Dithered Hearts: Dithered Hearts, #1

By Chace Verity

A gender-confused farmer desperate to reclaim her farm and escape her stepparents' abuse. A closeted prince more interested in helping his people than finding a bride. A fairy godfather with a ton of secrets and no powers. In this diverse fairy tale, everyone is searching for a happy ending.

The masquerade ball to find Prince Longhollow's future bride might be Cynthia Lynah's best chance at getting her family farm back. If she can marry him, she'll have all the money and power she needs. Her newly discovered fairy godfather is ready to help her, but his magic can't do anything to stop her heart from falling for two women she shouldn't be attracted to--her stepsisters. In the midst of her flirtations, she causes her fairy godfather to lose his magic and stirs trouble for the prince desperate to save his nation from a famine.

Everyone gets a chance to be the hero of their story, but happy endings seem impossible when they need more than magic to make them happen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chace Verity
• Release date: Jul 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201182106

Book preview

Prologue

You are invited to the ball of the century, a dream come true for all unmarried women in Whistlerwood between sixteen and twenty-one years of age in Whistlerwood and their families.

What the fuck was this hoity-toity misogynistic shit?

Myrick threw the scroll across the room. Good riddance. Like he needed another stuffy human affair to attend. Of course he would go, because if Marquess Fron and Marquess Davin went, then they would never shut their rusty mouths about how their good, totally normal noble pal Richard Gafford should have been there.

He didn’t even have a daughter. Why was he sent this piece of tree crap?

Wait.

Myrick reached into his pocket, ran his thumb along his conduit, and stared at the scroll. The invitation floated into the air and dashed back to him. He willed it to unravel in front of him.

You are invited to the ball of the century, a dream-come-true for all unmarried women—

Oh. This was perfect.

And he knew just the person who needed a dream to come true.

One

When her name was called, Lady Balbi disappeared into a flurry of champagne-colored bubbles with her head held high. Soon, it would be Cynthia Lynah’s turn.

Rather, it would soon be the turn of the person Cynthia was pretending to be.

This is never going to work, Cynthia whispered, tightening her grip on Lord Gafford’s arm.

The nobleman chuckled. Everything’s going to be fine as long as you don’t fuck up, my dear.

Nobody could curse so effortlessly while smiling like Lord Richard Gafford.

You don’t look old enough to be the father of a twenty-year-old, Cynthia said.

Most people assumed Lord Gafford to be about thirty. Most people were only, apparently, about 570 years off. He had bright bronze eyes and lustrous dark hair that fell to his waist. Not a single wrinkle could be found on his pale face.

A pinch of magic goes a long way. Lord Gafford adjusted the band of Cynthia’s crimson mask. All anyone needs to do is glance at us, and the spell will take effect. This shit is phenomenal.

Stars, it was so hard to believe she actually had a fairy godfather. Her whole life, she’d merely thought of Lord Gafford as her late father’s eccentric best friend. For him to magically appear last night in the barn, hours after Cynthia’s stepfather had brought his hands to her throat…

Not that she knew what a fairy godfather was before last night, but as soon as Lord Gafford promised he was someone who would make her dreams come true, she had been overwhelmed with relief.

Maybe she could get her farm back. Maybe she wouldn’t get killed while doing so.

Cynthia looked at her ballroom outfit. The red satin tuxedo shimmered marvelously underneath the light of the crystal chandeliers. Actual rubies served as her cufflinks. Her blonde hair had been tied into a bun with pearl pins keeping everything in place, and the pins matched the straps of her heels.

She had never been decked in such excess before. Lord Gafford had a near identical outfit, but he wore wealth like a second skin. For Cynthia, these clothes were a heavy reminder that she didn’t belong here.

How come our shoes are different? Cynthia asked as they moved forward in line. The bubbles engulfed Lady Terissa. These glass high heels aren’t exactly comfortable. What if they break? Why do you get leather slippers?

They won’t break. Lord Gafford grinned. You have glass slippers because no one else here will have them. I guarantee you will stand out.

I don’t want to stand out, Cynthia grumbled. I just want to win the prince’s attention.

