Editors Note: Part one can be found here.

Three years passed, during which time King Richard and Queen Lisette--quite conscious of the fact that they might never have gotten such a chance, if not for Miss Thessaly Jenkins' efforts--spent their every free waking moment with Chantinelle. None of the engineers' hard work went to waste, either. The dumb-waiter system proved an excellent system for intra-palace transport. The three-wheeled pedal-vehicles became quite a popular means of entertainment for the King, the Queen and the Palace staff as well as the little Princess. (One of the engineers noticed the emergence of the new sport, and executed a cunning plan to manufacture these "tricycles" for the general purchase of members of the public, which made him quite independently wealthy and led him into several peculiar adventures of his own--but that, too, is another story.)

But the demands placed on their time by a rambunctious little girl only increased, rather than fading away as she grew older, and the King and Queen found themselves longing for the pleasure of one another's company more and more often. They could think of no politic way of informing Chantinelle that no, it did not mean that Maman and Papa loved her any less if they wanted her to sleep by herself in a big-girl's bed, but that they really did need time to themselves. Thus, the Palace housekeepers, cooks and gardeners learned to avert their eyes and keep their mouths shut if perchance they discovered the King and Queen half-buried under a stack of laundry, or hidden in a very large cabinet, or sunning themselves in one of the royal gazebos in a manner of which the Church would not approve. And Princess Chantinelle, blissfully oblivious of the entire situation, was just as happy as everyone else at Court when she discovered that soon the stork would bring her a brand-new brother or sister to play with.

This time, Queen Lisette and King Richard set to preparing the christening festivities well before their child was born. By a quirk of timing, the baby was due to arrive shortly before Easter, so the family decided to set the ceremony and reception for nine in the morning on Easter Sunday itself. The Queen made a schedule for writing out invitations, such that she would only have to ready two or three every day for several months, rather than wearing out her hand at the last minute--so if nothing else, her travails had taught her the value of advance planning. She took care of Verdina's invitation and mailed it off first thing, and even extended a general invitation to any other fairies who might be in the vicinity at the intended time and wish to attend. The Wicked Fairy responded within a matter of days, and the Queen made certain to place her at a table with several Dukes and a visiting Crown Prince. No social discourtesy could be allowed to present Verdina with the opportunity to curse another royal child.

The blessed event came around in due time, and just two weeks before Easter, Queen Lisette delivered a second little girl. Unlike Chantinelle, the child was slender and light-boned, with wispy dark hair and deep grey eyes which stared intently at anything placed before them and could follow motion mere hours after her birth. "She has the soul of a philosopher," King Richard pronounced, and named her Hildegarde.

Easter Sunday began clear and warm, storybook-perfect. For five days straight, little Hildegarde had slept through the night, and on the morning of the feast she woke with the dawn. At the stroke of eight, the royal family piled into a town-coach, and off they went, carriage wheels rattling over the cobblestones, toward the cathedral at the heart of the city.

Hundreds of guests, easily, had arrived before them, hoping to get the first glimpse of the new baby girl. As the carriage approached, King Richard noticed a sizeable gap at the front of the crowd, and wondered aloud at its presence. Clairvaux, who had always been particularly keen of vision, peered ahead, and blanched. "They are avoiding Verdina, my lord," he announced.

King Richard nodded, and felt inside his waistcoat to make certain he'd remembered his flask.

Yet everyone, even Verdina, sank to their knees when the carriage clattered to a stop and the royal family emerged. Queen Lisette jostled King Richard's elbow, and guided his attention to the Wicked Fairy; he patted her hand and smiled. Perhaps this time all would go well.

High above the cathedral square, the first bell of the carillon sounded.

Verdina screamed and toppled to the ground.

