Episode III: The Heiress Who Didn't Sign Up For This Threesome
Witch Weekly's 'Modern Romance' series asks anonymous witches and wizards to record a week in their sex lives—with comic, tragic, provocative, and patently revealing results. This week, a self-destructive former Prefect makes an abundance of terrible choices: 22, female, straight, ambiguously attached.
DAY ONE
8:45 a.m.: I wake up to the man I'm currently sleeping with (or not sleeping with, as the case may be) as he starts running his hands over my bare hip. We're both still naked from last night and once again, he's making my bed his domain. I mutter something in opposition; it's early, and I don't like to be disturbed. He tuts disapprovingly, calls me some juvenile pet name like 'princess' or 'sweetheart' or 'love' and rolls me onto my stomach, pulling my hips up and putting his mouth on me from behind. "Well then," I remark at a murmur, not entirely opposed to the greeting. He laughs into my pussy, slips his tongue inside it. "Good morning," he returns.
9:15 a.m.: Let's call him the King. My father used to tell me fairy tales by my bedside, and I'm fairly certain that every single one of them had a King. My King has an appetite that seemingly cannot be satiated. Not by me. Certainly not by his wife. We'll call her the Snow Queen; heart like ice, as far as I can tell. Sort of a pale, wintry beauty, too, so it seems more than appropriate. I have a certain insatiability for the King myself, however questionably that reflects on my morality. To my understanding, though, both King and Queen have strayed. And anyway, it's not my job to keep him to his marriage vows for him, is it? He presses his fingers into my waist as he fucks me and I come for him, loudly, as I always do. He smiles. "I've missed you," he says, and it hits me harder than it should.
9:27 a.m.: Do you ever have someone you can't stay away from? He's mine. He's a curse, and a blessed one. I cling to him when he lets me.
9:35 a.m.: I let him come over last night after several months away. Five, in fact. He reminded me of that the moment he walked through the Floo; tried to impress me, I think, with pretty lies about how he's missed me. Oh, I believe he missed me, but I don't believe he waited long. Why would he? He's an attractive man still, and the best fuck of my life, so I'm sure he's been with other women while I've been away. I don't mind, anyway. I'm happy he's here. I need to forget. I need to drown myself in him, and watch him absolve himself in me. He obliges my self-destruction, all morning long.
10:45 a.m.: "I hate that you have no elves," he comments, pursing his lips in disapproval as the sheets are tangled messily around his waist and he, King that he is, requires service. "Elves are out of fashion now, old man," I remind him, and he smirks at me. It pains me to watch him do that. It's an expression far too familiar, and I start to wonder if I'm carrying around more ghosts than I know what to do with. The King yanks my head back, revealing my throat. "Old man?" he echoes, feigning anger. I smile sweetly. "Teach me a lesson, your majesty," I whisper.
11:05 a.m.: He sits upright and fucks me while I place myself on his lap, and in the reflection from my vanity I see that he is kingly as ever and that I am a wreck, my makeup smeared and my hair cast wildly over my shoulders. I see myself in the mirror and remember a different moment like this one, only a couple of weeks ago. "I love you," he'd whispered in my ear, the stupid boy who hadn't known those words would make me run.
11:10 a.m.: "You look distracted," the King tells me, gruffly taking my chin in his hand. I look away. "Is this about that boyfriend of yours?" he asks slyly, and I think he's doing it to be cruel, or to remind me that he owns me. "No," I say honestly, "that's over." He smiles beatifically. "Good," he says, and flips me onto my back.
12:07 p.m.: After the King leaves I wander around my bedroom, doing something akin to cleaning. I try not to think about my ex and fail spectacularly. Let's call him Petr, from my favorite tale my father used to tell me: the prince, the Tsarevitch, who destroys Koschei the Deathless. A hero—though I'd always thought my Petr mostly lucky, and I'd told him so numerous times, in rather unflattering terms. He'd only ever smiled at me. He was impossible to shake. Nearly impossible, of course, until I managed it.
5:30 p.m.: I don't do much of anything. Balance my father's accounts, manage his affairs, etc., because that's about all I'm good for lately. 'Can I come over?' I receive in an owl, as I'm staring blankly into space. I think about it. It's a terrible idea. 'Fine,' I eventually reply.
5:52 p.m.: Coming through the Floo is a man I'll call Jack, as that's another thing my father's tales always seem to have: a relentless knave who ruins everything. "Hey," Jack says, grinning when he sees me. I can't imagine why I've let this happen again. "Hi," I reply. "What are you doing?" he asks me. "Nothing," I say. He nods. "Cool," he tells me, and smiles.
6:30 p.m.: Jack's been doing this lately, ever since something happened between us last week. He's Petr's best friend. His roommate, too, and though Petr didn't tell Jack about me, I'd run into him early on in that stupid house they shared, and the truth had come out. As far as I know, Jack's the only one Petr ever told about me. "Doing okay?" Jack asks me, watching me play idly with the handle of my cup of tea. "Not really," I confess, and sigh. "I'm fucking the King again," I tell him, and Jack shakes his head wearily. "We talked about this," he says, arching a brow. Is he parenting me now? Fuck him. "How's your girlfriend?" I say impatiently, reminding him he has one. Again, though, it's not about my morality. It's about retribution. "I took your advice," he says with a shrug, "and we're giving the open relationship a try." He's not looking me in the eye. "Well, I'm not interested," I tell him, as flatly as I can, though I think he saw me force moisture to my throat. "I didn't ask," he reminds me.
7:45 p.m.: I'm not lying when I say I have no intention of fucking Jack. He's used up his usefulness to me, and I tell him so, all the time. I tell him he was just a shoulder to cry on, even though I didn't—would never—actually cry. I do my best to hurt his feelings, to break his heart, to make him feel small. "You don't have to be like this," he usually tells me. "Stop trying to save me," I typically snarl, but I rarely push him away.
8:30 p.m.: After Petr told me he loved me, and after I slept with him for what I knew was the last time, I ran into Jack in the corridor of their house. He was a little tipsy from a night out, I think, or possibly drunker than that, and I pulled him into his bedroom. "I want you to fuck me," I whispered, and Jack frowned. "I have a girlfriend," he said, and I rolled my eyes. "You think I don't hear you fighting?" I whispered, taunting him. He looked away. "Does she even want you?" I pressed ruthlessly, as cruelly as I knew how. He blinked, stunned. "No," he confessed, forcing a swallow, and I took advantage of his weakness. I kissed him. He kissed me back, agonizingly well, and for a moment I think he wanted it. I think he wanted me. We broke apart and stared at each other. "I can't do this," he said hoarsely. I left. The next day I told Petr I'd slept with Jack; I knew it was the one thing he wouldn't forgive.
