken guitar or run off and kiss the closest vampire. I didn't work that way.

Mother, Kala and I had just moved to Elphoria. It was supposed to be a great change for us. But here's the thing with "great" changes – "great" can mean amazing, or it can mean the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

The latter meaning applied to our lives.

In Elphoria, the houses here were nicer, the schools were cleaner, the air fresher. If you had money. We did not. So the houses were damper, the schools were filthier, the air ranker. But we were finally living in the capitol – mother at last felt apart of something.

Unfortunately what she became apart of was the phone book for the local police station.

Kala was a baby and I was bored. What do you do in Elphoria when you're twelve and have no money, friends or hobby? You play chicken with the shopkeepers. I wasn't the best at that game. I was caught once, twice, three and four times. Within a month of living in Elphoria I got to first name basis with the local cops. At least I made sure I stole them a donut every so often. Something to reward them when they came to pick me up.

Each day I would be led into the station precisely on three p.m.

"Nice to see you again, Constable," I'd say with a sweet 'I won't be caught next time' smile.

"Jane, it's not exactly a pleasure to see you again," he would reply, and then on the quiet add: "Did you get the donut with the fudge centre this time?"

But years passed and I grew out of my rebellious ways. Honestly, it just became too much of a bother to keep it up. However, I made sure I passed on my title of "most arrested teenager" to someone worthy. My three-year score was broken in six months by my new protégé. Sadly, I did feel a little pride for the youngster –even jealousy. He could do things I hadn't even comprehended.

Once high school ended, I attended university. Paid for by the things I never received as a child. Turns out there was a reason I was only ever given a candy cane on Christmas and card on my birthday. Mother had a dream that I would one day make her proud. Every spare cent went into a jar the size of my head and it paid for half of my tuition (the rest was funded by the state: apparently I qualified as a criminal worthy of needing to be reformed – go figure).

Well, mothers dream almost died – twice, at least – but I did bring it to pass the day I graduated with a doctorate in psychology.

Really, no one was more surprised than me.

After the ceremony, whilst in deep discussion with mother, a professor had told her how I was "brilliant, yet lazy." Couldn't have summed it up better, myself.

Life took a whole new turn then. For reasons unbeknownst to me even to this very day, I cleaned up. I rented an apartment in the city, planned a respectable form of world domination, and even got a cat. Mr. Smiggles constantly smelt of rotten tuna. He lived on the balcony 24/7.

But then the little funding I did have behind me dried up. I went from eating red meat, to chicken, to fish and then to lentils. I'd become poor once again. Ashes to ashes, poor to poor. My life's story. At least I knew it well.

Simon Chalmers, one of the few friends I'd made in university, came to stay with me during that time. It was his "brilliance" that concocted what he hoped would be our plan for salvation. If we could make enough money off the depression, depravity and delusions of the good people in Elphoria, then we might be able to live like kings and queens.

Simple plan. Simply executed. One million ways it could go wrong.

All we had were our degrees. We could pick apart the human mind yet running a business? A real practice? We'd not been taught that.

In came Selene Ashbury, a mutual friend who had – thankfully – majored in business studies. Because there are people in the world who enjoy having their brain cut to pieces on a daily basis.

"What you need to do, is register a business name," she explained as she paced my one room apartment, turning away from one wall to another every fifteen seconds. "We don't want to come off as anything less than professional. What you want to create is affordable, professional help. The more realistic and homely the practice, the more likely it is that people will come."

I wasn't going to argue. I had no idea what she was going on about.

"And you need to practice your bedside manner," she added, almost as an afterthought.

I protested, but realized she might have been very right.

Our budget left much to be desired, so Selene paved the way for us with a seemingly never-ending resource of wealth know as "daddy." She insisted that we rent an office in an area clearly in desperate need of help.

"It'll be easier to find customers," she explained.

Three weeks later and on our last twenty dollars, we opened up shop. The first thing we did was clearly label the office door – there were far too many alike in the building and without fail, each of us would go to the wrong door each time we arrived.

