Chapter VII

Charlie and his dad were in the workshop discussing toy modifications when a furious Queen Mab stormed in, followed closely by a slightly panicked-looking Bernard.

"What did you do?"

Charlie gulped. When he hadn't seen the Queen or Fia for three days, he'd thought he was in the clear. Obviously not.

"I-Nothing! I didn't do anything!"

"Really? Then why, pray tell, did my daughter suddenly-"

She stopped herself and took a deep breath. Bernard put a hand on her shoulder and she seemed to relax slightly.

"Charlie, this is important. Did anything happen between you and Fia? Any small thing could be the reason. Please."

"Nothing happened. I mean . . . I told her I'd said no, and that I'd leave her alone. That's all."

"Oh, of all the—" The Queen's words became such that the workshop silenced while the elves stared at her. Even Santa blushed. Finally, she pointed at Charlie and cried, "You fix this! Now!" before storming back out.

Bernard followed her, but returned after about five minutes, during which the hush in the room slowly turned into whispers and Charlie and his father stared at each other in wonder. The head elf ushered Santa and his son into his office where they could speak without hundreds of little ears listening in.

"Charlie . . . I know you. I know that you thought by telling her what you did that she would be relieved. Happy even. But you don't understand. You were wrong; she really likes you. She's . . . She's in a little trouble."

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?" asked Scott, his eyes narrowed.

"Nothing requiring her name on the naughty list, if that's what you mean. She has got to have a husband. After you spoke to her, whatever you said, she lost her sparkle."

"Her . . . sparkle?"

"Yes. She's half-human, but she still has to keep her sparkle. Didn't you notice it?" Bernard asked, gesturing to his own face which . . . well, sparkled. Charlie had always assumed they just perpetually had glitter on their skin from toys. He'd never, except perhaps when he was very small, supposed that this glitter was part of their skin.

"I—I guess not."

"So how do we get her sparkle back?"

"Santa, Charlie's why she lost it. Charlie needs to give it back."

"Huh?"

"Apologize, Charlie. Explain, apologize, and for goodness' sake, consider asking the girl out on a date!"

Charlie blinked. What good would that do?

"Santa, may I speak with you privately?"

"Sure. Charlie, you better do as he says."

"Uh . . . Yeah," the young man said, dazed, as he stood and left the room.

He really had thought his life couldn't get more bizarre. Stupid Faeries.

When Bernard was sure that Charlie had gone, he locked his door and took a seat next to his boss, and good friend, Santa (neé Scott).

"What's this all about, Bernard? Really."

The elf sighed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"The princess is ill. She must find a husband, or she'll lose the Fae magic that's kept her illness at bay. If she finds a husband, the rest of her Sidhe magic may be awakened."

"And if she doesn't?"

"She'll die."

"Why don't you find her a Sidhe husband?"

"She would've agreed to that after Charlie's refusal, but . . . Something about the way it happened left her feeling very rejected. She doesn't have high self-esteem in the first place. Now, not only is she depressed, but she also can't return to Court. Being in the Court fuels her magic, and is where she would have met with other suitors. Her magic is dwindling. With it, her health."

There was a pause as Santa digested this new information.

"Why didn't you tell us she was sick?"

"We thought it unnecessary. It is imperative that Fia's husband love her; otherwise, her magic won't awaken anyway. A marriage imposed by guilt would not have been good for either of the children."

The other man fought back the chill that always set in when one of the elves spoke as if they were thousands of years old. To be fair, most were, but their childlike appearance just made it freaky.

"Well we've got to do something; we can't just let her die."

"If you have any suggestions, I'd be glad to hear them. Just don't tell Charlie, okay? He's going to feel bad enough already."

Later, Santa and Mrs. Clause, known always in their own bedroom as Scott and Carol, were discussing this new revelation.

"Poor Melody," Carol breathed, one hand on her chest.

"Melody? Oh, that's right, you know her." His eyes narrowed in thought.

"What? I can practically see the gears turning in your head, Scott; what is it?"

"You should go see her. Have a weekend out and both of you go to a spa and relax."

"Scott, I was her principal, her coach. I'm not the person she wants to spend a weekend with."

"Trust me, Carol."