Chapter Two

In Which Gwendolyn Is Slightly (But Only Slightly) Less Ridiculous, And Her Virtue Is Called Into Question

Gwendolyn had been wandering in the enchanted forest for a grand total of five minutes when she faced her first challenge. The well that was not five minutes off the path, from which all the villagers got their water, had an old woman sitting at it. Gwendolyn knew from the moment she laid eyes on her that she was in fact a fairy in disguise, and if she refused to help her, she would have a curse laid on her again. Happy at the thought of this (perhaps she would not have to find the witch after all!) she skipped over toward the well.

“Hullo!” she said, to the old woman stooped over there. “Who are you?”

“My name is—well, my name is Elinora,” said the old woman creakily (as old woman are wont to be). “And I am thirsty and desire a drink of water, but I cannot lower the bucket into the well to get myself a drink of water. Would you be so kind as to help an old woman get a drink of water?”

“Repetitive old biddy,” thought Gwendolyn. Aloud, she said, “Of course I'd be happy to get the water for you, mother.”

Carefully, she lowered the bucket into the well, and filled it, before lifting it back to the top. “Here you go!” she said cheerfully, lifting the bucket and flinging its contents over the old woman.

“Oh, damn, not this again,” said the old woman, before melting into a puddle of brown glop.

Gwendoyln stared at the spot where the old woman had been. “You were supposed to curse me for being impudent and throwing the water at you!”

“Sorry,” said the puddle. “I'm a witch, not a fairy. We melt.”

“Why aren't you a fairy?” demanded Gwendolyn. “I thought only fairies could wait at wells to gift or curse beautiful maidens!”

“It's the fairy's day off, I'm afraid,” said the puddle. “I told her I'd cover for her. Someone had to be here.”

“Oh, damn!” she swore, and stomped off, deeper into the forest.

“Think of how I feel,” said the puddle mournfully. “That's the third time I've been melted this week.”

Alas for the puddle, as Gwendolyn was already out of earshot by the time she said this, and so of course did not hear her. Not that she would have cared, had she heard; as was expected of princesses of her literary role, Gwendolyn was interested only in herself.

Another hour's worth of uneventful skipping through the forest brought Gwendolyn back to the cottage of the witch she'd originally visited earlier in the day. This time, instead of barreling in without announcing herself, she rang the bell, and waited patiently for the witch—er, interior decorator—to appear. “She'd better be home,” muttered Gwendolyn, tapping her foot impatiently, and waiting for the door to open. “I won't have walked all this way for nothing.”

Just as she was about to leave (perhaps kicking over the ugly garden gnomes as she did), the door swung open, and the decorator came out to greet her.

“Gwen!” said the decorator, stepping out onto the porch. “What a wonderful surprise! What brings you back to my cottage? Did you talk to your parents about redecorating that dreary castle they call home?”

Gwendolyn winced—the decorator had a voice that sounded like nails on a blackboard; no wonder she'd initially become a witch—and shook her head quickly. “I didn't get a chance to mention it before they turned me out, and back into the forest,” she said pathetically. “You see, I was sent out to find my fortune, and until I do, they've decided not to let me back home. I can't come back until I've found a handsome knight to call my own.” She made a point of letting her eyes fill with tears as she said this—one of the perks to being a princess; she was able to cry on command.

“That's horrible!” said the decorator sympathetically. “But—I don't understand. Why did you come back to me?”

“You were the one that cursed me in the first place,” explained Gwendolyn, sniffling. “I thought maybe you would be able to put the curse back on me, and they could put me in a tower or something, and I'd catch a prince that way.”

The decorator gave her a thoughtful look. “No,” she said, her eyebrows knit.

“No?” asked Gwendolyn, her tears stopping immediately. “No?” It wasn't a word she was used to hearing, being a fairytale princess.

“No, sorry,” said the decorator solemnly. “I don't think I can help you. I've been clean for close to a year now; I'm not about to get back into that habit again. All it takes is one spell, and suddenly you're devising plans for building a house out of gingerbread, and looking up recipes for how to roast children—no, I'm not about to start up again.”

“I can understand that, but can't you see how you've ruined my life?” demanded Gwendolyn. “Don't you understand how I've been turned out of the house, and won't be allowed to go back until I've found my fortune? Don't you care?”

“Um,” said the decorator, and took a step back. “Look, I don't mean this in a bad way, but--”

Gwendolyn looked up at her tearily, tilting her head to give the best tears-to-eye ratio. “But what?”

“I don't,” said the decorator, and promptly shut the door.

“Oh, honestly,” muttered Gwendolyn darkly, her tears immediately ceasing. “You have to care! It's in the story!”

“No, sorry,” came the decorator's voice, muffled by the door. “I stopped following the story a long time ago. You're going to have to make your own fortune, I suppose. Wander around the forest. You'll be bound to annoy someone into cursing you.”

“I tried that already, but I only ended up melting them,” said Gwendolyn. “And I don't think I could annoy anyone else. I'm too nice.”

There was a sound as of laughter from behind the door.

“I am!” Gwendolyn said defensively. “I'm a princess! We're always nice.”

More laughter, this time bordering on hysterics.

“Well, fine,” she said, and wandered out the way she'd come (overturning the garden gnomes as she did). “I'll show you lot. I'll wander the forest, and end up not getting cursed at all, and then where will I be?”

Of course, there was no response to this.