Her body twitched and writhed in time with the music of the bells. With every knell, a greenish-black bruise appeared on her face or arms. Her howl went on and on. Small children in the crowd hid their faces in their mothers' skirts, sobbing and pressing their thumbs into their ears. Hildegarde hiccupped, screwed her eyes shut and her tiny hands into fists, and wailed. Queen Lisette, helpful as ever, threw herself into her husband's arms and beat helplessly at his chest, crying, "Oh, do something, someone, do something!" as the kneeling crowd looked on, frozen in shock. Still the tolling continued, while the Wicked Fairy contorted herself into ever more improbable positions and keened loudly enough to provoke bleeding from the ears of those too close by.

Abruptly the bells jangled to a halt, and from the tower a voice called out, "Your Majesties! Are the Princesses safe?" Resourceful young Rémy had alighted from the foot of the coach and climbed the bell-tower as soon as Verdina had fallen, and now peered down from the heights beside a cadre of worried-looking bell-ringers.

"Not for long, they shall not be," rasped Verdina, picking herself up from the ground. So many bruises and scrapes covered her that she appeared to have lost a fight with a hansom-cab, but was hardly the less fearsome for it. She plucked her black wand out of a torn sleeve and stalked toward the carriage, balancing on tiptoe to keep from stumbling over her half-broken-off, dragging bootheel.

Queen Lisette clutched tightly at King Richard's arm, her face the very picture of contrition. "Dear Fairy," she cried, "please, speak to us! What have we done to you?"

"Ignorant cow," hissed Verdina. "Thou hast the temerity to invite a Fairy to a cathedral, then forget the injury that church-bells do to our race? Were I not so forgiving, I might surmise that thou hadst done 't a-purpose!"

"Please, no, Dame Verdina!" interjected Queen Lisette. "Our intentions were honorable--we thought you might enjoy the spectacle of--we had no idea the bells would--"

Sadly, for all the effort the Queen had put into bettering her practical abilities, she had still devoted no time toward her extemporaneous public speaking.

"I see," said Verdina, stroking her chin with chipped fingernails. "Then perhaps thou may'st look on this as an opportunity to expand thy knowledge of how thou might'st avoid doing Fairies such grave injury in the future." She lifted her wand and glared at the baby in the nursemaid's arms. "Hildegarde d'Armagnac, I place this curse upon thee: Whatsoever constraineth the Fairy race shalt constrain thee also!" With that, she brought the wand down in a swift stroke, and the earth began to tremble. That was enough; the congregation had held its respectful position as long as it could, but at this point, there were lives to be run for.

Amid the screams and thundering footsteps of the fleeing crowd, a great crack appeared in the earth. From it rose a glittering green dragon with wings like marbled aventurine and eyes like onyx. The Wicked Fairy leapt onto its back and it launched itself into the sky, circling thrice over the ruined celebration before winging its way off to the southwest.

Despite some grumbling from the Church fathers, the christening was not rescheduled. It was generally agreed that the ceremony could go on without any bell-ringing, but no one knew whether any other ecclesiastical accoutrements would injure a child susceptible to everything which could harm a Fairy. Little Hildegarde did not quail at the sight of the Cross, but then she was not a vampire; nor did she recoil at the approach of silver, like that from which the baptismal font was made, but she was not a werewolf either. Cold iron, they knew, was right out, but that was not a part of the service anyway. The real sticking-point was holy water. Simply put, no one knew what effect it might have on a fairy. Did it scald, or blister, or dye the skin odd colours? All anyone could do was speculate. Queen Lisette suffered from nightmares in which her dark-haired daughter was dipped feet-first into a basin of holy water and promptly dissolved, screaming, from the toes up. The court physician suggested applying a sample by means of an eyedropper onto some insignificant portion of her body, such as her earlobe or her pinky toe, but the Queen would have none of it.

No, the only solution was to appeal to an expert; so Rémy the footman received a stout horse, a pouch full of gold, Miss Thessaly Jenkins' engraved business card, and instructions to retrieve an answer and, if possible, the good Fairy herself. He set out boldly, and got into many exciting escapades along the way, which your narrator shall be happy to relate to you on some other occasion.