The look Lord Gafford gave Cynthia could have caused crops across the world to wilt. Currently, only the nation of Whistlerwood had the honor of entering its third year of a horrid famine.

Cynthia hadn’t been able to pry out of her father why his magic only worked on humans and not crops. There wouldn’t be any need for this masquerade if Lord Gafford could revitalize the soil on Cynthia’s farm.

Yes, she considered it her farm, even though her stepparents had stolen the deed from her.

Tonight, everything would change.

Cynthia brought her hand to her neck. She could still feel the heat of her stepfather’s fury on her skin.

Everything had to change.

The royal attendant at the end of the vestibule cleared his throat. Lord Gafford and Domine Cyn?

A flush of pleasure briefly silenced Cynthia’s anxieties. Domine—what a title! Masculine and yet not.

Lord Gafford handed the attendant a scroll. Cynthia held her breath while the attendant checked the invitation. What if she didn’t seem noble enough to be Lord Gafford’s child?

Everything is in order. The attendant handed the invitation back. Enjoy your evening.

The ornamental doors carved out of gold and the sweat of taxpayers opened. A thousand bubbles shot out of gilded saxophones played by the greeters.

Cynthia held onto Lord Gafford’s arm as they cut through the sparkling beads and entered the ballroom.

Lord Gafford sneezed, but Cynthia couldn’t be bothered to ask if he was all right. The sight before her had stunned her.

Before this moment, Cynthia had never been able to imagine a room so enormous could possibly exist. There appeared to be no end to the dancing couples on the center floor. Tables off to the side were decorated with crystal flowers, wine glasses, and gossiping nobles. Distant twinkles along the ceiling made Cynthia wonder if some stars had been captured when the palace was built.

Despite all the glitter and ostentatious dresses calling for Cynthia’s attention, her gaze landed on one of the young women in a wheelchair.

Elodie.

Just hours ago, Cynthia had braided Elodie’s pumpkin red curls for her and put the finishing touches on her ebony mask.

They’ve been stepsisters for five years. Would Elodie see through the spell and expose Cynthia?

No. They had never been close. The combination of that distance plus Lord Gafford’s magic left Cynthia practically invisible.

Should we part now? Lord Gafford asked in a low voice. There are some assholes who need my attention. They love playing the political game.

Cynthia grimaced. Aren’t we supposed to be seen together by everyone?

You didn’t expect me to hold your hand while you convince the prince he should marry you, did you? Lord Gafford patted her back. Come on, my dear, I have to go. Secret fairy godfathers have reputations to maintain in this shithole society.

Why don’t you just live with the other fairies if you hate posing as a human? Cynthia asked.

Lord Gafford paused. Because there’s something in the human world I’m looking for. My happy ending, you might say.

Before Cynthia could inquire, Lord Gafford pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Midnight, he said. The gazebo. Don’t forget.

Whatever. She just needed to find the prince. Then woo him with her charms and become his future queen consort.

No big deal for an ordinary farmer who had no idea if she even was a woman and definitely had little interest in kissing a man.

Sigh. Thank goodness for mysterious fairy godfathers.

Lord Gafford had spritzed some perfume on Cynthia that was supposed to make men attracted to her. It smelled like strawberries. Lord Gafford’s proud boast about the perfume made Cynthia more confident, so she didn’t mind smelling like fruit.

She also had a token from her actual father with her to give her courage. Cynthia had never before gotten the chance to wear her father’s wedding ring from his marriage to her mother. The simple gold band had appeared on Cynthia’s desk the day after he died, the one act of kindness her stepmother had ever shown Cynthia.

It was too risky to wear the ring around her greedy stepparents, so Cynthia usually kept it hidden in the barn. Tonight, it dangled from a thin chain around her neck.

Cynthia inched through crowd, sampling every appetizer she passed while she tried to figure out where the prince was. She had no idea what he looked like, but the royal family spared no expense when it came to food. It had been years since Cynthia ate so well. Oyster shells, stuffed bell peppers, blueberry tarts, little cheesecakes, and—

Ah! That had to be the prince. Who else could be surrounded by so many women? Every unmarried woman in Whistlerwood had been invited to the ball in hopes of winning the heart of Prince Longhollow.

