Ella Enchanted

by Gail Carson Levine

“If they had words,” I said, “they wouldn’t be able to think of anything to say.”

I was in the streets of Frell with my father when a man pelted him with an overripe tomato. While wiping at his clothes, my father spoke kindly to the man and ended by resolving his grievance. Afterward, I asked why the man hadn’t been punished. When Father told me I’d understand by the time I became king, I said I didn’t want to be king if people threw tomatoes at me. I said it seemed a thankless task. Father roars with laughter when he tells this tale. Now I know why: It is a thankless task, but tomatoes are the least of it.

You are almost my sole confidant in this. The other is my horse, to whom I tell everything—because he can’t condemn or offer advice.

you must know all. I trust you to find the good in me, but the bad I must be sure you don’t overlook.

Mandy says there are two sorts of people in the world: those who blame everyone else and those who blame only themselves. I place myself in a third category: among those who know where blame really lies. You stand condemned. Your crime: too much zeal in the protection of those you love. A fault and a virtue. Heinous!

Although you’ve revealed your shortcomings to me, I feel compelled to no such frankness. You must discover my faults for yourself. And, although you’ve said it goes against the grain, you must find a way to forgive them.