Ashley woke,* lying on her side, to a symphony of birdsong, gurgling water, and buzzing bees. What smelled like freshly-mown grass prickled against her left cheek, while sunlight warmed her right.

Sunlight.

Hadn't it been nighttime only moments ago?

Her eyes were gummed shut, and her head spun—memories taunting, whirling, as autumn leaves in a raging tornado, recoiling from her reach as she tried to grasp them. What had happened? Where was she?

She snatched something substantial out of the whirlwind. A word. Tortellini? Timpani? Teleportini? That was it. Teleportoni.

With one memory snagged, she could catch hold of a few more, enough to assemble a chain of shadowy events. However, they had the slippery, rippled, dreamlike quality of an underwater domain rather than the solid tangibility of the real world. She remembered a circle of shadow. No, not quite a circle. A dome. Gerald, the guards, and Ruth on the outside, the prince and princesses inside. Then a feeling of intense vertigo, followed by intenser flames, Gerald calling out, Ruth's cries, then spinning into a black void of blissful nothingness.

Spinning into a void.

She'd felt that dislocation before. But when?

Ashley snatched the answer from the whirlwind. It had been that nauseating, utterly disagreeable translocation spell cast by the Cloistered Witches of the Cloister. Teleportini must've also been a translocation spell, but unlike the one cast by the witches, this one was hotter, with an extra dollop of vertigo, and all-around less-enjoyable.

The more memories Ashley harvested, the more the tornado sputtered and ebbed, like a fire deprived of fuel.

Ashley's skin prickled at the memory of the blaze that had enveloped her—searing, blistering, singing. Her stomach clenched. Sometimes it was better to forget than remember.

The scorching heat of the spell had to have destroyed her skin.

She raised her hand, wincing and moaning at the stiffness in her shoulder, but she had to know. Ever so gently, she spread cool fingers across her warm face. The skin was there. Normal and smooth. Ashley bit down a sob of relief, tears welling at the corner of her eyes.

The flames must've been magical ones that hadn't affected her physically. Like dragonfire couldn't hurt dragons. But why? Ashley's blood froze. What of the others? Had they survived Superstorm Druscilla? She'd have to open her eyes to verify their wellbeing, but doing so would risk more dizziness and pain.

She gingerly lifted one eyelid.

As the visual world slowly shifted into focus, she discovered that she lay on a carpet of acid-green grass in a garden beneath a sunlit, cloudless sky. Inky black crows regarded her with that crow-like disdain from twisted branches of nearby trees hung heavy with fruit.

"Hello," she said to the nearest bird in Crow, not wanting to be rude. Also, you never know from whence salvation or a tidbit of information may come.

"Caw," said the crow, black eyes glittering. Typical. Like Marveloni's crow, Igor, who pretended not to understand her. Could this be Igor? He moved sideways along the branch, clenching and unclenching his talons.

Was it rude to ask? She didn't want him to think that to her, all crows looked the same. But curiosity won out. "Igor? Is that you?"

"Caw," said the crow, ruffling its feathers.

"Fine," Ashley said. "Don't need you. I already have friends. I seemed to have misplaced them. Have you seen any other humans show up here, perchance?"

The taciturn crow flew off without as much as a caw, toward the bottom of the knoll where stationed about ten feet apart, there stood a line of boxwood topiary figures in battle position—like a rooted army. Something about the faces and imperious stance of the leafy soldiers jogged at her memory. Wait! They were images of Prince Charming. Yet more effigies to the least charming prince of all time. "Ugh!"

Beyond the topiary was the source of the gurgling water—an algae-stained marble fountain carved into the shape of, you guessed it, Prince Charming, with water oozing out of the top of its head and dribbling anemically down the sides.

Off in the distance, if she squinted, she could make out what appeared to be a moss-covered stone wall. Every so often, she caught a glint of sunlight reflecting off of glass at the western end of the garden. The glass seemed out of place, an anomaly in an otherwise agrarian setting. She couldn't pinpoint why, but the presence of glass made her uneasy.

The lack of her companions worried her more. Not a single one lay within view? Perhaps they were behind her.

She groaned, rolling onto her other side, her muscles not at all amused. But relief coursed through her. There they were, snoring lumps spread across the grassy knoll—Sadira, Layyin, Kai, and Tressa. But wait. Someone was missing.

Derek! Where was he? Maybe the relocation spell killed him. Or, Druscilla had been serious about those scientific experiments. Poor dear Derek! She saw him chained to a dungeon wall in her mind's eye, shirtless, rock hard abs glistening in the candlelight ...

Wait, my hallucination about Derek's demise should not include any gawking of abs. Bad princess. Bad. I shall start over ...

