Undercaffeinated and Overexposed

Undercaffeinated and Overexposed

Tales from a Coffee Shop Princess, Volume 2

By Andrew G. Schneider

Copyright 2014 Andrew G. Schneider

Smashwords Edition

Cover art copyright 2014 Stephanie Martinez

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Part 1

Part 2

About the author

Part 1

Lady, are you okay?

On my knees in the middle of the midnight street, a nineteenth-century hoop skirt pooling across the matte-black asphalt, I could be a refugee from a costume ball. Or an insane asylum. I struggle to my feet, stagger a few steps. Nope, not okay.

Ma’am, do you need help?

Do I ever. My knees revolt and the road rises to meet me. That’ll hurt in the morning, if I make it that far. I feel like I’ve woken up on the wrong side of an empty bottle and I can’t remember why.

I laugh, a nervous giggle, because there’s nothing else there. I can’t think, my mind full up with old London’s death-black fog. Except this isn’t London, is it? Hot, languid, green. I remember this New World capital. The broad boulevards of Washington, D.C.

Everybody’s staring at me. Electric lights — fluorescent, neon, LED — reflect off a press of concerned faces. They edge closer, but not too close. People get out of their cars — I’m blocking traffic — and wander off the sidewalk. Please, don’t stare. I’ll be fine if you just don’t look too closely. See, standing again already!

Somebody call 911.

More people, cars honking. I’m causing a scene, but no one’s got the nerve to get close. I must be quite a sight, like a rabid dog. Stay back! I throw out my arms to keep the crowd at bay, to ward away the pressing surge of curiosity and concern. Not for balance. Definitely not for balance.

Deep breaths. Don’t panic if I’m not panicking already, though this may qualify. I blink several times, get my hands to blur into focus, capture that certain sharpness to the air, a quality of light leaning towards the improbable. Dear God, I’m not one of them, am I? Not mortal. If they figure me out—

Focus. Like a camera ready to steal my soul. Superstition. Poppycock. Except I’m a living, breathing piece of inspiration; the walking reflection of a dream. I’m fairy folk, Folk for short, and terribly vulnerable to that fisheye lens.

I shake my head side to side as the wrecking ball rattles around my skull, demolishing castle walls and dragons’ lairs and I swear I’ll never drink again except maybe one more for the road—

Mommy, she looks like a princess.

The kid’s words ring true through the fog. I’m Beauty. Belle sans Beast. Beaut to my friends. A bona fide fairy-tale princess.

Now where’s my knight in shining armor?

There she is, boy. A man’s harsh bellow echoes over the crowd. Get her!

I have to get out of here.

Please, keep him away from me, I sob, drawing on my years of experience as a damsel in distress. I don’t want to go back. Into that man’s camera. Into the Dark of his veiled chamber, cold and alone.

The crowd, already sympathetic, surges instinctively in my defense. And I push past them, hike my skirts and make my escape. Panicking now.

Miss? A woman tries to grab my arm. We can help you— I shake her off.

I can’t stay. No drunk sorority pledge or abused girlfriend but money on the lam. Folk are worth their weight in gold, and this stupid dress adds at least ten pounds. I have to go home. The truth is not my friend.

Home. Not the Buchenwald, Germany’s dark forest. That hasn’t been home for more than two hundred years. Home is here. Washington, D.C. The Tale’s End Books and Café. Neutral ground in the shadow war between mortals and Folk. Prison and asylum.

I pound down this street and the next, places I recognize — office buildings, storefronts —flying past. I trust my feet to familiar paths and fly on the wings of adrenaline.

Nearly there. The front door’ll be locked at this hour. I need to get around back to the alley. Round one corner then, and anoth—

My high heel catches in a crack of broken pavement and snaps, sends me tumbling into a pile of leaky garbage bags. There’s a tearing sound, and a line of fire down my leg as I hit something hard and sharp.

No! I try to pull myself clear of the garbage and only dig something deeper into my shin, whimpering, clawing like a wolf in a huntsman’s trap. It doesn’t matter if I have to drag myself across the cracked pavement by my broken fingernails; I’m only ten steps to the door!

My pursuer comes into view. Backlit by a yellow streetlight, he’s a looming shadow defined by the flickering red of his camera’s charging flashbulb.

I need you, Beauty, the man says, gulping air. You’re my muse.