9:15 p.m.: As Jack chatters on about his day, trying to keep me company, I think of Petr. I miss him, miss the way he laughs, miss the way he rarely thinks before he speaks, miss the way he's cleverer than I ever predicted, and quicker, and funnier, and sharper. I pegged him for a good guy when I was at school, hated him for his unrelenting virtue—his undeniable hero complex—but he wasn't nearly as one-dimensional as I'd thought; he had an edge. A bite. (For the record, he hated me because I was, without question, a total bitch. Why he thought it safe to love me I'll never understand.) Jack, on the other hand, is something different. When I used to lash out at Petr, Petr snapped back. We fought, and often. When I lash out at Jack, though, he stares at me for a minute, reads me, and shakes his head. "You're lying," he always says, and it frustrates me.
9:20 p.m.: "By the way," Jack says, just before he leaves to go out for the evening, "I don't know how to do this open relationship thing. Am I just supposed to have sex with someone I meet?" "Yes," I tell him, pursing my lips, "obviously." He winces. "Damn," he says. I roll my eyes. "It's easy," I tell him, "you just take your pants off and let your dick do its thing." He chuckles. "Bye," he says, and gives me a hug. I don't push him away. "Stay away from that guy," he warns. He means the King. "Whatever," I mutter into his shoulder.
10:45 p.m.: I miss Petr, but I'm confident I did the right thing. It would only have been worse if I let it go on longer. When I ran into him again after Hogwarts, I'd already been with the King for months, addictively. Compulsively. I kept coming back, and I told Petr that, even after we first slept together. "If he wants me tomorrow," I said, "I'll go to him. I can't help it." "What if I want you tomorrow?" he asked, surprising me. I thought when we'd run into each other at a pub and stumbled back to his place it would be a one night event, even after the third night in a row. "I don't care," I said, but eventually, I did. It's a damn shame, caring. Pointless. Hopefully he learned something from the mistake he made with me.
11:15 p.m.: The King walks through my Floo. I look up from where I'm lying on the couch, naked. I knew he'd be back. He knew I'd be waiting. He smiles. "Hello, princess," he says. He can't get enough. I can't get enough. I, in particular, am royally fucked.
12:45 a.m.: He doesn't stay the night. "Have to get back," he says, stroking my cheek, and then kisses me gruffly, his fingers around my throat. "I'll see you tomorrow," he promises. I shrug. He smirks that awful, horrible smirk, the expression of smugness that has owned me in so many different iterations. "Do you love me?" he whispers in my ear. "I do," I tell him. I do, however wrong it is, however much I felt for Petr. This is love of the worst variety, but it's love nonetheless. Or a sickness. A fever that won't break. "I love you," he lies to me, and I shiver.
1:01 a.m.: I take a shower. I don't bother with clothes.
1:30 a.m.: 'No luck,' says an owl from Jack. 'Why is sex so hard?' he complains. 'For fuck's sake, there's nothing easier,' I write back, and there isn't. I know. I do it all the time. It's easier than feeling. Easier than telling the truth. 'Sleep well,' he says.
1:45 a.m.: 'You too,' I write back.
DAY TWO
7:30 a.m.: I wake up thinking about Jack's girlfriend. Let's call her Cinderella, because that story seems to fit. She didn't belong in my world; not in Jack's world, or even Petr's world, but by some stroke of fate or fairy godmother, she came to rule it. She's a war hero, and I'm nothing—though, if I hate her for anything, it's not for that. Abruptly, I wonder why on earth she would agree to an open relationship. She's not like me. What I have with the King is essentially an open relationship, and it's terrible, and she should be smart enough to know that. Fuck, shouldn't she be smarter than that? Isn't that her whole thing, being smart? Suddenly, I want to find her and slap her. I want to make her demand more. Doesn't she know anything?
8:15 a.m.: I'm finally dragging myself out of bed and getting dressed when the King steps through the Floo. "I don't have time," I tell him, but he backs me against the wall and hikes my skirt up, tearing my underwear aside. "Won't take long," he assures me, sinking his teeth into my neck. I sigh, relenting, and then I moan. I can never say no. I can never, ever say no, and I never want to. "Make me forget," I whisper. He obliges.
8:45 a.m.: "I'm going to see my father," I tell the King as he's re-fastening his trousers, and he looks up, concerned. "Alone?" he asks. "Yes," I say. He strokes my cheek, slowly. "Poor thing," he murmurs, and I close my eyes.
8:47 a.m.: He kisses me slowly. With my eyes closed, he almost reminds me of my first love. We'll call him Prince Charming, because if ever there is a King, there is always a charming Prince—but my Prince was never this tender. Never softened his voice like this with me. Never cared enough to lie. He's the son of a King and a Snow Queen, and he never had it in him to be gentle. Sometimes I think he's the one who taught me to go cold. Funny that it would later push me towards his father.
8:49 a.m.: The King promises he'll come to me soon and then he leaves, and so do I. I step through the Floo to St Mungo's, arriving in the foyer. The healers and medi-witches know me by name now, but I don't engage them.
9:30 a.m.: I bring fresh flowers to my father's room, even though I know they'll die. I hate it here. There's a dementor in the room, hovering, and I try my best not to acknowledge it. "How are you feeling?" I ask my father. He looks at me blankly.
10:01 a.m.: Most of the Dark Lord's followers went to Azkaban, or, like the King, they bought their way out of it. My father, however, fell ill. In lieu of Azkaban, his crimes are paid here, in a cramped infirmary room with a dementor sitting in the corner. The dementor seems happy, in my opinion, and why shouldn't it? This is St Mungo's. Death and devastation is everywhere, and I think it has no need for my father's soul. I imagine this is like a party, like a feast. My father doesn't say much. "Are the accounts in order?" he asks vacantly, and I nod. His one question. "Good," he says, and turns his head away.
10:30 a.m.: I shudder as I leave, and I ask the nurse to borrow a quill. 'Can you come over?' I write to Jack.
10:55 a.m.: The owl finds me when I'm back at home. 'Tonight,' he promises, but it's early still, and I think I'll drive myself insane if I stay here. 'Busy?' I write to my best friend, whom we'll call Briar Rose, because she's a beautiful woman living a coma of a life.
11:15 a.m.: 'Shopping?' she writes back. 'Yeeeeeeeeees,' I say, because why run the accounts if I can't use them, right?
12:34 p.m.: I meet Briar Rose in Diagon Alley outside of Twilfitt and Tattings. She looks perfect, and perfectly melancholy, dreamily staring into space. "Hey," I say, snapping my fingers, and she wakes. "Come on," she says, grabbing my arm, and we go inside to look at pretty things to adorn ourselves with.
