The Seventh Dwarf: Royal Pains, #2

By Roberta Olsen Major

It's hard being the imperfect daughter of the perfect couple. Tally's mother is the beautiful Snow White, her father, the former Prince Charming. When they decide it's time for Tally to choose a consort, she does what any self-respecting princess would do under the same circumstances—she runs! With a few hints from her six vertically-challenged honorary uncles, Tally sets off on a quest to find the missing seventh dwarf—and some answers to questions about herself and her future as the heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Placidity

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590880449

Book preview

What They Are Saying About

The Seventh Dwarf

F or kids of all ages , THE SEVENTH DWARF is a delightful tale that kept me smiling from cover to cover. Not unlike the immensely popular and entertaining SHREK, DWARF takes happily ever after a hop, skip and a jump farther, leading the child in us all on a merry romp through what if. Clearly, Roberta Olsen Major shows us that fairy tales need be neither sugar coated nor dark; that the daughter of too-perfect Snow White and Prince Charming need not be perfect herself to be lovable and deserving of her own happy ending. If you don't still believe that a kiss will make everything better, get your hands on this book and learn the truth. And say, what DID happen to the SEVENTH DWARF?

—Pam Ripling,

Author of LOCKER SHOCK!

The Seventh Dwarf

Royal Pains Book 2

Roberta Olsen Major

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Young Adult Novel

Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

Copy Edited by: Sara V. Olds

Senior Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Pam Ripling

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2002 by Roberta Olsen Major

ISBN: 978-1-59088-044-9

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

For my Laurels,

with thanks for reminding me

of the good—and painful!—things

about being young.

Remember that

all Prince Charmings are of royal birth,

but not all live up to their heritage—so choose wisely!

And for a wise teacher,

Joanne Kuttler, who listened when I was sixteen—and who still listens today...

One

Having a beautiful mother is a curse.

Not the Poof! You’re a toad! kind of curse. More like the You’re Queen Snow’s daughter? And does King Charming suspect she fooled around with a homely peasant dairyman nine months before you were born? kind of curse.

You are just a late bloomer, darling girl. Mother said this to me practically every day, always making an attempt to fluff my plain brown braids as if they were golden gossamer curls.

You are beautiful to me. Father offered this helpful comment every other day, making sure to kiss my cheek as if it were rosy alabaster instead of spattered with freckles.

In fact, by the time I was thirteen, I’d just about decided that I was either adopted, or the beautiful Snow White had not been as snowy white as hunky Prince Charming had believed when he’d planted that miraculous kiss on her ruby lips. I mean, it couldn’t have been the first time a less than one hundred percent pure pedigreed prince or princess had shot out into the Royal Midwife’s waiting hands.

Besides which, Mother had been sleeping like a dead person for quite awhile before Father ever showed up.

A lot can happen when you’re sleeping.

There she was, stretched out on her bier with her smooth white hands folded at her tiny waist, her raven black hair fanning out in glossy curls on her pillow, her lips pink and plump—and closed.

That’s another reason to be suspicious. My lips are hardly ever closed. I even talk in my sleep.

But back to Mother.

There she was: beautiful and passive, stretched out on what amounted to a bed, while seven testosterone-filled men watched over her around the clock.

Have you ever noticed that it’s the shorter ones who seem to have extra testosterone?

Maybe one of them got tired of just watching.

How else could I have ended up short and plain, with a gorgeous mom, a dashing dad, and six robust, if vertically-challenged, uncles?

And where was Tussle Furskin, the seventh dwarf?

SO WHERE DO YOU THINK he went, Uncle Burl?

Burl turned and scowled at me. He was the oldest of my six honorary uncles; his mahogany colored beard was shot with silver and there were lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. You’re fifteen years old, Tally. You’ve been asking me that same question since you were three. I’d think you’d have the answer memorized by now.

I did. I don’t know is not that hard to memorize. "But what do you think? I persisted. You’ve got to have some thoughts on the subject, Uncle Burl."