This time, the response arrived in the form of a brief letter and a string-bound parcel of legal documents, borne home by Rémy some three months after his departure. Upon breaking the seal, the King and Queen read:

Your Majesties,

I regret that I could not spare the time to deliver this missive in person, but the present demands on my time are many and the moments I can afford quite few. Along with this note, you will find a collection of statutes, precedents, subpoenas, depositions, and other documents related to the matter of your younger daughter's curse. These you may peruse at your leisure; they are yours for your files. Herewith, I shall summarise the proceedings thus far.

Item the first. It is, I fear, quite impossible to obtain a revocation of this curse or reduce its efficacy. It was enacted under just provocation, and is suitably specific in its terminology.

Item the second. Though specific, the language of the curse is also quite broad. There is much which 'constrains' the Fairy race which need not be construed as weakness, and indeed, which might be considered benefits. For instance, Fairy law mandates a gathering of all fey-kind once every seven years; under the terms of the curse, Hildegarde's presence is required at these gatherings, which she will no doubt find both fascinating and educational.

Item the third. A number of the obligations inherent to the Fairy race require the use of abilities which mortals do not possess. Those of your race may not travel to Fairyland unaided; yet it still falls to Hildegarde to do so, as described above.

Item the fourth. Therefore, we propose that your daughter be accorded the powers and abilities necessary and sufficient for the performance of the duties required by the terms of the curse. Dame Avarissael baen Sidhe has already been apprised of this development, and agrees--although under protest, to be sure.

As your legal representative, I would be out of order were I to recommend any course of action other than to accept the compromise outlined herein. It does not come without cost, however. Princess Hildegarde will require tutelage in the proper use of her abilities, and such instruction can only properly come at the hands of one of the Fey. Fortunately, such an opportunity has already presented itself; one of our noble houses is in need of a suitable bride for its young heir, and proposes to arrange for Hildegarde's caretaking and education in exchange for her hand in marriage to their son once both have come of age. I know the family personally, and can vouch for their honour and excellent intentions.

Should you find these terms acceptable, please convey notice of such in writing, and I shall send an envoy to conduct Princess Hildegarde to her adopted home. Otherwise, I shall continue to negotiate with Dame Verdina, but I cannot promise that we will arrive at any terms more beneficial than these.

I remain,

Mlle. Thessalia Astutrices Benvenatrix daoine Sidhe

Thus, after some private and tearful negotiation between the King and Queen, and another journey on the part of tireless young Rémy, one of Miss Thessaly Jenkins' wood-sprite cousins set off with the fairy Princess Hildegarde on the thirteen-years' journey to Fairyland. Upon arriving, they discovered that Hildegarde's betrothed fairy-prince had come upon the ill fortune of being selected as the fairies' next tithe to Hell, and it was only through great courage and great hardship that Hildegarde was able to rescue him from that fate; but that, too, is another story for another time, as this one is not quite concluded yet.

Time went on, and Princess Chantinelle grew melancholy. She sulked in the nursery, made sullen faces at her tutors, and quite refused to smile, even at jugglers, offers of ice cream, or the trained capuchin monkey which the King had imported at great expense from a faraway land. It was only when the palace gardeners discovered her turning up every cabbage leaf in the royal vegetable plot that the King and Queen realized their Chantinelle was pining for another little brother or sister.

By this time, the little princess had developed something of an independent streak, and it took no persuading at all for her to let her Maman and Papa alone at night. Winter was coming on, which gave the King and Queen ample opportunity to retire to their chambers earlier and earlier every evening. At Christmas they announced that Queen Lisette was once again with child, and this time, the entire Court flew into a frenzy of planning.