12:50 p.m.: "How's your father?" she asks me, and I shrug. "How's your husband?" I ask her, and she shrugs. Perfunctory questions. "How's this?" she asks, picking up some expensive lingerie. I arch a brow. "Think it'll work?" I ask, unconvinced, and she grimaces. "No," she admits. Her marriage is one of convenience. "Maybe you should make him try something new," I suggest, because I'm the deviant one. "Don't they have those swingers' parties, or sex clubs, or—" "Keep your voice down!" she hisses, and then giggles, because she only pretends at primness. "I can't see myself doing that," she admits. I shrug. "Stretch your imagination, then," I say, not unkindly.
4:30 p.m.: I get home and eat a couple of the pistachio macarons I bought with Briar Rose, falling asleep on the sofa.
6:47 p.m.: I wake up to the Floo, and Jack emerges. "Ooh," he says, emptying his pockets—an annoying habit of his, making himself at home in my space—and reaching for the open box of macarons. "Hey," I snap, "savor those. Don't scarf them down like an animal." "Shush," he tells me, and while he reaches for one, I look over at the thing from his pocket. "What's that?" I ask, pointing to it. It's a thin, rectangular box that has the letters WANDR across the top. "Thing my brother invented," Jack explains, swallowing. "It's enchanted to tell you other witches and wizards who want to—" "Fuck?" I guess, and he laughs. "Date," he corrects me. "The charm takes into account the user's proximity, interests, personality—" "Pathetic," I interrupt, making a face. He shrugs. "Some people," he muses, "are not at an old man's beck and call." "He's not old," I retort, and Jack shrugs again. "He's not great," he delivers flatly, and I smack his shoulder.
7:15 p.m.: We make dinner and then sit on the couch, legs curled under us like children. "So are you using it?" I ask, pointing to Wandr. He shakes his head. "Still trying my hand at the old-fashioned thing," he says, "but I don't know. My heart's not in it." What a ridiculous thing to say, I think. "This isn't about your heart," I remind him, "it's about your dick." He laughs, then sobers. "She seems fine," he comments sadly, referring to Cinderella. "She seems good, even." Huh. Not what I expected. "Think she's having sex with someone?" I ask, taking a bite of his pasta, because I grabbed too little and I'm still hungry. "No way," he says, letting me eat his food, "she hates sex." "Maybe she just hates it with you," I taunt him, and he looks incomprehensibly hurt. I sigh.
7:25 p.m.: "Maybe we should just sleep together," I joke, and he looks surprised, but also conflicted. "I don't think I should," he tells me uneasily, and I glance up. He wanted to before, I think. I wonder what's changed. "Why not?" I ask, and he swallows. "Because I want to do it with you," he says, "and the whole thing is supposed to just be about sex."
7:30 p.m.: I change the subject. We don't discuss it any further.
8:30 p.m.: If you're wondering how Jack and I got to be friends, I don't know. I really don't. I guess we just existed in each other's space for so long that eventually boundaries broke down, and now that we're squeezed together on my couch, it just feels natural. Comfortable. Sort of like it was with Petr, but also not, because there was pressure there. Petr demanded things; feelings. He demanded loyalty, even if he didn't say so out loud. He wanted all of me and I could never give it to him. The King wants sex. Jack wants—I don't know. The worst parts of me. The boring parts. I never really knew what Petr wanted, except everything. And that was always too much.
9:15 p.m.: We're drifting off, Jack's arm slid across my waist, when he asks me if I told Petr about our kiss. "He's avoiding me," he explains. I force a shrug. What's another lie? "Probably just finally realized he hates you," I tell him. He laughs quietly, pulling me closer. "Shut up," he murmurs.
9:30 p.m.: He asks me, not for the first time, why Petr and I broke up. I turn to face him. "Because we're not right for each other," I say. "Isn't that why everyone breaks up?"
9:35 p.m.: "What if we're not right for each other?" Jack asks, and he's talking about Cinderella again. Fuck her, I think, but don't say so. She got everything I want—the happy ending. Or, at least, she's got a life so perfect she doesn't notice that her boyfriend is in my arms tonight, or doesn't care. What a gift that would be, I think, not to care. I always care. I only care, and when it comes to her, I doubt she has any idea how much I blame her for. She and Petr were always so close; platonic or not, she already owned pieces of his heart that I would never get to have. Even Prince Charming used to stare at her while he was with me, used to want her, however much he denied it. And now Jack? I'm tired of men who belong, in some way or another, to her. I push Jack away. "Go home to your girlfriend," I tell him, as harshly as I can.
9:40 p.m.: He doesn't leave. He holds me tighter.
10:30 p.m.: I tell Jack I fucked the King this morning. He shrugs. "You're only hurting yourself," he warns. I don't tell him I think I deserve it.
11:15 p.m.: "Do you love him?" Jack asks, and I scoff, even though I do. "Love and sex aren't the same thing," I say. He looks like he's heard that before.
1:25 a.m.: We fell asleep on the couch but after a couple of hours he carries me to my bed. He doesn't kiss me. Doesn't do anything, really, but he pulls the blanket over me, his hand resting for a moment on my shoulder. He takes care of me, and I want to say thank you. I want to say something. I want to beg him to stay.
1:27 a.m.: Instead, I say nothing. He leaves. Eventually, I fall back asleep.
DAY THREE
8:15 a.m.: I have a meeting at Gringotts today, so I rise relatively early, though I'd much rather stay in bed. It's important, I remind myself. There's a reason my father didn't have me buy his way out of St Mungo's. There's a reason my mother fled. It's because only I can do this. I'm the only one who can lie without betraying myself.
9:00 a.m.: I arrive in the Gringotts foyer in modest robes, having left my heirlooms—my father's signet ring, which I wear around my neck—at home. A goblin sees me into a small office that feels more like an interrogation room and I sit, pretending this is normal. I keep my chin high. I'm an heiress in my own right, and beloved by a King. When political tides change, someone has to lose. My father made certain it wouldn't be us, and I carry on his lies.
9:35 a.m.: "Where's the rest of your family's fortune?" the goblin asks, frowning as he gestures to the parchment listing the contents of our vaults. "You have it in front of you," I say, and I say nothing else. "You realize you may be audited," the goblin tuts, disapprovingly. I'm prepared for this. My father prepared me for this; don't let the Ministry take what's ours, he said in our last real conversation. "So be it, then—I have nothing to hide," I reply melodically.
11:15 a.m.: When I arrive back home, the King is waiting for me. He greets me hungrily, both hands on my face, and backs me against the wall, lifting me up. I wrap my legs around his hips, grinding against him. "How was it?" he asks, and I don't ask how he knows. I suppose it's not out of the question that he's checked on my father, since my father is the reason that I even spent time with the King in the first place. "Successful," I say, and then, coyly, I add, "Reward me?" He smiles.
11:35 a.m.: The King flicks his tongue possessively over my cunt and looks up, locking his grey eyes on mine. He looks so like his son that it takes my breath away for a second, but I don't look away. "I want you tonight," he says, "in my bed." I frown. "Why?" I ask, because surely the Snow Queen won't allow it, or it's at some impossible cost. He positions my legs wider, shoving my knees apart, and speaks directly to my pussy, admiring it. "I want what I want," he says simply.