Cynthia held onto a column and balanced herself on the balls of her feet to get a better look at him. All she could make out was a tall, thin man with dark brown skin in a silver mask and cape.

Capes were pretty royal, Cynthia supposed. Unnecessary, but royal.

He smiled at all the women talking to him. That wasn’t a bad quality for a prince to have.

If Cynthia had to be wed to a man in order to get out her situation, she’d rather it be a nice man.

Now, how was she supposed to get a few minutes of his time? That was a question she hadn’t figured out an answer for yet. The prince had an obligation to talk to each unmarried woman, as per the decree on the invitation, but Cynthia hadn’t arrived as a woman. She was here as…

Well, she didn’t know. Her gender proved tricky. She had shyly confessed as much last night to Gafford since she didn’t want to pose as his daughter.

When Lord Gafford subsequently revealed he was trans and offered to transform her into the nonbinary noble of her dreams, she had seized the opportunity without blinking twice.

She had always been close to Lord Gafford, but last night had ushered in a new level of closeness when they shared gender feelings. According to him, there were plenty of people who weren’t a man or a woman, though they might be as well be invisible as far as proper society was concerned.

As a royal consort, Cynthia would happily tear out a lot of proper society’s stitchings.

Cynthia turned to where she had spotted Elodie. She grimaced.

Harlow had replaced the crowd of random ladies at the table. Though it was a masquerade ball, Cynthia had helped Harlow into her lavender silk gown earlier in the afternoon. Even if she hadn’t, Cynthia suspected she would recognize that impossibly tall, broad silhouette anywhere in the universe.

Harlow and her father had joined the family three years ago. While Harlow wasn’t a completely terrible person, Nolan Picker didn’t have a single kind bone in his body.

The worst day of Cynthia’s life did not involve a coffin. There had been plenty of coffins in Cynthia’s brief existence. Her grandparents’ deaths had been expected after decades of farming in grueling conditions, but her mother’s end came suddenly. Her father enjoyed a brief second marriage to a woman who had a daughter of her own, but he soon needed a coffin built for him. He had not even turned forty when his heart gave out.

No, the worst day of Cynthia’s life involved a wedding on a beautiful afternoon with a bright blue sky.

Bright blue skies and the start of many deep purple bruises and empty stomachs.

Cynthia slipped further into the ballroom, closer to the gaggle of fans around Prince Longhollow. Harlow and Elodie together meant their parents wouldn’t be far away. She couldn’t risk being caught. Agnes had been open to the idea of her eldest stepchild attending the ball in the interest of having another metaphorical horse in the race, but Nolan vehemently opposed it.

We’re not wasting money on a dirty farm girl.

Cynthia ran her tongue along her teeth. Nolan’s days of treating her like an ant were numbered.

She approached the group around the prince. The women practically had their arms glued to each other. No room at all for Cynthia to slip in. She would need another way to grab the prince’s attention.

In a huff, Cynthia turned around and bumped into a guest.

Oh, I’m sorry, she muttered.

No need to apologize, the person replied. I shouldn’t have stood so close to you.

She studied the man before her. He had black hair in exquisitely twisted curls with a neat mustache and a small patch of hair along his chin. His violet tuxedo complemented his rich brown skin, and the golden cape wrapped around his shoulders matched his golden mask.

Another cape. Interesting. Should she have worn a cape tonight if they’re popular among noblemen?

Trying to see what the fuss is about over there, too? the stranger asked.

That’s obviously Prince Longhollow. Cynthia sighed. The whole reason all these women are even here tonight.

He smiled. Oh? That’s surprising.

Can’t be that surprising! They’re here tonight with an aim to win his heart.

The smile disappeared from the man’s face. It’s sort of terrible, isn’t it? They view his heart as a prize rather than a real, beating organ inside a human with feelings.

A bolt of guilt struck Cynthia in the chest.

The man held out his hand. Want to dance?

I’m not interested in men. Cynthia gingerly reached for his fingers. This noble had gloves the color of the night sky with stars along his palms. She liked the idea that holding his hand would be like touching the cosmos. If you’re expecting anything from me other than a dance.

