The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Barbara Davis

People like me—like the Roussels—are a dying breed, our gifts of little value to a world that no longer believes in la magie.

For generations, my family has been part of a kind of conte de fée—a fairy tale. Though perhaps fairy tale is the wrong term. Fairy tales have happy endings. Fables are meant as cautionary tales, lessons intended to teach us about life and its consequences. And over the years, the Roussels have learned much about consequences.

To become a Roussel bride, three things were required: a referral from a previous client, a vow of discretion, and absolute honesty. And even then there was no guarantee that the prospective bride would be found worthy.

“Any businesswoman worth her salt knows the value of a good gimmick. Toothpaste that makes you kissable. Shiny floors that make you the envy of your neighbors. Brides want fairy tales, so that’s what I gave them.” Rory eyed her skeptically. “You’re saying your dresses had nothing to do with what was in those letters?” “I’m saying people have ways of clinging to ideas that make the world seem nicer than it is. And perhaps that’s to be expected. When life is hard, it helps to cling to illusion. I suppose the letters were that for me once. But life has taught me that even in fairy tales, the heroine must make her own magic—or not, as the case may be.”

We traffic in the promise of happily-ever-after, but not all are destined for such fairy-tale endings. Some are unable, others unwilling, and still more have been taught they are undeserving. It is up to the Spell Weaver to discern which is which. —Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch

“We’re all a collection of our stories, chérie. Our joys and sorrows. Our loves and losses. That is who we are, a tally of all our agonies and ecstasies. Sometimes the agonies leave a mark, like a bruise on the soul. We do our best to hide them from the world, and from ourselves too.

I’d fancied myself a kind of historian—le gardien des fins heureuses—the keeper of happy endings. Except for my own, of course. But I was happy for a while—we both were—at a time when there was very little happiness to go around.

As she reached the bottom step a thought occurred. She paused, looking back at Soline silhouetted in the doorway. “I just realized something.” “What’s that?” “You’re my fairy godmother.”

Such an inexplicable confluence of events. Lives intersected. Hearts reunited. Families mended. Because of a box she’d found under the stairs of a burned-out building. A box full of happy endings—and perhaps a touch of la magie.