That’s all we Folk are nowadays: chattel for whichever wannabe writer can catch us in their camera. Years pass as we live and breathe the novel, from inception to completion, bringing character, plot, and life to hackneyed prose. And mortals get rich in the process.

The hell you do, I spit and hiss. I don’t even know your name.

Does it matter?

To me it does. So I can curse you with every breath.

Sam. Samuel Johnson, the shadow speaks, and the baleful red eye holds steady. This is it, then. I collapse into the garbage, exhausted, deflated, liquid putrescence seeping down my neck. Ten steps too far.

Face the camera. I am Beauty of the Buchenwald. Hold onto myself for as long as possible. Mistress of the hundred-year nap, the fifty-foot ponytail, and the glass-slipper two-step. A princess. I will not beg.

Light floods the alleyway and Sam’s hand comes off the camera, shading his eyes.

Who’s there? An ancient, querulous voice calls out. What’s going on?

My heart soars. She’s Folk; I can hear it in her voice.

I’m a writer, ma’am. Sam squints. He’s not what I expected — clad in a long red bathrobe and flannel pajamas — but I remember the face. Angular, with a shock of white hair and a Spanish goatee. Clear blue eyes. I met him in a bar, got drunk, and he, the gentleman, offered to walk me home. And then the flash.

I work my leg free, refuse to show pain. I’m not out the woods yet. Not all Folk are friends. That door can still close in my face.

You’re on neutral ground, dearie. An old crone steps into the alley, a bright red apple in her hand. This is bookstore property. Cameras are illegal. She pauses. There’s a sign, I think, on the wall to your right. Damn straight.

Want to be a writer? Pick up a pen and best of luck. Want to be an author, with all the fame, fortune, and up-twist martinis that title implies? Pick up a camera. Like tigers, we’re out there if you know where to look. Novels aren’t an art anymore — they’re a big game hunt. And if you play by the rules, the mortals always win.

Sam puts up his chin. She escaped early somehow. I need her to finish the novel.

I flop out of the trash. My story has a different ending, I growl.

Tut tut, the crone takes a deep bite of the apple. Between one step and the next the crone’s back straightens, wrinkles melt away, and stringy gray hair fills out into a luxurious fall of the blackest black. From crone to vixen in two seconds flat. I advise against aiming your camera.

And why is that?

Because, the vixen reaches into the shadows of the alley and pulls out a young boy, hobbled and gagged, by his hair. I have your son.

Maeve? The last of the fog lifts from my mind. She’s the Tale’s End’s resident scholar and wicked, wicked witch. We’re friends, I think.

Sam pales. How did you get him?

It’s like magic, no? He arrived before you and agreed to stay for a piece of gingerbread. Maeve caresses the boy’s cheek with one talon-like fingernail. It’s been a long while since I had a good source of rendered fat. Or perhaps I shall turn him into a frog for our collection.

No, don’t! I stand, fall, and stand again, favoring my good leg and a hefty chunk of wall. Freedom at such a price. Don’t do it, Maeve. Sam’ll bring me back in a few years. It won’t be that bad. The boy’s not at fault. The sins of the father…

Hush, dearie. I believe I can handle one disgruntled hack and his pup.

I could catch you both. Sam’s voice trembles.

Really? Maeve holds up the apple, whole and unblemished once more. Are you that fast? Catch me and the apple falls. What happens then… She shrugs. Drop the camera and your son goes free. Never cross our path again, and safe he will remain.

The camera clatters to the ground. Sam gathers his son in his arms and doesn’t look back.

Um, so, I ask Maeve after the mortals are gone. What would have happened if the apple fell? I’m shaking. Nerves, adrenaline. Definitely not the intimate memory of foul magic and lost children. Three dozen gone and a harvest of apples to beat the bank. A village draped in black.

No. Just nerves.

Nothing but a sadly bruised fruit, I’m afraid. Maeve takes a bite and changes from young to middle-aged in the space of a long, slow breath. I’d like to think she’s telling the truth. Every fairy tale has a dark side, dearie. We are mystery and terror as well as hope and dream. And sometimes, rarely, that is enough. Maeve holds the door for me as I limp down the alley and into the café. Welcome home, Princess.