The grin returned to the man’s face. Oh, we’re going to get along swimmingly. My name’s Dexter.

He took her hand and escorted her to the dance floor. Cynthia tried to veer him in the direction of the string band, but Dexter insisted on the side closest to the table with Harlow and Elodie.

At least Lord Gafford wasn’t too far away. She spied the long-haired fairy engaged in a dance with an elderly woman in a coral chiffon dress. Her mask appeared to be made out of crystals, sending a ribbon of bile up Cynthia’s throat.

The wealthy were ridiculous.

Feel free to smack me if I’m being too forward, but you’re not a woman, are you? Dexter asked, cradling his arm around Cynthia’s waist.

She stumbled over her feet. What?

Dexter steadied her, glancing at the marble floor. Nice slippers. My mother has a pair like that. He looked up at her. Women don’t have to wear dresses, but the way you referred to the women attendees as some sort of group you’re not a part of has me curious.

How should she answer? The dulcet tone of Dexter’s voice suggested he might not judge her for being unsure. Cynthia had been comfortable coming out to Lord Gafford since he was a familiar face, even if she only very recently learned of his magical origins. He had done business with her family plenty of times, and he never went many days without visiting Cynthia.

But this masked man was a stranger Cynthia had been talking to for all of five minutes.

A garden of frightened nerves grew in between her shoulders while she thought about her response and danced a few clumsy steps with Dexter’s arms around her.

She met his gaze. Dexter had such charming eyes.

Well, it wasn’t like she would talk to Dexter again after tonight.

I’m not a woman. Each word out of Cynthia caused her nerves to blossom into a beautiful mix of fear and relief. But I don’t think I’m a man, either.

Perfect, he said. You look fantastic tonight.

Perfect.

She smiled and hoped her mask hid the glow of her increasingly hot cheeks. I told you, I’m not interested in men.

Dexter leaned in and pressed his lips to her ear. And I’m only interested in men.

Ah!

Why dance with me, then? she asked.

Well, if you were a man… Dexter chuckled. I didn’t want to miss my chance. I love stylish people.

She kept the smile on her face and followed Dexter’s lead for the rest of the song. While she had come here on a mission and had only a few hours to accomplish it, Cynthia also wanted to enjoy the warmth of being validated by someone else. When would she ever again feel this way? No one at home saw her as anything more than an object.

Dexter’s earlier comment about the prince came to mind. Did she also see Prince Longhollow as an object?

Why do you think the queen consort is forcing her son to have such an elaborate event to meet women? Cynthia asked as the next song started.

Maybe he’s been really bad at meeting royal women, so she’ll settle for anyone at this point? Dexter shrugged.

Why? Is it actually important he get married right away?

Dexter’s gaze veered away from Cynthia. The lengths a woman will go to in order to secure her family’s place on the throne are to be commended, I suppose.

Cynthia followed Dexter’s line of vision. The cape-wearing noble had his eye on Lord Gafford, who talked to a grumpy-looking man in a white tuxedo.

Is that your type? Cynthia asked. Older men?

Dexter gasped. Do you know him?

Cynthia worked her jaw. He’s my, uh, father. Lord Gafford.

Dexter’s attention snapped back to Cynthia. "Huh? Oh. Oh. So, if you’re Lord Gafford’s child, you would be…"

Domine Cyn. Introducing herself as such set her skin tingling with tiny fireworks. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dexter.

He took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. The eight o’clock bells rang over the crescendo of the song. A few stray bubbles hovered among the dancers.

I must take a break and meet with some acquaintances, Dexter said. But I hope I’ll see you again, my friend.

For a moment, Cynthia desperately wanted his wish to come true. She wanted a friend. She wanted to be surrounded by people who didn’t hurt her.

But if she didn’t figure out a way to become the prince’s bride, her family’s farm would be in the hands of someone else, someone who couldn’t appreciate the history of the worn stables and rows where corn used to grow. She would be starving on the streets of Whistlerwood and begging the rich for a loaf of bread.

There were so many beggars now. The famine had hurt the poorest first. If the earth didn’t heal, it wouldn’t be long until the rich found themselves starving. Yet they continued to pretend nothing was wrong and exported their food from overseas.