Young Rémy set out post-haste to retrieve Miss Thessaly Jenkins as advocate-in-chief. Meanwhile, the Court librarians went on a mad research spree to assist in drafting the invitations: each card reminded guests to avoid bringing items made of cold iron and to remove their lucky horseshoes from over their doorframes. Every church in the land received instructions to muffle the clappers of their bells and lock their bell-tower doors on the christening day. The royal chefs experimented day and night to create appetizing recipes which incorporated neither mountain ash berries nor salt. And, once again, the engineers leapt to work, fitting dams and sluice-gates to every river, creek, stream, brook, rill and ditch in the land, just to make sure the Wicked Fairy would not find any running water behind which she could place herself and insist that her path had been intentionally blocked. (Some years later, another clever fellow invented hydroelectricity, which promptly vaulted the Kingdom into an extremely competitive position in the field of power generation. This, too, is another story, but it is a rather boring one.)

Nine months passed quickly. This time, the Queen gave birth to a healthy boy, whom they named Claude. The entire country rejoiced at the news, for now the royal family had an heir--but now it was even more important that the Wicked Fairy be kept from interfering with the child's safety. Too quickly, the days until the christening ticked away, until all the Court began to despair of their protector ever returning.

At last, on the afternoon before the celebration, Miss Thessaly Jenkins arrived, leading a caravan of vaguely pumpkin-shaped wagons drawn by Shetland ponies. "Very sorry!" her high voice rang out as she drove, frantically waving her handkerchief all the way up the High Street to the castle gates. "Very, very sorry," she repeated when the King and Queen met her at the portcullis. "I wanted to be well prepared, you see, and I needed a few books which took some tracking down." She gestured to the train of carts behind her. "Only the most essential volumes, to be sure, but we must be ready for anything."

"Indeed," King Richard mused, rotating his brandy glass in one hand and considering the flotilla of tiny horses. "Well, we shall have to make room somehow. Footman!" He snapped his fingers, and Rémy jumped down from one of the other book-wagons. "See that these ponies are stabled securely, and the library shelved where it can be reached easily." So, while the King and Queen escorted Miss Thessaly Jenkins inside, Rémy took up the driver's seat on the first wagon, led the caravan through the gates, and reluctantly informed the engineers that their lease was up. That done, he roused the stablehands to take care of the Shetlands and a bevy of housekeepers to move the books, and then ran upstairs to look after Miss Thessaly Jenkins. He found her engaged in a lengthy discussion with King Richard and Queen Lisette, doing her level best to allay their respective sincere concerns and hand-clasping, eyelash-fluttering fears; but as the Gentle Reader has been exposed to quite enough of Queen Lisette's theatrics already, and as nothing else interesting happened in the castle that evening, your Narrator finds it more expedient to move on to the events of the following day.

It seemed as if all the nation--indeed, the earth itself--held its breath throughout the christening, waiting for disaster to strike. The clouds hovered at the edge of bursting, but not a drop fell; the bishop held baby Claude as if he were a basket of eggs, and recited only as much of the liturgy as canon law absolutely required. Verdina sat in the foremost pew, irreproachable in silence and emerald chinoise, while the gathered crowds hardly dared murmur. It was the most ghastly dull national holiday anyone could remember--but nothing had gone awry so far.

With the baptism concluded, all present retired to the palace for the feast. All and sundry gave way to Verdina as she floated up the steps and into the grand hall, where she took her seat at the King's right hand. At a sign from Queen Lisette, the chamber orchestra struck up a cheerful rondeau, and a flock of gold-liveried waitstaff rushed in with the soup course. Verdina took up the gold-chased spoon from her place setting, raised a spoonful of tomato bisque to her lips, and smirked. She tasted it, and the smirk changed to a scowl.

"What's the matter, dear Fairy?" inquired Queen Lisette. "Is it too spicy? Too bland? Don't say you've burned your mouth?"

"No." Verdina grimaced. "It's perfect."