&&&

Maeve helps me inside to the Tale’s End’s singular office. A high-vaulted octagonal chamber stretches and spins under my unsteady weight, the ceiling mosaic of a forest primeval blurring into a kaleidoscope of greens and browns. Must be mid-summer; those tiles change with the seasons.

Steady, dearie, Maeve catches me by the shoulders. Why don’t you have a seat?

Sure. Why not? I hobble across the room, over a plush oriental carpet and past walls lined with tall mahogany shelves and filled with objects — a lock of hair in the shape of an adder, the breath of the north wind, a crown of ever blooming flowers, and many, many others. All left in tithe by passing Folk.

Three pieces of furniture adorn the office. Dominating the room is a long, broad desk with a brass and greenshade lamp, quill and inkpot, and a large crystal terrarium. On the far side of the desk is a tall, leather, and exceedingly comfortable-looking chair. The closer chair is small, wooden, and tends to give me splinters whenever I sit for too long. With a small sigh, I collapse into the wooden chair.

Isn’t Tania around? I ask. Maeve scares me, if only because her logic and mine don’t intersect. Dark-addled, some Folk call her, when they think she can’t hear them.

Tania’s far more predictable. I can deal with Tania, sometimes.

Maeve chuckles at some private joke. She was not expecting visitors.

Well then. I can come back later. Really, no bother. Just as happy to save this little visit for later. I’ll just limp upstairs, get cleaned up…

Nonsense, dearie. Maeve pats my hand and wanders around the room towards the door, her black lacquered fingernails almost, but not quite brushing a hollow birch wand on one of the shelves. I’ll go get her, and you can spend some quality time with Hank. I’m sure he’s missed you. Oh, well. It was worth a shot.

Hank is a red-warted toad with mottled brown skin, sole occupant of the terrarium. Hey there, handsome. Doing anything tonight? I give him my best Mae West impression, but Hank just sits there and blinks, his body expanding and contracting in a slow, even rhythm. No reaction. Sorry about the lack of ladies. I’m sure someone will turn up eventually. Hank used to be an up and coming Department of Homeland Security agent. We were friends — almost an item — when he did us, me a wrong turn. Turns out Maeve’s threat of frogs was not entirely without precedent; she’s just not the one to do that sort of thing.

Our boss, Titania, is.

You’re looking a little chubby there. I tap on the terrarium glass. Tania spoiling you with flies? I could get you one of those hamster wheels.

You’re bleeding all over my office. Tania announces her arrival. I stand slowly, favoring my uninjured leg. Folk heal fast, so long as we’re not killed outright, but the cut must’ve gone deeper than I thought. Hope my tetanus shots are up to date.

Hey, Tania. I begin to sketch a curtsey, tradition and all, and my leg gives out. Catch myself on the chair and swear as several splinters dig into my palm. I’m back.

Tania’s gaze flicks to my hand. I can see that. Cool and collected even at this late hour, Titania’s dressed in her usual crisp purple skirt and white shirt, her copper-tinged hair gathered in a tight bun at the back of her head. Only the lack of makeup tells me she was roused from a deep slumber.

I worry the splinters as Titania walks to her desk, opens the bottom drawer, and hands me a towel. I suppose it’s too much to hope for a smile.

Thanks. Mop up the blood on the carpet and hold the towel to my leg. Nasty cut, straight down my shin and half-an-inch deep. Sorry about the rug. Probably a thousand-year-old irreplaceable piece of hand-dyed—

It can do with being washed. Tania leans over the terrarium and drops a dead fly inside with a pair of chopsticks. Hank slurps it up in one of the more minimalist displays of dining I’ve ever seen. He is the laziest, most uninteresting specimen for whom I have ever cared. Tania turns her head slightly, watching me from the corner of her eye. Surprising, given the energy and ambition of his previous life.

Maybe he’s depressed? Small talk from Tania? Good sign.

I do not imagine toads can feel depression.

You ever been one? I start to relax.

No.

Me neither. Keep up the chatter. Chuck would know, though.

Ah yes, your frog prince. Tania chuckles, like the ringing of tiny silver bells.

Once upon a time. A little joke between Folk. I hazard a smile.

There’s a sudden lull in the conversation. Silence like a heavy black curtain passes between us as Titania turns to face me, her eyes emeralds as deep and dark as the earth from which they were mined. My smile fades.

You have stopped bleeding. It’s not a question.