Did Dexter live lavishly, surrounded by honey and wine?

If she became rich, would she be so ridiculous with her money?

Two

After parting with Dexter, Cynthia watched her new friend return to where he belonged—with the other nobles. The golden-caped wonder greeted a group of older men draped in ribbons and medals. Actually, they greeted him.

She slumped against a pillar, wondering if Dexter would be able to find someone for him.

Before the ball, Cynthia had never thought much about romance. Now she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Did romance happen to people like Cynthia, poor and desperate for a change?

A familiar, light voice broke through Cynthia’s thoughts. Did you have a good time?

Cynthia almost fell over when she faced the direction of the voice. Oh, no. She had wound up next to Elodie’s table.

At least it was just Elodie. No sign of Harlow or their parents.

Did Elodie recognize her? Cynthia studied her youngest stepsister, looking for any sign that this night was about to go horribly awry.

Strange. When Elodie left the house earlier in the day, she seemed so young and gentle. But here, in the dimmer parts of the sparkling ballroom, far from the chandeliers highlighting the dancers, Elodie had a different air to her.

A capricious curl to her pink lips gave the eighteen-year-old a confident gaze, and she sat in her wheelchair like a queen would sit on her throne. The way Elodie waved her fan next to her neck made Cynthia aware of how much freckled cleavage Elodie had exposed tonight.

Wait. That was not an area Cynthia needed to notice.

You watched me dance? Cynthia asked, purposely lowering her voice by a couple of decibels.

Of course, Elodie said. You were a red rose out there. Beautiful, but dangerous. How could I not watch?

Dangerous?

Cynthia raised an eyebrow. This was the most she had ever spoken to Elodie in one go. Their conversations were always minimal. She had no idea her stepsister could have, well, an interesting way of phrasing things.

Elodie gestured to a chair next to her.

Sitting down would be a terrible idea. What if Agnes or Nolan showed up? Or worse, both? What about Harlow? She couldn’t be too far.

But Cynthia’s feet did hurt from these ridiculous glass heels…

Five minutes. Tops.

Cynthia crossed her legs as she settled into the chair, scooting it closer to Elodie. What’s dangerous about the way I dance?

Elodie smiled. Besides stealing the hearts of innocent women such as myself?

A small fire started in Cynthia’s stomach. Elodie’s flirtatious tone indicated she thought she was talking to a stranger. This fact caused a traitorous grin to unfurl across Cynthia’s face. She covered her mouth with her hand.

This is your stepsister you’re getting excited about!

Elodie continued talking, waving her fan in rhythm with her words. You had the prince wrapped around your finger. If any of these women knew you were with him, there would have been a brawl on the dance floor.

The prince? Cynthia snorted and removed her hand. She couldn’t make her grin disappear. You have it all wrong, Lady…

Elodie clicked her tongue. Miss. Miss Elodie Hawkins.

What a lovely name!

Enjoying the ridiculousness of the situation, Cynthia took Elodie’s free hand and kissed her knuckles. Unlike most of the women here, Elodie didn’t have full-length gloves. Her gloves were of a rougher material than her green dress and had no fingers, the same ones she always wore when she used her wheelchair. The smooth skin of her knuckles felt nice against Cynthia’s lips.

I’m Cyn Gafford. Domine.

Domine, hm? Elodie closed her fan, slow to withdraw from Cynthia’s grasp.

It’s gender neutral.

Elodie nodded.

Stars, Cynthia loved that casual acceptance. So much. The man I was just with is a regular noble. Not the prince.

Amusement quirked in Elodie’s lips. I don’t think so.

Trust me. He didn’t behave anything like a prince.

Elodie rested her fan along her chest. Cynthia’s eyes were drawn to Elodie’s cleavage once more. Goodness, Elodie shimmered when she sweated.

Stop that!

You know a lot about princes? Elodie asked.

Cynthia shrugged. I know I’m much more interested in pretty women than boring princes.

Why am I being this way?

Fine. If some part of Cynthia was determined to play, she would play.

Besides, right now, she was Domine Cyn. Not Cynthia. It would be easy to push back all the memories of Agnes forbidding Cynthia from spending