11:43 a.m.: I come quickly; he's absurdly gifted at cunnilingus. After I come, I reach for him, but he dances out of reach, toying with me. "Tonight," he says, brushing his lips against my knuckles. Then he takes my hand, dragging it against my still-sensitive clit, and I gasp. He smirks again. "I don't want to go if your son's going to be there," I tell him sulkily, and the smug expression promptly fades. I wonder if it bothers him that his son took my virginity; taught me how to please a man, in fact. Taught me how to do the things he likes.
11:45 a.m.: The King tells me the Snow Queen has demanded a family dinner that evening, and that he's certain Prince Charming will have left the moment it's over. I comment, coquettishly, that it's all very mysterious. He shrugs. "Tonight," he says, and leaves, saying he'll tell me when to come over.
12:30 p.m.: He'll tell me when to come over? I can't decide if I like the mystery or I dislike the flex of authority. I shiver, though, at the possibilities. He is so very enticing, much as I find his methods distressing.
3:30 p.m.: I spend most of the afternoon with my father's books, because I think the goblin's right; I'm sure an audit is coming. Doesn't matter. I've got it taken care of.
7:45 p.m.: I'm eating a light dinner when I get an owl from the King. '9:00,' it says, and 'wear the black lace.'
9:02 p.m.: I arrive through the Floo in nothing but the lingerie beneath my robes, and stumble over my own feet as I realize the Snow Queen is waiting for me. She's sitting on the chaise, fully dressed, and she purses her lips when I step through the fireplace. "I'd hoped it wasn't you," she comments dully, and I lift my chin. "Where is he?" I ask. She rises to her feet, handing me a glass of champagne. "Do not mistake this for a victory," she warns, and then she turns, gesturing for me to follow. For some idiotic reason, I do.
9:15 p.m.: "We're trying to make our marriage work," the King tells me, raising the Snow Queen's fingers to his lips. He holds my gaze as he does this, and I realize now why he made the motion earlier. "I think you're precisely what we need," he adds. Oh. Oh.
9:17 p.m.: Oh, fuck.
9:20 p.m.: "Get more champagne, darling," the Snow Queen suggests to the King, and he does her bidding, looking ecstatic. The moment she's alone with me, however, I realize she's baring her teeth, in a sense; showing me her authority. I will have to break her, I think, swallowing hard, or she will devour me. I've broken people before, I remind myself, thinking of Petr. I can do it again. For the King's favor, I can. I've done it for less.
9:22 p.m.: The Snow Queen leans forward, slipping my robes from my shoulders and leaving me in my lingerie. I'm so much younger, my body is taut and lean and full of promise, and I should be proud of my desirability, but I'm shaking. "We don't play for love," the Snow Queen whispers to me, her lips near my ear. "We play to win—and sweetheart," she says with a dark, breathy laugh, "you are not a winning hand."
9:23 p.m.: I open my mouth to answer but the King returns, holding a bottle aloft. "Starting without me?" he asks, mockingly reproachful. The Snow Queen takes my face in her hands and leans forward, kissing me slowly. She tastes like the champagne and her mouth is supple, sweet, soft. She licks my bottom lip, tasting me, and I shudder. Poor choice to show weakness, I know. She bites down.
9:25 p.m.: I undress the Snow Queen slowly. I still want to win, somehow. She thinks I'm a child, but I'm not. I'm a little bit rough, my movements a little unpolished; I've never undressed a woman before. I've certainly never entertained the thought of undressing this woman before. The King is entranced, and the Snow Queen herself is icily indifferent. The moment her gown falls to the floor, she steps out of it, settling herself on the bed and beckoning. "Darling," she says to the King, her gaze locked on mine, "I hope you've taught her a few things about how to put her pretty mouth to use, hm?"
9:30 p.m.: As I kneel on the bed and crawl towards her, I can't tell if I'm terrified or aroused. Part of me wants to turn and run. Part of me wants her to come so hard she chokes. Either way, I slip her lace underwear over her legs as the King approaches me from behind, kissing down my spine. I arch my back as appealingly as possible and bend to the Snow Queen's royal cunt, sparing it a moment of worship. She betrays herself with the tightening of her fingers in the duvet. I almost feel sorry for her.
10:00 p.m.: The King fucks me as I inexpertly lick his wife's cunt, and when she stares at her husband I feel a sickening, twisting horror in my stomach. I don't think I'll be able to come; the King's cock feels as good as it always does, but I fake it instead.
10:10 p.m.: He pulls out of me and turns to the Snow Queen. I don't know what to do, as the math doesn't really make sense to me right now, but I catch a look in his eye; a hunger as he looks at his wife that he doesn't possess when he looks at me. I rise to my feet, stepping off the bed. "Go," the Snow Queen instructs coldly, not looking at me, and reaches out, taking the King's chin in her hand. She leans forward, her lips by his jaw, and then her blue eyes meet mine as she whispers in his ear. "I hate you," she says to him; says it so quietly that I wouldn't hear the words if not for having read them from her lips. He lays her back, his fingers tight against her thighs.
10:15 p.m.: I watch the tension in the King's spine and know that he doesn't hate the Snow Queen at all; he loves her. He wants her. He's forgotten about me, in fact, and I pick up my clothes. I hate this house.
10:30 p.m.: The King was wrong. His son, the Prince, is most definitely here, and I am most definitely tousled. "What are you doing here?" Prince Charming asks me. He looks anxious about something. He looks so like his father. Their faces look the same when I make them come. "Leaving," I say, and shove past him towards the Floo.
11:00 p.m.: I shower vigorously, scrubbing at every bare inch of my skin.
11:30 p.m.: 'Do you hate me?' I write to Petr, like the selfish idiot I am.
12:45 a.m.: 'No,' he writes back.
2:57 a.m.: 'You should,' I say.
DAY FOUR
10:15 a.m.: I waste the entire morning. I don't want to get out of bed.
10:30 a.m.: I hear the King's footfall coming towards my bedroom from the Floo and I turn, my back to the door. He opens it slowly. "Princess," he says, which is becoming more and more ironic, "did I upset you?"
10:35 a.m.: This all began a year ago, when my father's illness was getting steadily worse and the King showed up in my house. "What are you willing to do to preserve your father's legacy?" he asked me, very seriously. I wondered then if he still saw me as I was when I was a girl; the girl, in fact, that we both had thought his son would eventually marry. "Anything," I said, and that's when I watched his face change. "There will be secrets," he warned, stepping closer, "and lies, and you'll have to follow my instructions very carefully." I watched his gaze flick over me. "Anything you ask, your majesty," I told him, with my wry humor, my dry wit, my biting sarcasm. I think, even then, I made it a game for him to play; a game he could win, and he had lost so many that he couldn't say no. He held a finger to my lips and dropped slowly to his knees, slipping my knickers out from under my skirt. I let him do it. I was entranced. "Tell me when to stop," he said, but I didn't. Not then.