Not even a hello, howdy do? Is it too much to hope our fairy queen’s thawed out since I was last here?

Titania takes the comfortable chair. Have a seat, Beauty. Finally. I sit. Tania steeples her fingers across her face, and regards me from beneath lowered lashes. Why are you here?

I— have no idea how to answer that question. Where else would I go? Given a choice. This is home.

Tania’s eyes narrow. Not anymore. She opens a small, leather-bound ledger on the desk, flipping through pages of tight, precise script. If I remember correctly, Tania doesn’t misremember, you left on something of a quest. Searching for your happily ever after, I believe. Again, not a question.

I close my eyes; feel a little jump in my stomach. I’d forgotten. In the confusion of being caught for a novel and then getting out and getting here, I’d completely forgotten.

Here it is, June 6th. Nearly two years ago.

Two years? That answers that question. Can I come back?

Tania closes the book and tilts her head to the side, much like a cat with a mouse. Your old position— barista, coffee girl, waitress, —was abolished with your departure, and I see no need to reinstate it. After all, the Tale’s End has done quite well in your absence.

Maybe just for a night or two? Where else can I go? At this hour? In this dress? Hope springs eternal.

Your room has been rented out, Tania says, making a half-hearted attempt to be apologetic. There’s no space. She watches me for another moment, then takes a blank sheet of vellum from her desk and begins writing. Do come and see us during normal business hours.

I sit, frozen. The quill’s peacock plume bobs up and down, up and down with every stroke, its iridescent eye jaunty and mocking. It was too much to hope. I should leave. Get up and walk out the door. Tania’s the boss, after all, doesn’t matter what anyone else— Why don’t you want me here? I scream.

Oh, no. I clasp my hands over my mouth, but it’s too late.

The quill stops, and is carefully replaced in its holder. Tania’s eyes, when they rise to meet mine, crackle with tiny lightnings.

I’m sorry, I whisper. I didn’t, I mean… Predictable. Respects tradition, station, position, power. Punishes the slightest of slights. Always.

"I am Titania, Queen of the fairies and owner of the Tale’s End. Spoiled princess or no, you do not take that tone of voice with me."

Please, don’t— turn me into a frog. Inflict a thousand and one careful horrors.

Tania stands, her wand appearing in her hand. In olden times, I would have had you beheaded for your temerity. But I’ll consider it an unfortunate indiscretion brought upon by the lateness of the hour and the unusual circumstances in which you find yourself.

Phew. Dodged that—

You are to be banished, Beauty of the Buchenwald. Let not your shadow darken the doorway of the Tale’s End evermo—

Allow her to stay. Say what?

Tania looks past my shoulder. This decision is not yours to make.

Her old room is empty, yes? A vixen Maeve leans in the doorway, juggling an apple in one hand. She can have some of my clothes for the time being.

Maeve, it’s okay. I don’t want to get wrapped up in any power play within the Tale’s End. In the understanding that exists between you two. I’ll…be okay. Or not. Maybe I’ll cry a lot as I’m shoved out the door, but that’s the best I’ve got.

Titania ignores me. Her presence here is distracting at best and damaging at worst. She is a wild card. Folk don’t change, not fast. But I do. I change my favorite flavor of ice cream and my wardrobe and opinions, likes, and dislikes from day to day. Much like any person confronted with new information and circumstances. Like a mortal. My plans rely on dependable calculations. She would disrupt those plans.

Maeve examines her apple in the light. Because if you manipulate her into a situation, you can’t foresee with any accuracy how she’ll react.

Exactly. Tania frowns, and crosses her arms under her chest. But she knows that already. They’re having this conversation for my benefit, and I don’t like it.

I gave greetings at the door. I bade her welcome into our home, and hers. Are you really on my side, Maeve?

Are you willing to sunder our agreement over this brat? Tania snaps.

No. No! Don’t worry. I’ll leave. I don’t want to be involved. I—

Sit down, dearie, and trust that I do this for your benefit.

Trust or debt? The witch just saved the next few years of my life. I owe her the benefit of the doubt.

Maeve bites into her apple, changes into her middle-aged form. I dub it the librarian. Her salt and pepper hair mirroring Tania’s bun, she looks at Titania over the rim of a pair of cat’s eye glasses. I had hoped to reach a compromise. You had an errand to ask of me?