Derek had been chained to a dungeon wall, wearing a shirt. Maybe more than one shirt. Possibly five. Anyway, Derek was chained to a dungeon wall, wearing a lot of shirts, moaning in agony, while a choir of garden gnomes sang One-hundred Bottles of Mead on the Wall, totally off-key.

"Oh, poor Derek," she rasped. "I should've been nicer to him."

"Can I get that in writing?" Derek's voice croaked.

"Derek, you're alive," Ashley said, heart a hundred pounds lighter.

"Unfortunately," he said, sticking his head out from behind a topiary, face tinged green. Well, greener than usual. "One sec."

"Blargh," Derek retched.

That didn't sound good. Ashley slowly pushed herself up to check on his welfare. Scooching closer, she found the frog prince crouched behind the topiary, heaving onto shrub-Charming's verdant boots. Ashley crawled toward her friend, trying to keep her head as still as possible. "Oh, dear," she said, upon catching a whiff of the rank contents of Derek's stomach. She hoped the smell didn't cause her to join in the retching party, but being a kind, caring, empathetic soul, she breathed through her mouth, while holding his long silky green hair away from his face.

"Thanks," he sat back on his knees when he'd finished, shaking his head. Each strand of his emerald mane fell into its proper place as if it wouldn't dare do anything else. "That was mortifying."

"Not at all," Ashley said. "Look where you deposited your, um, stomach contents." Ashley glanced up at the topiary.

"In that case, well done, me!" Derek said, managing a faint smile.

A six-foot-high, vertical black seam ripped through the air, followed by a pop. Druscilla stepped through the opening, clutching the egg in front of her chest like a shield. Ashley gasped as she caught a glimpse of what lay on the other side of the seam—a room of horrors—unconscious children lying on mats, tubes snaking from their arms, rows of ominous dusty bottles lining the walls. But before she could make out any more detail, the seam healed, leaving only Druscilla planted in the middle of the knoll in a mirrored gown, chin raised, looking down at Ashley and Derek.

Her gown reflected the sun, dappling the garden with rainbow specks of light. In contrast with her shiny dress, her face appeared pale and drawn, as if the moisture had been squeezed out.

"You're finally awake," Druscilla drawled, "as if I had all day to kill you." She cackled half-heartedly. "Your friends are still dead to the world, I see." Druscilla tittered at her "cleverness." "Well, they'll be for-real dead soon enough. I'm on such a tight schedule; I almost had to kill you in your sleep. But then I said to myself—'Druscilla, be patient. It's more fun to kill the conscious.'" Druscilla's tone made it clear that she had had a lot of experience in the matter. But don't worry, sis. I used my time wisely by donning my gown for the Interkingdom Games." She twirled, sending the speckles of reflected light into a frenzy.

"Where are your shoes, woman?" Derek blurted. He had difficulty with wardrobe gaffes, but Ashley hoped he'd have the sense not to mention her missing toe. Druscilla was a bit sensitive about her toe "mishap." "And what happened to your toe? Gross!"

Ashley winced, waiting for Druscilla to eviscerate Derek verbally. Or physically. One or the other. But instead, she spun on Ashley.

"You did this to me with your freakishly small feet!" she snarled. "If your feet were normal, the shoes would've fit me without sacrificing body parts, and I would be the princess already. I wouldn't have to waste perfectly-good magic on seeing to your demise. Not that it won't be entertaining, but you're barely worth the effort."

"If I remember correctly, it was your mother's sage advice that resulted in the loss of your toes. 'Darling cut them off,' she said. 'Once you're a princess, you won't need them anymore.'"

"And she was right! I won't."

"Why does it matter? The prince wanted to marry the woman who wore the shoe to the ball. You pretending to be its owner would have been a lie," Ashley countered.

"The proclamation stated," Druscilla cleared her throat, "The prince shall marry the girl whose foot fits the slipper. Ergo, legally-speaking, consequently, blah blah blah, a requirement of ownership of the slipper in question wasn't stated."

"It was implied," Ashely said.

"Well, if that was Charming's intention, he should've been specific."

Derek pursed his lips. "What a botch job—both the uh, toe removal and the proclamation. I always say it's not wise to perform self-surgery, and never pick a spouse on foot-size alone."

"You always say that?" Ashley said.

"I said it, didn't I?"

"You test my patience, prince," Druscilla said, eyes flashing with hatred. "Soon, you shall suffer my wrath."

"For someone with places to go and kingdoms to conquer, you sure do a lot of talking and not much actual carnage," Derek noted.

"Did I ask you to speak?" Druscilla spat.

Oh, no. Had Derek gone insane? Well ... more insane? "Don't egg on the nice villain, Derek."

"I'd rather get the egg off her," Derek growled.

"Never!" Druscilla said.