10:37 a.m.: "Stop," I say now, as he climbs into bed with me. I want to shut him out entirely, but my mouth (and my temper) get the better of me. "What do you think you are, some kind of lord for me to serve?" I demand, and yes, I know how ridiculous it is that I would say that, since it's quite obviously what I believe. "Let me serve you," he offers.
10:45 a.m.: Why have I let him kiss his way down my torso? Why haven't I stopped him while he's stroking my clit? I must be Imperiused. I must be faulty. I must be broken.
11:30 a.m.: We fall back against the pillows, panting. "Don't ever," I say, my voice breaking, "do that to me again." He turns his head to look at me, and I see his son again in his grey eyes. I see, once again, a set of grey eyes that belong to someone who doesn't love me. "I won't," the King promises, and he kisses me slowly, fully, and I hate that even a thousand lies can't turn the taste of his tongue bitter; can't turn me away.
12:15 p.m.: After he leaves, I can't do anything. I take a shower, try to do something productive, try to eat—but it seems that everywhere my thoughts go, I'm met with misery.
3:30 p.m.: I get an owl from Jack after I get up long enough to have some coffee. 'I haven't heard from you in a while,' he says. I don't answer.
5:45 p.m.: I'm lying on the couch with a cold cup of coffee and wearing nothing but a blanket when Jack arrives through the Floo. "I was afraid of this," he says when he sees me. I look up, and I can't tell if I'm relieved he's here or if I want to kick him out. I think about it. Then I think about myself, how I must look, what he must think of me. I'm ashamed and horrified and embarrassed. I'm humiliated and painfully sad. "Have you fucked someone yet?" I ask brusquely. He shakes his head. "No," he says, and then, with a gentleness that makes me want to strangle him, he kneels on the floor beside me, taking my face in his hands.
5:50 p.m.: "I'm so sorry," he says, "about everything. I'm so sorry you're sad." "I'm not sad," I say furiously, shoving him away. He sways backwards but returns—like he's floating on a current, brought in with the tide. "I'm sorry you don't believe me when I say you deserve better," he says. I decide I want to make him suffer. I don't want to suffer alone.
5:52 p.m.: I kiss him, letting the blanket fall from my shoulders. It's needier than the first kiss, and my hands are holding his face and his fingers are tangled in my hair, and the gasp that escapes us as we pull apart feels like we've surfaced from something, from drowning. I stare at him, watching the light from the fireplace lick the edges of his face, and then I stand up, letting the blanket fall.
5:53 p.m.: "How do you want me?" I ask him. For the King I am a princess, I am an ingenue, a plaything. For Prince Charming I was a stepping stone, a toy. For Petr I was the bad girl, the rebellion he took home, the escape from a life of prescribed loves and healthy choices. I know Jack will have a new role for me. Something. Whatever it is, I wait for him to fail, to ask me to be some fantasy he's had that his perfect girlfriend is too fucking proper to give him, to be his filthy, wild escape. Sex is easy. Sex is easy and I'm so good at it—so very good at it—and I wait for him to decide. I dare him to disappoint me.
5:55 p.m.: He rises to his feet, picking up the blanket, and he wraps it around my shoulders. "I'm not a game," he says, and kisses my cheek, holding me. I beat my fists against his chest, furious, and he shakes his head. "I'm not a game," he says again, and buries his lips in my hair. "Get dressed," he says, "and I'll make us dinner." I swallow, fighting tears. "Okay," I say eventually, and I go to my bedroom as he goes to the kitchen.
6:30 p.m.: He's not the greatest cook ever, but the risotto isn't bad. I reach over, taking a spoonful from his bowl, and he shakes his head, smacking my wrist. "Ouch," I say, scowling at him. "Why do you always eat mine?" he demands, his hair falling into his eyes. He's wearing a soft grey t-shirt and I find myself thinking about his lips. "Yours tastes better," I say, shrugging, but I think he saw where my mind went.
7:45 p.m.: I tell him about my horrible night with the ice monarchs last night, and his blue eyes widen so much I nearly laugh. "Bloody hell," he says, disbelieving. "Did it—was it—" "Oh my god," I interrupt, "are you asking if I enjoyed it?" He flushes violently. "Well, I mean—" "I kind of did, until it was horrible," I admit, and then I start giggling. "I was trying to win," I explain, and he shakes his head. "How does someone win a threesome?" he demands, and I can't answer, because I agree—it's ridiculous. Then he tilts his head, looking at me, and says, "I think you did win, actually." I tell him that's crazy, and he shrugs. "You don't have to go back," he says, "but they're trapped." I hadn't thought about it that way.
8:30 p.m.: He tells me that he and Cinderella had sex last night, and the words he's using should indicate that he's happy about it, but his eyes drift elsewhere as he speaks. I lean forward, gripping his shoulder. "Don't lie, fucker," I say. He grimaces. "She had her eyes closed," he says, hesitating, "when she, you know—" "Came?" I prompt, brusquely. He looks as though I've slapped him, but he nods. "I sort of felt like she was—" "Elsewhere," I supply, because I know that kind of sex. I've had it before. Suddenly, I'm enraged on his behalf.
8:45 p.m.: "Break up with her," I say, "you deserve better." "I love her," he insists, but it feels practiced to me. Like something he says because he's used to it. I crawl forward, settling myself in his lap, and he looks surprised, but doesn't speak. He sets his hands lightly on my hips. "What about me?" I ask, and then, before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "and please don't lie." I don't think I've ever said 'please' to him before. I doubt I ever said it to Petr. Jack stares at me. "I think I would love you if you'd let me," he says, and I can hear in his voice that it cost him everything to say it.
9:30 p.m.: He takes my hand and I lead him to my bedroom. His footsteps are quiet and his fingers are relaxed and comfortable in mine. "Stay with me," I whisper, "please." He kisses me, slowly, rests his forehead against mine. "Okay," he says.
9:45 p.m.: I climb into bed with all my clothes on and he follows after, facing me on his side. He reaches out, stroking my cheek. "Should I tell you a bedtime story?" I ask him. I'm joking, but he nods, very seriously, and I think about it.
9:50 p.m.: "Once there was a rich man with a beautiful daughter, who was his life's most precious treasure. One day, the girl was encountered with a beautiful woman bearing a little wheel, and the woman said to the rich man's daughter, 'Tell me, child, would you rather have a happy youth, or a happy old age?' The daughter thought about it, and said to the woman, 'If I say a happy youth, then I would only suffer all the rest of my life. I would rather have trouble now, and have something better to look forward to.' Then the woman turned the wheel she held in her hands and said, 'So be it,' and vanished. The beautiful woman was the daughter's Destiny."