Tania shakes her head. You had declined.

With the princess at my side…

Tania licks her lips, torn between whatever she wants from Maeve and her desire to be rid of me. Your demands?

Restore her room and position in the café. Make her well come, with all the understandings, implied and stated, which follow.

Such a meager price? So be it. The words are spoke and the bargain sealed. Now out. I have work to do.

I scramble to the door.

Beauty, Tania holds up my blood-soaked rag. I take your blood in tithe and trust. Though you may not be a virgin—

I’m still a princess, I finish, my heart sinking to my feet.

Do not cross me. The door slams in my face. I can hear Tania cursing under her breath. Already she changes things. Or is it my imagination?

You crossed Tania for me. I step in front of Maeve. Why? I’m not worth that trouble.

We’re friends, dearie. Maeve’s brow furrows for a moment. I think.

I— Never mind.

We have a simple errand, and your world will once more settle on its axis.

Where are we going? I follow Maeve down the hall.

Morgana has a seldom-used abode in town. We are to pay it a visit. Maeve raises one eyebrow. Tomorrow night is soon enough. Time enough for you to get a good night’s rest, settle the humors. No need to call attention to ourselves, hm?

Wonderful, but— I thought Tania and her sister weren’t on the best of terms.

Maeve gives me a small, secret smile. They’re not.

&&&

Hey, Beaut. What’s up? It’s morning and Charlie, my ex-prince charming, is leaning against the wall outside the bathroom. With chestnut brown hair and mischievous eyes, it’s easy to remember why I married him in the first place. He tosses his head to get the hair out of his face and gives me his trademark grin.

"Into the Dark and back, and all I get is a what’s up? I stalk into the hall, towel around my body. The upstairs of the Tale’s End has bedrooms enough but only a single shared bathroom. This is a problem only when Chuck’s around; he takes an age in the shower. If you can’t guess, I’m going to get dressed."

I trail wet footprints across the floor and walk into my old room. A bed, wardrobe, desk, and window. Titania’s removed all my paintings, photographs, and posters. Oh well, I should know enough by now not to get too attached to things. And the best way to do that, of course, is not to have anything in the first place.

Chuck wanders in after me. Perches on the edge of the bed.

Do you mind? I raise one eyebrow in what’s meant to be a significant look. Tania does it better, but I’d like to think I’ve been practicing.

Charlie frowns. Oh, sorry. Gets up and closes the door.

Thank you. I drop the towel. We’ve been married before. This is nothing he hasn’t seen more times than I can count.

It’s only been what, a year?

Two years, actually.

I stopped counting after five-hundred. Charlie shrugs.

Damn it, Chuck. I drag a fall of wet hair out of my face and throw it into a quick braid. Time matters to me.

Why? We’re nigh-immortal. A year or two, big deal.

If you don’t take stock of time… We don’t learn. We don’t change.

What’s wrong with just being yourself?

Because sometimes I don’t like who you are. Nevermind. That’s a festering can of worms I won’t open again. Not right now.

So, Charlie kicks his feet as I dig through a pile of Maeve’s clothing for something that’ll fit. Did you find what you were looking for?

My happily ever after? I catch Chuck’s eye, but he looks away. Would I be back here if I had?

I don’t know. Charlie scratches behind his neck and continues to stare at the wall. Maybe you realized that, you know, true happiness…

Is serving up lattes under Tania’s all-seeing eye? I get back to the clothing. She almost banished me last night, Chuck. If it hadn’t been for Maeve, I’d be gone already. It doesn’t exactly make one feel welcome.

No, but… I don’t know. The rest of us, we’re friends. Family even. Maybe…

No. I didn’t find a thing. I squeeze into a pair of likely looking jeans from Maeve’s vixen pile and squat a couple times to test the fit. I was caught almost as soon as I was out of the gate. Spent the last couple years in a bad historical romance sipping mint juleps and dancing with rebel officers in someone’s idea of a southern plantation during the American Civil War. It’s hard not to feel bitter, so I don’t try.

There’s a moment of silence. So, are you back for good?

For the time being. I dig through the pile for a minute more before settling on a knit shirt that hopefully won’t be too tight. Maeve’s a little slighter than I am, no matter which form she’s in. Does it matter?

I miss having you around.

I thought you didn’t notice I was gone.

"There’s a