Jane Fairlight & Associates was painted onto the glass in large, red letters. I didn't have one single psychology associate, but I honestly hoped any customers I received would be too mentally challenged to notice.

Rapunzel was my first customer. After that first day I didn't know what to think and dropped all expectations. Elphoria was a buzzing metropolis filled with many strange and confusing individuals. Part of me had imagined that my customers would be normal. I was a shrink – clearly I wasn't going to have normal customers. That was the whole point.

Rapunzel came back each week. It had been six weeks since I'd first met her and she was still a mess – at least she'd now picked up a wig and ditched the failing tendrils she'd so helplessly tried to hold on to.

"I think it all started when I was a baby – losing my hair," she said, voice airy as her mind drifted over other matters. I'd recently given up and bought a couch – but only when I'd realized naptime could work for me in between appointments. "Do you think you can carry stress from when you're six months old?"

I rolled my eyes. I didn't have answers. All I could really do was tell her she was crazy and to get the hell over it. Shit happens.

"I think you need a glass of wine," I told her. "And a vacation. And to get out of that bloody tower."

"I'm out now."

"One day does not a holiday make."

There was a knock at the office door and I thankfully went to answer it. My sessions with Rapunzel weren't getting any easier. Perhaps she really was certifiably bonkers.

But probably nowhere near as crazy as the girl who stood outside my door.

"Have you seen my rabbit?"

She was petite, wearing a blue dress with dirt smeared around the hem and her eyes were spacey. Her lips were slightly parted in a half smile. The way she looked at me suggested one thing.

"Are you on drugs?" I'd seen it many times in college. Students getting high and seeing all sorts of shit. Usually they came down with a bad case of the munchies – a craving for fried chicken in particular.

The girl giggled. "I'm not on rugs – I'm on carpet!"

Yep. Great. "Get inside." She followed my order and threw herself into the office.

"Look!" she squealed, eyes on Rapunzel. "The Queen of Hearts! You lost weight!"

Rapunzel raised an eyebrow at me. "What's going on?"

"She's tripping," I replied. And then turning to the girl I said, "You must be Alice – I've heard of you."

Her eyes grew wide. "Did the white rabbit tell you who I was? He's a clever little bastard."

"Yes." I spoke slowly, enunciating every word: "The white rabbit told me all about you. But now I need you to tell me all about the little white pills you've taken."

"They're like candy!" She hiccupped and stumbled backwards, hitting the wall. "I can't get enough!"

"Trust me – you've had enough," Rapunzel muttered. I wondered if she would still pay for the time that was passing now – technically it was still her session. And she did sign a contract that basically said 'yadda, yadda, yadda – I'll pay for everything.'

"They said eat me," Alice continued, her voice crossing into awe. "But I didn't just eat them – I swallowed them whole. All eight of them!"

"Eight?" That wasn't good. With that many tablets in her system the only thing she could do would be –

Vomit. Yep. All over the carpet. Why the hell are there always carrots?

"Someone made a mess," Alice whispered. "They'd better clean it up."

Oh, I agreed. Oh they bloody well better. And even though she wasn't in any fit state to be handling a mop, I pulled one out from the closet and passed it to her. Rapunzel had fetched a bucket, filled with hot water from the bathroom.

"Have fun," I said. Turning back to Rapunzel who had returned to the couch, I continued on with my previous train of thought. "You need a vacation. Nine times out of ten that'll cure everything."

"What statistics say that?"

"The statistics according to me. Now, you either take my advice or take your crazy ass self back to that tower and make friends with the moths in the rafters, okay?"

Rapunzel wasn't listening. Her eyes were focused on something behind me. I turned around to find Alice, vomit soaked mop in hand, dragging it back and forth across the walls, chanting, "We're painting the roses red!"

"What the fuck are you doing?" I wasn't even half surprised. I'd seen worse. But now my office was going to smell for a week. Wonderful.

"Painting the roses red," Alice replied, as though it were ridiculously obvious. "Want to help me?"

And then it hit me. The idea that would change everything.