Derek extracted the scissors from the pocket of his coat. "Ashley, don't you think we should cut off some of her other body parts? I recommend we start with her tongue. I promise, Druscilla, we'll do a much cleaner job of it than you did with the toes."

"As if your tiny weapon could harm me, a powerful magician," Druscilla scoffed.

"No one's cutting off anything," Ashley said, nudging down Derek's scissor-holding hand, hoping to draw Druscilla's anger away from the prince. Also, she needed answers, which would require Druscilla to keep her tongue. For the time being, at least as long as they could keep her from uttering any more incantations. "Please tell me what's going on. Where did you come from just now? What was that horrible room? Where are we? Why are my friends still asleep? Why must you kill us? Are my guards and Ruth okay?"

"Ruth?"

Ashley spread her arms wide. "Scales, fiery breath, pissed off."

"Oh, the dragon. I had to leave her behind with your silly entourage. She'd trample Daddy's prized apple orchard. He's very particular about his apples." With her free hand, Druscilla tugged at a bloodred apple from a nearby tree. The bough bent and snapped back once she'd captured the fruit. She took a bite, fragrant juices running down her chin. "Want one?" she taunted.

Ashley's stomach groaned. The apples were perfect and red and luscious, and at that point, she would've eaten anything, even goat's cheese.

Derek leaned toward Ashley's ear. "Don't eat it," he whispered. "They're surely poisoned. She's probably immune because the blood in her veins is 99% venom."

"No thanks, Druscilla," Ashley said, though a part of her was willing to take her chances. But instead of testing her luck, which so far had proven non-existent, Ashley continued her line of questioning. "I thought 'Daddy' wanted dragon blood."

"He does. And he will get it. Trust me. Ruth will stay right at the top of Mount Dolorem as long as I have this," Druscilla held up the egg.

Derek snarled.

"Ouch," Druscilla said, shifting the egg to her other arm.

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Wanna let me hold that for a bit? It looks a bit heavy for you. I recommend beauty rest. Those bags under your eyes! Try cucumber eye patches. Honestly, woman, you look like something half-dead that the cat dragged in. All the ostentatious gowns in the seven realms don't make up for a basic beauty regimen."

Dru bared her teeth and growled. "Accouterment déclassé!" she incanted. A magical spiral of slimy black tendrils twisted upward until Derek was encased in coils.

Uh, oh.

"Let him go," Ashley demanded. "He was only trying to be helpful."

Cackle, cackle. Cough. Cough. Druscilla hacked away.

The tendrils dissipated.

"Oh, my," Ashley said. Her well-heeled pal was not going to appreciate Dru's spell.

"What is it?" Derek said. "I blacked out for a moment."

Ashley bit her lip, scanning down at his attire.

Derek followed her gaze, clapping his hands in a frenzy over a pansy-purple velvet ­­­­coat shot through with curlicues of silver thread and sunbursts of sequins, matching tights, and the pièces de résistance—a purple velvet cap struck adorned, not with the standard single peacock feather, but with an entire stuffed peacock roosting on his head. His eyes widened from saucers to the size of dinner plates. "Draggle-tailed dummkopf!"

Druscilla cackled.

Naturally.

"It's not that bad," Ashley reassured the peacocked prince.

"Not that bad! It's like something my grandfather would've worn in the last century. Soooo 1423! If anyone in the Association of Well-dressed Princes saw me like this, they'd suspend my membership and mock me for all eternity."

Ashley thought better of reminding Derek that his previous wardrobe choices hadn't been that different and that the clothes he had just been wearing were filthy. "Maybe if you take off the hat?" Ashley suggested.

Derek removed the hat, examined it, and put it back on his head. "What are you talking about?" Derek said. "That's the only good part."

"What's going on?" came a whisper from behind Ashley's neck, like she'd been besieged by a ninja poltergeist.

Shivers rolled up Ashley's spine, and her heart exploded from her chest. She spun. "Arrrgggghhh, Layyin, don't do that!"

Layyin's face fell. "Do what?"

"Sneak up behind me."

Sadira, Kai, and Tressa lumbered up the knoll, joining the group.

"At last. You're all alive and kicking," Druscilla said. "Perfect. Finally, we get to the death part."

"Ohmigod, why are you barefoot?" Tressa said. "And what happened to your toe?"

"Just for that," Druscilla screamed, "I'm going to make you listen to my entire villain speech before I kill you."

"See, Derek said. "There are fates worse than death."

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*You knew that I couldn't kill her yet as there are still about 7 more chapters left in the book. What would I write about if I lost my POV character?

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If you're happy I didn't kill Ashley, I recommend voting. It puts your author in a good mood, and she's less likely to commit charactercide. Mwhahaha! :D