And if I did, Burl said, giving one last polish to the semi-precious stone he was working on, which I’m not saying I do, what makes you think I’d be willing to share them? Got to have something to call my own around this place.

Ooh, that’s pretty, Burl, the assistant cook, Columbia, squealed. She snatched the amethyst out of his hands. It’s for me, isn’t it? Oh, you’re a darling. I just love amethysts!

And tiger’s eyes, Burl grumbled, and aquamarines, and topazes, and...

Columbia stopped his griping by grasping him by the ears and yanking him up to his tippy toes. Then she kissed him, one of those sloppy, wet, juicy ones that go on so long you wonder how either one of them can breathe.

I sighed. It was obvious I wouldn’t be getting any more information out of Burl for a while.

Like I said, it’s always the short ones.

FAMILY LEGEND HAS IT that it was Uncle Woody who gave me my nickname.

My parents are gorgeous, but they’re a little imagination-impaired. The daughter of Snow White could well have been named Snow Flake, or Snow Drift, or even Ruby Red. But Mother and Father settled on Crystal Charmaigne. I’m not saying this was an improvement—but at least it didn’t sound like a variety of grapefruit.

Still, Crystal Charmaigne. I mean, give me a break. It would be bad, even for a perfect, plump little baby, but it was worse for the scrawny, wrinkled, screaming reality that was me.

Uncle Woody took one look at me, or so Uncle Glister says, lifted a finger as if to check the prevailing winds, said, Tally ho! and was out the door.

Coward.

But Tally stuck—at least with the uncles. And whatever the reason, I’m grateful. If I’d had to grow up Crystal, no telling how warped I’d have turned out.

EVEN THOUGH THE UNCLES had made a fortune in diamond mines before I was born and were able to take early retirement, none of them were content to just sit around on their assets. Besides handling my tutoring, unorthodox as it probably was, they each had a variety of outside interests.

Floss, Flinch and Dower were in the dungeons this afternoon.

To my knowledge, the dungeons in the Kingdom of Placidia had never been used for more than storage of non-essentials: my old pram, for example, and Father’s rusty swords.

The walls were stone, the floors were rock, and it was dark and damp and full of little rustling noises that called to mind small animals with big teeth and scaly tails.

So this is naturally where three of my honorary uncles chose to spend the majority of their time.

They were chipping away at the walls this year, determined to add an aesthetic ambiance should anyone ever be tossed down there for purposes of punishment.

Of course, last year’s project had involved adding yet another tunnel to the previous years’ network that spidered out from the dungeon to all kinds of interesting locations both in and out of Placidia.

So, as a place of incarceration, the dungeon was a bust.

But Floss, Flinch and Dower loved it down there.

They’d probably live down there if they could get away with it, except that Mother would have descended with ruffled curtains and braided throw rugs, which would have driven the uncles crazy. So they just hung out, chipping away at the stone, scratching and belching and farting and doing all those other things guys like to do when they don’t have girls around to fuss at them for it.

Uncle Flinch had just let out a loud one when I came down the steps. They don’t call him Flinch for nothing.

Tally, he said, fanning his hands around as if it would clear the smell in this airless place, what brings you here?

The stairs, I said, as I did every time he asked me this.

He chortled, as he always did.

Hey, I was just wondering— I began.

We don’t know where he went, Uncle Dower said.

We don’t know why he went, Uncle Floss added for good measure.

We don’t know if he’ll ever come back, Uncle Flinch said, letting out another fart for punctuation.

Dower and Floss made a big deal out of holding their noses. Good call. I decided that retreat was the better part of valor. I fled up the stairs, just ahead of the noxious fumes.

Nainsi, the cook, was just going to have to stop serving beans to Uncle Flinch, except in times of national emergency. If the Kingdom of Placidia was ever under siege, we’d need to have Uncle Flinch armed and ready.

I knew there was no point in going to talk to Uncle Glister. He’d be at work by now. After