9:53 p.m.: "Did the girl suffer, then?" Jack asks, guessing the ending when I pause. "Yes," I say, rolling my eyes at the interruption, "for a while." "But not for always," he notes. "Eventually she was happy?" he prompts hopefully. "She marries a king," I say, trying to recall the details of the ending. "Sure," Jack presses, "but is she happy?" I think about it. "I hope so," I say.
10:05 p.m.: I move towards him on the bed, tilting my chin up, and our lips brush. It's not a kiss, really, but we don't move. We just lay there, lips touching, and close our eyes.
10:15 p.m.: "Thank you for staying," I whisper. "You're welcome," he says.
DAY FIVE
8:47 a.m.: When I open my eyes, I'm in his arms. I shift slightly and he wakes, his gaze falling on mine with something like contentment, or relief.
8:50 a.m.: "Make love to me," I ask him. I don't think I've ever asked before. I don't think I've even called it that before. It's a stupid thing to say—a stupid thing to ask—but I don't think I can take it if he says no. Nobody ever says no, but if anyone should, it's him.
8:52 a.m.: He stares at me, thinking about it, and then he asks me again if I told Petr something happened between us. I pull away and sit up—because once I tell him, he'll hate me, and I don't want to know what it feels like for him to hate me while I'm still in his arms. "I told him we slept together," I admit, and don't look at him. "Why?" Jack asks. I hesitate. "I wasn't—I couldn't do it," I babble, "it was too much, and I was—I just needed—" He cuts me off, kissing me. "Thank you for telling me the truth," he says. I'm baffled. I'm flabbergasted. I'm shocked into silence. He kisses me again, and then his hands drop to my blouse, hovering over the buttons. "How do you want me?" he asks. I can't breathe.
8:59 a.m.: We shift to face each other on our knees and he leans forward, kissing my neck, his fingers toying with my necklace. "How do you want me?" he asks again, and I shake my head. "I just want you," I say, and his fingers quicken on my buttons, peeling the blouse from my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. I pull his grey t-shirt over his head and spread my fingers across his chest. He pulls me close, his hand cradling the back of my head as he kisses me.
9:10 a.m.: By the time I've taken off my skirt and we're both in our underwear, I suddenly feel shy. It's the way he looks at me, I think. There's something unconcealed, unsubtle, unprotected. I want to warn him to guard his heart, but I'm tired of guarding mine. I kiss him again, and with another few motions, we're naked. I don't know how to start. I don't know what to do. He lays me on my back. "Are you sure?" he asks, and I can feel his heart pounding. I can feel his heart.
9:30 a.m.: It's a little cautious at first when he slips himself inside me, and I suddenly remember he's only ever been with one woman, and she's never exactly made it magical for him. I push lightly on his chest and he frowns, confused, but I lay him on his back and straddle him, placing his hands on my breasts as I slide onto his cock. "I want you," I tell him, because I know he's never heard those words before. "I want you," I repeat as I lean forward, kissing him. "Only you," I whisper, and he pulls me into his chest.
9:45 a.m.: He comes relatively quickly, and I make sure to look at him when he does, to promise him I'm here with him—just him. When he catches his breath, he looks concerned. "You didn't—" "It's fine," I tell him, and it is, but he shakes his head. "No," he growls, "no, I'm not okay with that." He pulls out of me, kisses me roughly. "Wait here," he says, and suddenly leaves.
9:55 a.m.: He comes back with coffee and a plate of eggs, and I sit up, surprised. "Here," he says, handing me a fork. I notice he doesn't have a plate. "One plate," he explains, gesturing to it as he holds up his fork, "so you don't have to engage in thievery." "You're ruining it," I complain, but it's actually sort of clever ploy, and I have to hide my amusement. "I'll make it up to you," he promises, taking a bite and then giving me a teasing smile. I lean over, kissing him. His smile broadens.
10:25 a.m.: When I set my empty coffee cup on the nightstand, he leaps forward. "Finally," he exhales, and I laugh into his mouth as he kisses me.
10:40 a.m.: It's different this time. The hesitation is gone, and I gasp, a completely different man in his place as he yanks me up, setting me on top of my vanity and sliding his cock inside me, his fingers digging into my hips. I lean my head back with a groan and he kisses my neck, my clavicle, my chest, his tongue flicking over my nipple. It isn't gentle, but he's still got that look on his face—that indiscreet rapture as he looks at me—and I lose my breath, lose my mind, lose my immovable superiority as I cling to him, holding on tight.
10:51 a.m.: When I come, I do it without restraint, biting into his shoulder and clawing into his back. He picks me up again, tucks my legs around him and throws me onto the bed, rearing up on his knees with my ankles resting on his shoulders. He pauses, stroking the inside of my thigh with his finger. I thrust my hips up, urging him, but he holds me still.
10:52 a.m.: "This," he says hoarsely, "this means something to me." My head spins. "Are you doing this because it's me," he asks, and I can see he's pained by the asking, "or is it because—" "It's you," I cut him off, because I can see the insecurity seeping in, and I can see the places I've kissed him and I want to do it again. For once there are no kings or princes or heroes clouding my judgment. Jack closes his eyes, collecting himself, and turns his head, taking my ankle and placing the lightest, most delicate kiss against the arch of my foot. I have high arches; dancer's feet. I'm built to soar, sculpted to retreat—to leap, to disappear—but I don't want to lose the feel of him.
10:57 a.m.: He leans forward and starts to thrust again, slowly and fully and deeply, and I slide my hand around his jaw, cupping his cheek. His hair falls into his eyes and I brush it away, and I am on the brink of something terrible and beautiful and monstrous.
11:15 a.m.: I come twice more, and then he does, his lips against mine. I capture the taste of his satisfaction on my tongue, and savor it.
11:25 a.m.: He settles my head against his chest. "I'm not sure this works with your arrangement," I say. I feel him nod slowly. "I don't think my relationship is going to work," he admits, and I can hear how much it pains him to say it. "People change," I tell him. We're proof of that. He seems far away.
2:45 p.m.: We doze off for a while, his arms still around me. "Stay in bed all day with me," he whispers. I nod, and then I kiss him. I think he knows when we leave this bed he has to do something difficult. Something painful. He has to break something he used to have faith in. For once, I don't envy Cinderella.
3:30 p.m.: We take a shower together and when I wave my wand to remove the water, I'm struck by how little I've noticed about him before, and how much I admire him now. He's tall and lean and dusted with freckles and he catches me staring as he slicks his hair back from his face. "What?" he asks, and I lower myself to my knees. I lick the tip of his cock and his reaction is visceral.
4:45 p.m.: He's sucking enthusiastically at my clit when an owl comes, rudely interrupting just as I'm about to finish. He looks over, prompting me to mewl my opposition, and his face turns pale. "What is it?" I ask, sitting up, and I see it. Petr's handwriting. Jack's name. "That can't be good," I say, swallowing.
