The red hair was new.
Jon jerked up from the world’s coziest bed and checked downwards. Same, soft princess body as usual, with its perfect skin and curves and feminine movements he couldn’t quite shake off no matter how much he tried. This morning, it was wearing this identity’s best attempt at nightwear, with silk that clung so tightly it might as well have had a personal grudge against modesty.
Still absolutely bonkers, but nothing new. The red hair—that was new.
“Athena?” He glanced around for the goth-turned-fairy. No response.
Personally, said a gentle impulse buried deep in his mind. I find the color suitable for a princess. It’s charming.
“Not a princess,” he shot back.
Are to! said the voice.
Jon fumbled around and reached for his glasses. The hair had the same annoying length as yesterday, but the shade was a stately wine color—a far cry from his usual brown. Also, it was curly. And fluffy. Extremely fluffy. Beautiful, probably, but in a oh-god-this’ll-take-hours-to-manage sorta way.
“Athena? Can we follow up on last night’s talk?” he asked. Still no response. Where was she?
Separately, pressingly, why the hell did he have red hair? Did the fairies do this? Did mom make more wishes?
L-language! said the voice.
And if mom did make another wish… How did he notice the change?
“Athena!”
“Loud!” said Athena, popping from behind a book pile and rubbing her eyes. “Dude, why are you talking so… Huh. What happened to your hair?”
Oh! Ask the kind fairy if she likes it.
“I don’t know,” Jon said instead. “Woke up like this, and—”
“It looks great.”
See?
Knock, knock, knock.
“Princess?” asked a voice from across the door. “His Majesty would like to know if you’ll be joining brunch.”
Heck. Did the voice say his majesty?
Language!
“One moment!” Jon sprang up, stumbled over the too-much hair, and fell with a thump.
His Majesty. There was no His Majesty yesterday. Just Jon, mom, and the occasional mention of princess Zoe off doing something somewhere. His Majesty was new. Jon decided this all had to be a wish. What was mom doing?
The door opened. A maid walked through. Jon went wide-eyed.
Sarah McMillan glared down at him, a tad more extravagantly dressed than the palace maids yesterday. Same black and white palette, but extra ruffles and fabric. Lots of leg. She was almost dressed like that pretty secretary who followed mom around.
“Princess Jeanne,” Sarah said, her tone impatient and laced with the typical arrogance—but without the sharpness Jon was used to. This was more… Comfortable? Nice? “I take, like, a weekend off. A weekend. And your room is total trash.”
She gasped.
“And what happened to your hair?”
“The color?” Jon asked.
“What? No. That’s gorgeous as always.” Sarah stepped forward, eyes darting at the books with irritation. “It’s tangled. After I made you promise to brush it.”
An hour later, Jon sat in front of the mirror as his brain short-circuited. Sarah had weaved his hair into a wavy half-bun, tied around a silvery pin and decorated with tropical flowers he could barely name. If she’d stopped there, everything would’ve been nice and peachy. But then Sarah noticed how Jon kept trying to kick her out and decided “the good princess deserved to look especially nice today.”
This meant clothes and makeup.
The outfit was, of course, impeccable. A layered maxi dress clung to his obnoxious hourglass figure, pearly in color and decorated with a pink-and-orange petal design. The sunhat? Adorable. The heels? A pair of lace-up sandals that stood even taller than yesterday’s.
The makeup was mortifying. Bright, vibrant, immaculate—with sunset colored lipstick that brought attention to Jon’s lovely, pouty lips, a smidge of eyeshadow to make his darling eyes pop under his glasses, and some floral perfume that smelled too rich and sweet for his taste.
Pretty. Feminine. Impossible. Jon felt less and less ownership of his own body. He noticed Athena snickering, hidden in some corner.
“There,” Sarah said. “Absolutely adorbs. How do you feel?”
Jon winced. He couldn’t decide which was worse: the fact Sarah was turned into his own lady-in-waiting, or that she was so visibly comfortable with the role. Somehow, in this new reality, she even seemed to like him.
“Expensive and flower-scented,” he finally mumbled, flatly. Was that okay? Did Princess Jeanne do sarcasm?
In polite company, no. But Sarah falls elsewhere when it’s just us two.
Sarah gave an eye roll. “Yeah, well, maybe I could get away with less if you weren’t royalty or looked like, ya know, you. Honestly a waste, if you ask me—that beauty would be better spent on someone who actually craved the spotlight instead of hiding away all day with these books.”
Jon blushed. It wasn’t his fault the stone made his body so… Distracting.
Stone. Wishes. Right.
“Sarah?” Jon asked. “You mentioned His Majesty. How… Is he?”
Nailed it.
“Oh right, your father got back from that diplomatic trip, didn’t he?” Sarah moved to clean the pile of makeup. “The maids reported ‘the usual noises’ in your mother’s chambers last night, so I’m assuming he’s doing great”—she smirked at Jon’s reaction—“but other than that? Nothing to note.”
Less than helpful. “You mentioned brunch—”
“Probably over by now,” Sarah said, gesturing to the mirror.
“Right. And, uh, do I have a schedule today?” It was weird to ask Sarah this. It was weirder that she even had an answer.
She pulled out a literal binder. “Today… Dance classes, etiquette classes—don’t give me that face, you’ll be free of both when you stop avoiding the other aristocracy. It's getting politically awkward—and you might get called to supervise some legislative discussion. Want me to pencil something in?”
“Please,” Jon said. “How soon can you schedule a private meeting with my mother?”