So it went over the entire evening. Lady Bonnebouche, to Verdina's right, kept up just the right flow of conversation throughout the night, neither too weighty nor too immaterial, and never once boring. The chamber orchestra missed not a single note, all the candles stayed lit, and every course of the meal surpassed the one before. At every turn, Verdina seemed about to raise some triumphant exception and claim offense, and at every turn she came away deflated. At last, exasperated, she raised her eyes to the ceiling and snarled, "Must you miserable mortals be so thrice-damned faultless?"

The room fell silent.

"Darling?" piped up Queen Lisette. "Did you hear what she just said?"

"Mm," said King Richard, lifting his chin out of his goblet. "Not even paying attention, and I heard that quite clearly. I dare say we've been insulted, chèrie."

Verdina whirled to face him, eyes sparking green fire. "Liar!" she spat, and pounded a fist on the table. "How dare you intimate that I--"

"Pish-tosh," spoke up Miss Thessaly Jenkins from the far end of the table. "Even I heard you, and so, I'll wager, did every other witness here." She glanced up and down the table. Heads in every direction bobbed up and down. Miss Thessaly Jenkins crossed her arms and smiled. "You know, Your Majesties, you'd be well within your rights were you to seek a legal injunction for this insult to your personages..."

"Like a restraining order?" King Richard asked, swirling the brandy in his goblet round and round.

"Precisely," Miss Thessaly Jenkins replied. "Or a restraining curse, if you will."

Verdina scowled impotently, and Miss Thessaly Jenkins fixed her with a sweet grin.

"Oh, do, please," Queen Lisette entreated, clasping her hands beneath her chin for the very last time in this story, your Narrator promises. Miss Thessaly Jenkins nodded smartly and reached under the table for her parasol. Off came the handle once more, and out came the wand with the seven-pointed star. Rémy stepped up behind her to slide back her chair as she rose, lifting the wand high.

"Dame Verdina Avarissael baen Sidhe," she pronounced, "thou art forbidden ever again to threaten harm of any nature to any descendant of King Richard and Queen Lisette, or to any ancestor, or any subject, or they themselves, on pain of retribution from the High Court of Faerie. Dost thou question this order?"

The Wicked Fairy glowered, but shook her head and muttered, "No."

"So mote it be!" Miss Thessaly Jenkins cried. She whirled her wand in one loop, then another, then drew a straight line in the air as if drawing a knot tight. "It's done, Your Majesties."

"Spoilsports," Verdina snorted, and summarily vanished in an oily cloud of smoke, leaving a greasy stain on the carpet which still has not come out. And so the feast continued, this time with a merry buzz of conversation and much less tension in the air. Everyone went home full and happy, and the Queen retained her reputation as a first-class hostess.

King Richard went back to governing with an easy hand and enjoying the fruits of his country's vineyards, and soon became his son's favourite horsey.

Princess Chantinelle maintained her doll-like good looks as she grew older. She also discovered a hidden talent for the newborn art of photography and founded a newspaper with the help of the son of one of the very engineers who had assisted her as a baby.

After the fairy Princess Hildegarde arrived in Fairyland and rescued her betrothed, she inherited the title of the house into which she had married. While her husband ruled their fiefdom, she handled disputes between tenants, and ultimately became a fairy solicitor herself, much to the dismay of the less-clever fairies of the world.

Prince Claude was engaged at the age of six to a foreign princess who turned out to be a prince in disguise. Mortal lawyers being not so cunning as Fairy lawyers, the Court was unable to find a loophole to extricate the Prince from said arrangement; but the two princes got along well enough, and throughout their joint misadventures fathered enough bastards to rule twenty kingdoms, so they had their pick of heirs between them.

Not very much happened to Rémy, but he enjoyed himself while it lasted.

Don't worry about your Narrator. I'm just fine, and thank you for asking.

Miss Thessaly Jenkins betook herself back across the Channel, where she resumed her practice and took on all cases that came her way, most of them even stranger than this one.

And they all lived arbitrarily ever after.

The End

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