Fairytale Leak Case File #10-13

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THE LEAK 

A NOTE FROM THE ARCHIVE

The following was recovered from the Soulmate Registry's internal blog, where it remained public for an estimated nine minutes before anyone with authority noticed. It was not meant to be a blog post. It was meant to be saved to a private folder. A clerk — new, eager, no longer with us in the building-access sense — selected "Publish to All Realms" instead of "Save."

It is the first diary entry Senior Field Agent Cashmere has ever written. It is, as of this posting, also the last.

[STICKY NOTE — found on Rosalind's dashboard]

Rosalind —

My diary is on the internet.

I will not be discussing this. I will not be available to discuss this. I am leaving for one (1) century, effective the moment you read this note. Do not look for me.

If the Registry requires anything — a decision, a deployment, a signature — direct all correspondence to my tail, which remains on duty and is considerably more composed than I am.

It has been briefed. It knows where the files are.

— C.

[attached: one (1) photograph of a magnificent, fully extended Norwegian Forest Cat tail, held with enormous dignity]

DIARY OF CASHMERE
(Volume One. Likely Final.)

I have been told, by a wellness fairy I did not consult, that I should "process my feelings in writing." I have eight centuries of refusing to do this. I am breaking that record tonight. I may regret it — but this is for my eyes only, so I did it.

It starts with Rapunzel. Everything starts with Rapunzel and that lovely, famous hair.

We staked it out for three days. We'd been tipped off that an incident was coming — the kind that destroys a fairytale — and of course we could not let that happen. So we waited.

And then there she was. The prince was on the hair — climbing up, or down, I genuinely cannot remember — when we saw the witch. The one who'd been banned from fairytale land. She cut the hair like it was rope.

My idea, to save the prince, was to throw in the towel. I said towel. I still have no explanation for how the apprentice managed to interpret "towel" as "carpet." Which would still have been fine — except it wasn't just any carpet.

It was Aladdin's carpet.

Yes. We saved the prince. We saved the Rapunzel story.

But now Aladdin had no carpet — and Aladdin was at the precise point in his tale where he needed to carry the princess away on a flying one. They were being chased. There was danger. And yes, I work for the fairy godmother, Rosalind, but I am only a cat. I have no magic. I never asked for it. I never wanted it. But in that scenario, at that stage, it would have been handy.

So I told the same fairy — yes, again, because she was the only one I had access to — to do whatever it took to give Aladdin his flying carpet back. I didn't care how.

And she did. With enthusiasm.

The problem: the new carpet was made with Glimmerwidge from another realm. In a word — illegal. Properly illegal. The kind of illegal that comes with a form you're supposed to file before, not a folder you hide after. You cannot simply acquire Glimmerwidge. You certainly cannot weave a functioning flying carpet out of it over a single afternoon. She did both. I did not ask how. I have made a career out of not asking Posy Tumblewind how.

I should have been angry.

I couldn't.

She apologised, and she drew a flower. A small one, in the corner of the incident slip, next to where it asks for the estimated cost of damages. I have watched eight centuries of competent, credentialed beings disappoint me with style and excuses. And here was this one, responsible for unspooling my entire year, responding to catastrophe with botany. I find I cannot sustain rage at a creature who answers a realm-breaking magical felony with a doodle of a daisy. It is a flaw in me. I have decided to keep it.

So there's that. The fix was done. Our fairytales were intact.

But magic pulled illegally across realms never settles. It fails. And it will fail — for any soulmate couple managed by Rosalind's registry who has anything to do with altitude. Meaning height.

Meaning a problem.

[appended — a quick note from Rosalind]

Let Cashmere rest. Do not tell him I've deployed an agent on his behalf — a field agent, to clean up the affected cases. He's enthusiastic. He's qualified. He volunteered. His name is Frank.

P.S. He doesn't know the cases have anything to do with height. He didn't ask. I didn't tell.

And — preamble — Frank is terrified of heights.