5:15 p.m.: He's pacing my bedroom floor. Apparently Petr told Cinderella the lie I told him about sleeping with Jack, and she believes it. "You realize he doesn't want to speak to me," Jack half-shouts, waving the letter around, "and knowing her, she's going to avoid me—" "I told you already," I say quietly, "and you said—" "I know what I said!" he barks, and then he stops, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry," he groans. I let it go; I have a temper too. "I thought he would ask you," I admit slowly, "and obviously, I assumed you'd deny it." "Why wouldn't he ask me?" Jack demands furiously, as if I know the answer. I tell him I don't know, because of course I don't. To my knowledge, this is out of character for Petr. "Maybe he wanted it to be true," I say, though I don't know why that's the answer that escapes me.
5:35 p.m.: "Tell me the truth about why you broke up," Jack says. I sigh, but relent; I tell him how I left because Petr said he loved me. I couldn't love him back; not well. I couldn't wait for things to get worse. I'm not a good person. I'm involved in bad things. I'm fucking a King and probably committing some kind of tax fraud and I'm the kind of woman who would lie to a good man and ruin his friendships with others, simply because I'm afraid of his goodness. "He deserves better than me," I say. Jack goes cold. "And what do I deserve, then?" he asks. I say nothing.
5:57 p.m.: "I have to go," he says. I don't stop him. I don't move. He leaves.
6:05 p.m.: He comes stomping back to my bedroom with a groan. "DO NOT," he shouts, jabbing a finger in my direction, "FUCK ANYONE ELSE." I stare at him. "Excuse me?" I ask furiously. "Don't go to someone else for comfort," he says, and tells me not to call the King. Tells me to stay put. Tells me not to do something stupid, not to destroy this. "I'm coming back," he informs me, and that, more than anything, makes me want to cry. "I'm coming back, so don't sleep with anyone else!" he yells, and then he leaves.
7:30 p.m.: I make a little extra pasta. Just in case.
8:15 p.m.: I try not to watch the clock.
9:45 p.m.: I'm about to give up and go to bed when Jack reappears in my fireplace. He looks exhausted. "She's not answering me," he says. I force myself to swallow. "She's probably hurt," I say, and then, at great cost to myself, I add that he should go to her. "If you want to fix things," I say slowly, and he shakes his head, falling onto my couch. "I don't know if this can be fixed," he murmurs, his head in his hands.
10:05 p.m.: I step behind the couch, wrapping my arms around him and pressing my lips to the top of his spine. He reaches up, tangling his fingers with mine.
10:30 p.m.: "You're a better cook than I am," he says, taking a bite of my pasta. "I know," I say.
11:38 p.m.: Jack kisses the back of my neck while I put the dishes away, and his fingers tease the hem of my skirt. I reach down, slipping out of my underwear and kicking it aside as his hands run over my breasts, my ribs, my waist, and then one hand drops under my skirt, brushing the lips of my cunt. I'm wet, and he seems awed. "Still?" he asks. I turn in his arms. "This is what it's like to be with someone who wants you," I tell him.
12:24 a.m.: People think that because I'm a bitch I'm not capable of softness, but the truth is I'm too soft. This is my problem. This is my curse, that I fall so easily; my heart breaks so fragilely because I'm too quick to give it away. I'm in Jack's arms and I feel it again, the warning in my mind that says I will suffer for this, for caring, for coveting something that belongs to someone else. But sex is easy, even with him, and I come just as I fall.
DAY SIX
10:34 a.m.: "I have to get her to talk to me," Jack says, murmuring it into the bare skin of my torso.
11:45 a.m.: I know he does. I let him go.
2:13 p.m.: 'You are hereby summoned to present your family's finances for an official Ministry-supervised audit,' reads the message with the Gringotts seal. I groan aloud, realizing what I have to do.
3:34 p.m.: "I wondered when you'd ask for me," the King says as he strides through the Floo, smirking knowingly at me. "I didn't call you here for that," I say, thrusting the audit summons into his chest. He frowns and reads it quickly. "Well, that's nothing," he says, and he means it's nothing for him, because he's not the one who has to lie. "It's been my father's crime until now," I remind him impatiently, "but once I'm the one withholding things—" "I'll take care of it, princess," the King says, resting his hand on my hip.
3:45 p.m.: I take a step back. "Don't," I warn, and his pale brow twitches into a frown. "Is this about the boyfriend again?" he asks. "I told you," I say, swallowing heavily, "that's over." The King purses his lips. "Sure," he permits skeptically.
4:30 p.m.: The King's least favorite game is the one where I say no, so he leaves without much comment. I think he assumes I'll be back in his clutches shortly enough, and though I hope he's wrong, I can't really say for certain if he is. After all, I tried this before, didn't I? I wander my father's study, wondering what will happen next week.
11:15 p.m.: I've already fallen asleep when Jack wakes me, kneeling by my bed. "It's over," he says. He looks like he might have been crying. I gesture beside me, and he crawls under the duvet. "What happened?" I ask. He tells me she admitted she was hurt. He throws the word 'betrayed' around a bit. I ask if Cinderella slept with someone else and he says yes, but that she didn't say who. I'm not sure he's telling me the truth; I think he does know who, and doesn't want to say it. "Is she with him now?" I ask. He shakes his head. "I asked her that too," he says, "and she says no. Says she needs to sort things out." Sounds like her, I scoff internally. "Are you okay?" I ask him. He looks at me, opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it.
11:45 p.m.: I give him the sort of kiss that goes somewhere. The kind of kiss that makes a man's knees weak. A kiss that leads, in my experience, to reckless, careless sex. A kiss he needs. He kisses me back, and then pauses. "We don't have to," he whispers against my lips, and I feel a sudden, gripping fear. This could get serious if I let it.
12:39 a.m.: Jack falls asleep while I toy with his hair, both of us still fully dressed. The problem with serious is that it means the mundanity I've always avoided: sharing friends. Making decisions as a unit. Wondering if something I do today will mean trouble weeks, months, years down the line. Serious means consequences. It means honesty and commitment. Things I'm allergic to. Things I'm bad at.
1:24 a.m.: Serious with Jack means, eventually, Cinderella. It means Petr. They're his friends, after all, and they never stay apart for long. Serious means that someday, when I've come to trust him, to believe he'll stay, he might still put Cinderella's needs—or Petr's—above mine. Serious means letting him do it.
1:45 a.m.: Why do I always give my heart to people who can't give me theirs? The King has the Snow Queen. Jack, however much he might genuinely care for me, will always have loved Cinderella first. He loves her now, I'm sure of it, even if he's spent the last several hours in my bed.
2:15 a.m.: He stirs. I trace the freckles on his arm. "This means something to me," I whisper. He holds me tighter, but doesn't wake.