Gwendolyn wandered the forest for another hour without so much as seeing another being, let alone an evil witch or fairy.

“Damn,” she muttered. “I thought enchanted forests were supposed to be stiff with people ready to curse you at the drop of a hat.”

“Usually they are,” said a voice. “Today's Sunday, though. Most of us consider Sunday to be a day of rest. You don't get many adventurers on Sundays, that's for certain.”

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow. “Oh good sir,” she ventured. “Might you show yourself to this poor, pathetic maiden, wandering alone in the forest?”

“Oh, posh,” said the voice. “You're no nearer a maiden than I am. Anyway, I'm right in front of you. In the clearing, next to the pool.”

“Are you casting aspersions of doubt on my virtue?” asked Gwendolyn, indignant. She pushed through the brush blocking her path, till the clearing was in sight. “I'll have you know, whoever you are, that I am most certainly a mai--” she began, and stopped.

“Right, and I'm the Queen of England,” said the unicorn lazing by the pool. “I'm a unicorn. We know these things.”

“I really am a maid, though,” said Gwendolyn weakly. “Surely you're mistaken.”

The unicorn squinted at her. “Oh, well, that's all right then,” it said. “Sorry. You know how it is. Some princess comes along, claims that she's still a maiden, and you find out that she and her true love have been married for six months, and she's only being used as bait so they can get a unicorn horn. You can never be too careful.”

“No, I suppose you can't be,” she agreed.

“Anyway, since you're a maid, perhaps you could do me a favour?” said the unicorn conversationally. “There haven't been many maidens around lately, and so there's been no one to braid flowers into my hair, and I sort of miss it . . .” It gave her a hopeful look. “There's some poppies by the pool you could use.”

“Sorry, but I don't think I have the time,” said Gwendolyn hurriedly. “I mean—well, look. I'm on a quest. I need to get someone to curse me, and quickly, so I can go out into the world and find my fortune, or my parents won't let me back home. Do you know anyone that could?”

It gave her a level look. “No, sorry,” it said decisively. “Like I said, it's Sunday. We all take our days off on Sundays.”

“The witch didn't,” muttered Gwendolyn.

“What was that?” asked the unicorn, giving her a steely look.

“Er, I didn't say anything,” she said quickly. “I was just—talking to myself. Bad habit.”

“Indeed,” said the unicorn darkly. “Anyway, if you're not going to have time to braid flowers into my mane, the least you could do is sing me something pretty as you leave.”

“Oh, but I don't have a very good singing voi--” began Gwendolyn, only to be interrupted by the unicorn.

“Load of old posh,” it said loudly. “All princesses can sing.”

“I can't,” said Gwendolyn pathetically. “I come from a small kingdom. We couldn't afford a singing instructor, so I got drawing lessons instead.”

The unicorn gave her a level look. “You expect me to believe that? All princesses can sing like nightingales.”

“Not all of us,” said Gwendolyn, wincing. “Really—I can't.”

“You're not even trying,” said the unicorn. “Go on then—sing something.”

Unfortunately for the unicorn, Gwendolyn had not been lying when she said she had no musical talent whatsoever. While it was not quite true that her parents could not afford to hire a singing instructor for her, she had a horrible voice. Multiple methods had been tried to tame her ungodly screeching, and as a result, while she could play quite prettily on the harp, she was not able to accompany herself—in fact, as she had gotten older, her singing had only gotten worse. Rumors abounded throughout her parents' kingdom as to what would happen, should she try to sing again—most of them agreeing that the kingdom as they knew it would be destroyed in the process.

Gwendolyn herself had long ago learned to live with the horrible noises that passed for her signing, and had trained herself at a young age to stop singing in the bath (after nearly frightening two of her ladies-in-waiting to death, and directly causing the suicide of a porter who happened to past too near the room she was bathing in while she sang). She had no pretensions about her voice, and certainly didn't want to hurt the unicorn by singing at it.

“Really,” she said desperately. “I can't sing. At all. I have a horrible voice. There are laws on the books regarding my attempts to sing.”

“I doubt that,” said the unicorn darkly. “Now, sing for me, and I'll tell you where you can find someone to curse you.”

Gwendolyn thought about this for a moment. On the one hand, the unicorn was likely to want to kill her after hearing her sing. On the other—unicorns were magical creatures. Perhaps it would curse her itself. “All right,” she said finally. “But you won't like it.”

“I love singing of all sorts,” insisted the unicorn. “Now sing me Scarborough Faire.”

Wincing, Gwendolyn stuck her fingers firmly in her ears, squeezed her eyes shut, and began to sing.

By the second line of the song, she could smell something burning. By the second verse, the burning smell was more pronounced, and despite the fingers in her ears, she could hear something very close to moaning.

Deciding that the unicorn had probably heard enough to decide that she couldn't actually sing, she unplugged her ears, and opened her eyes.

What had previously been a pool, with a unicorn lounging by it, was now a dry, dead-looking wasteland, with no unicorn in sight. She sighed.

“Well, I did try to warn him,” she muttered, kicking at the dusty, dried-out undergrowth. “I suppose I can't really be blamed.”

As the unicorn was nowhere to be found, Gwendolyn wisely decided it was perhaps best to move on, in search of someone else to curse her.

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Author's Note: I upped the rating on this story, for what I should hope are obvious reasons. Next update should be sometime later this week, or early next week. Thanks for reading!