DAY SEVEN
7:00 a.m.: I wake up to him looking at me, his mouth arched grimly with sadness. "This is over, isn't it?" he asks me, and my breath catches. "I think it has to be for now," I admit. He shuts his eyes.
7:30 a.m.: Sex this morning is slow and contemplative, and everywhere we touch seems like a devastating tragedy. My heart breaks when he brushes his lips against my brow. I watch him suffer while I dig my fingers into his ribs. His touch is unfairly reverent, like I haven't wronged him. Mine is unfairly steady, like I haven't let him down.
7:59 a.m.: "Stay away from people who are bad for you," he pleads, cupping my face in his hands. "Promise me," he says sternly. I promise I will. "Sex is easy," I remind him in return, which is probably the wrong thing to say, but he kisses me goodbye. Kisses me again. Then once more. "You deserve to be happy," he tells me, and though I feel the same way, I don't say it back, because it doesn't seem like it would mean much coming from me. He steps through the Floo without looking back.
9:00 a.m.: I step through to St Mungo's, heading for my father's room. The dementor gives me its usual wordless stare, and I shrug something like acknowledgement in its direction. "Daddy," I say to my father, sitting at his bedside, "we're being audited." He gives me a blank look. "How are the accounts?" he asks me. I force a smile. "They're fine," I say.
10:15 a.m.: 'Shopping this afternoon?' I ask Briar Rose in an owl. She responds with enthusiasm. Poor thing. She's terribly bored. I stop by the Leaky, picking up two sandwiches.
12:05 p.m.: I have one more errand to run. I step through the Ministry Floo, heading up the elevator and slipping quietly into the familiar office. "Hi," I say, and Petr looks up, surprised to see me. "Hi," he says, and I hand him a sandwich. He accepts it, but doesn't unwrap it.
12:10 p.m.: I tell him I'm sorry, and he leans back, unimpressed. "There are easier ways to say you don't love me than the one you chose, you know," he says quietly. I tell him that wasn't it; that wasn't it at all. "I loved you," I say, and I'm sure of it. After all, I love so easily, and at such terrible risk to myself. At such terrible cost to others. "Then why?" he asks.
12:25 p.m.: I can't really explain myself, but to my surprise, he says he thinks he understands. "I've learned something recently," he says, rising to his feet and leaning against his desk. "I've learned that if I really loved you, I should have told you what I wanted. I should have told you I wanted to be with you, to be open about being with you. I shouldn't have believed you when you said it was okay to keep things quiet." I'm surprised. "I was okay with it," I protest, but Petr shakes his head. "I wanted a long love affair with you," he says. "The whole thing. Marriage, babies, joint bank accounts, chocolates on Valentine's and sleeping on the couch when I inevitably forgot." I balk, and he smiles knowingly. "What great love affair do you know of that starts with someone who worries about what other people will think?" he asks. "Plenty," I say, but he shakes his head. "Not yours," he says. "Your great love affair should be with someone who doesn't let you hide, right from the start," Petr informs me. Then he reaches over, unwrapping the sandwich I brought him and taking a large bite.
12:35 p.m.: I tell Petr not to hold my mistake against Jack. He shrugs. "You two would be good together," he says. I bite my tongue. "I want a love of my own," I say delicately. Petr seems to know what I mean.
12:37 p.m.: "I might be in the news soon," I sigh carefully, "and not for anything good." Petr shrugs again. He tells me to stay away from the King. "He's trouble," he warns, "and I don't want to see that come down on your head."
12:40 p.m.: "How can you still care about me after everything I've done?" I ask, disbelieving. This, too, is met with a shrug. "Despite what you believe, you're not a bad person," he tells me. I roll my eyes. "I told a lie that nearly cost you your best friend," I remind him, "and all because I couldn't tell you that the thought of being loved by you was terrifying." He spares a small chuckle. "Yeah, well—" he waves a hand carelessly. "I didn't say you were perfect."
12:55 p.m.: I give him a hug when I leave. "I hope you find someone brave," I tell him fiercely, "someone brave enough to love every impossible facet of the fucking hero that you are." He kisses my cheek. "I think I've got it covered," he replies.
2:30 p.m.: I meet Briar Rose outside of Twilfitt and Tattings and she's staring at something behind me. I turn over my shoulder, frowning. "What?" I ask, and she points to a display in a shop window. "What's that?" she asks, and I recognize it. It's Wandr, the little enchanted box that Jack's brother invented. "Is it for sex?" she asks, confused, and I laugh. "It's for dating," I inform her, shaking my head, and she pulls my hand. "Let's go look at it," she says, delighted.
2:35 p.m.: "I wish I were dating," Briar Rose sighs beatifically, and I shake my head. "No you don't," I tell her, because as of this morning, I suppose I am, and I'm not excessively thrilled about it. She holds up Wandr, wiggling her brows suggestively. "Try it," she urges, and I groan my opposition. "It sounds awful," I say, and she shrugs. "But what if it works?" she prompts. "Would you rather suffer now," she asks, gesturing pointedly to Wandr, "and have a happily ever after, or would you rather suffer later when you're alone and wrinkled and old?" I stare at her, and then I burst out laughing. "You're a beautiful woman presenting me my Destiny," I tell her, but she doesn't understand why I'm laughing. I grab it from her, shaking my head. "Fine," I say, heading for the cashier. "I'll suffer now, then."
5:45 p.m.: Briar Rose and I have an early dinner. We don't discuss her husband or my father. I tell her about Jack, and she pouts over my decision. She believes in love stories; she wants me to ride off into the sunset with him. "I can't," I say, because of Cinderella, and she sighs. "But it would be such a fairy tale," she laments. I disagree, but it doesn't matter. "Life isn't a fairy tale," I tell her sternly. "Don't I know it," she agrees.
6:15 p.m.: "Oh, also," I add casually, chewing my asparagus salad, "I had the worst threesome ever." Her face lights up. "Tell me everything," she demands.
7:30 p.m.: When I get home, I change my wards. I don't want the King coming and going as he pleases. This is my castle, after all.
7:35 p.m.: I consider changing them for Jack, too, but I don't. Just in case.
8:45 p.m.: I forget all about Wandr until I pull it out of my purse later, waving my wand to turn it on. The face of it lights up, welcoming me, and asks if I'd like to start. "Are you ready to find love?" Wandr asks, and I pause for a minute. I sigh.
8:47 p.m.: "Yes," I say, and wave my wand. Destiny tips her hat.
9:15 p.m.: Just like that, my story starts anew.
a/n: The story the narrator tells is called Catherine and Her Destiny, and has several different versions, one of which is in Andrew Lang's pink fairy book. I intentionally chose Russian and German fairytales and not their Disney-fied versions, as I think these stories have enough magic in them to have been told, in some form, by wizards to their young daughters. Dedicated to Jessica-Doom, zeromin, and rowaphox. Thank you for reading!